Chapter 3
Gabriel
I’ve been watching her for weeks.
Routine, not fixation. Routes. Timing. Patterns. Observing who comes and goes. Looking out for anyone who doesn’t belong.
It’s what I do.
Her townhouse sits mid-block—good sightlines, poor cover. Too many blind spots if someone wanted to get close without being seen. The alley behind it bothers me.
Not making my presence known to her is strategic.
When Scott shared his concerns about her line of work, I suggested security.
Her father hires it from time to time. The concept isn’t foreign to Evie.
But he said she’d refuse it—that she’d always refuse it.
She doesn’t want anything to do with her father’s world. Or the protection that comes with it.
Scott agrees their father can be overly protective. Born in Egypt, while he’s fully assimilated into the American culture, he carries a worldview about women and marriage that Evie rebels against and even Scott doesn’t share.
I’m not close to her father, but from what I understand from Scott, he worries. Constantly. Obsessively. He calls it concern. Evie calls it control.
I don’t call it anything.
But when Scott called and shared what his dad had learned about the case she’s prosecuting, I listened and acted.
Scott concerned? That meant things were real. I refused to downplay it—I know too well how fast things can change, how quickly a low-level risk becomes something you can’t take back.
When I mentioned to my boss my concerns for a childhood friend working in DC, and that I’d like to be considered if anything on the east coast opened up, the timing worked.
KOAN, a group our company had ties with, had an opening in DC.
By the end of the day I’d spoken to Hudson Stone at KOAN.
By nightfall, Rhodes MacMillan had called.
He already knew Evie. Had helped her before—and he told me to let him know if there’s anything he could do to ensure her safety.
Said he felt indebted to her father, that he’d been one of his first investors—and when he met with Evie, he’d been impressed by her convictions.
Three days later, I was on a flight to DC with my truck and belongings not far behind.
KOAN gave me a daytime assignment providing protective detail for a crisis communications executive.
A woman with high visibility, my role was low risk and mundane.
But it put me in position. Close enough to assess Evie without making contact.
Close enough to be there if something went wrong.
If I’d approached her, she would’ve shut me out.
I’m positive.
Plus, by not connecting myself to her in any way, I could better assess the situation. Learn if anyone else had taken up an interest in the prosecutor.
So I stayed back. Assessed. Determined she was safe.
Fell into a routine.
Daytime protective detail. Evening, watching for Evie to leave the office. Monitoring to see if anyone else was watching.
Time passed.
Then I got the call from Scott—she’d been in a wreck.
I’d been in NYC that day with Alicia Morgan and flights were delayed. Evie typically works late—absolutely insane hours. I didn’t realize I’d missed her.
If I’d been in the garage that night, watching for her to leave work, I would’ve followed her out.
I would’ve been there.
No parking garage today—no car. I didn’t expect she’d go into the office today, but Evie Thompson always defies expectations. Not only did she go into the office, but she worked late.
Her chocolate brown wool coat matches the color of her suit, and her block heels give her a couple of inches in height.
Her dark hair is pulled back, like it always is at the end of the day, regardless of how it starts out.
From my vantage point, I can’t get a good take on the bruises I know must be present.
She pauses at the corner and looks directly at my vehicle. Staring.
I freeze—like there’s a gun on me.
And wait.
Those almond-shaped eyes lock in place.
I’m not close enough to see the details, but Evie’s eyes are something I’ve never forgotten—a deep, espresso brown.
Unusual enough by virtue of size, the kids mocked her.
I witnessed it one time—put a stop to it with a simple, “Sounds like someone’s jealous.
” They might’ve been in seventh grade at the time.
I told myself I’d have done the same for anyone.
I was seventeen. I knew how to lie to myself even then.
I always thought her eyes were the best thing about her.
Still do.
Other than her grit.
She’s an independent adult now, but with her slight frame and those doe-eyes, she reminds me of a defenseless deer. Aware. Wary. Likely to take flight with the slightest movement.
Only Evie’s a powerhouse.
My grip tightens on the wheel.
She’s still staring.
She looked straight at the truck this morning and talked herself out of it.
Not this time.
I pull up to the curb, lower the passenger window, and lean so she can get a visual.
Her eyes narrow, like she’s straining to see.
Those full lips part as she steps forward. “Gabriel?”
She’s incredulous. That’s a good start.
“Evie Thompson. Thought that was you.”
“Oh my god, what’re you doing here?”
“I work in the area.” I grin. “Can I give you a ride?”
She wiggles her phone. “I just ordered an Uber. But we should—”
“Cancel the ride. I’ll drive.”
“If I cancel, won’t they ding me?”
She looks from me, to her phone, and back again, indecisive. Torn between breaking an agreement with an Uber driver, and hopping in a car with a friend.
“Evie Thompson. I haven’t seen you in years. Isn’t that worth a hit to your Uber rating?”
She taps her phone. “The pickup time just extended. I hope that doesn’t mean traffic’s bad.”
She’s basically muttering to herself.
“It’s kismet. Get in the car. Let me take you home.”
She smiles at me. It’s a wide smile, happy. There’s also a degree of incredulity. Like she can’t believe it’s actually me.
After tapping her phone again, presumably canceling the driver, she climbs in, and I check the side and rear view. After her seat belt clicks, I pull onto the street. At this time of night, traffic is light.
“Where do you live?” she asks as I take her in. “When did you move here?”
Ignoring her questions, I ask, “What happened to your face?” The bruises are worse than I expected.
“Oh,” she brushes a hand over her face, like she’s forgotten massive bruises darken her eyes, cheeks, and nose. “I was in a wreck. It’s…” She exhales and relaxes into the seat. “That’s why I needed an Uber.”
“Ah.” I’m already headed in the direction of her place, but I shouldn’t know where she lives, so say, “Want to enter your address into the nav?”
“Oh, sure.” She leans forward and taps away. “How have you been? Where are you living?”
“I’ve been good. Moved into NoMa a couple of weeks ago. What about you?” I make a show of reading the address she just entered. “Capitol Hill. Fits.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She’s still smiling her friendly smile, her question more teasing. “Never mind.” I don’t see her roll her eyes, but I’d bet money she did. “Do you still see Scott?”
“See him? Not recently. Speak to him? All the time.”
“I can’t believe he didn’t tell me you live here now.”
“Yeah. It’s been what? Eight years?”
“Ten. My college graduation party. You came.”
That I did. Actually, her law school graduation. She started undergrad early and finished early.
“You were one of his few friends I liked, you know. What’re you doing these days? Are you still in the military? Oh my god. You’re here in DC…are you NSA? Scott said that was your goal. Did you make it?”
She sounds so excited at the prospect I can’t help but chuckle. That’s the way she’s always been.
Cheerful. Upbeat. Loyal. Even when we were kids and Scott and I played Monopoly; she rooted for me like I was the hometown team.
“Not yet.” I flick the turn signal. “It’s a process. I’m working for a private outfit. Moving here’s part of the process. And you’re a big shot these days. I keep track of you, you know?”
“You do, do you?”
“Your brother talks about his little sister a lot.” I glance at her. “I’m proud of you, Evie.”
“Not little anymore.” She says it like she’s not happy about that fact and glances out the window. “Over thirty and all.”
The joke lands flat.
Whatever she’s talking about, it isn’t her age.
“Well, you’re not looking forty in the eye either, so.”
She reaches out and lightly touches my arm. “Neither are you. You look good. Healthy. I’m glad you’re no longer in the military.”
The contact lasts maybe two seconds. A slight pressure that cuts through the fabric. I keep my eyes on the road.
“Yeah?”
“I worry about you.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I keep up with you, too. I thought I recognized your car but figured it couldn’t be you. And yet, here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“What company did you say you’re with?”
“It’s a small outfit.”
“Called?” There’s a shift in her tone. There’s no way to blow this off without piquing her curiosity.
“KOAN. Spelled—”
“Holy shit. Did Dad hire them? Are you working for my father?”
How she went from point a to b so fast… “No.”
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t need protection, Gabe.”
“Good to hear. I’m here providing protective detail for a crisis communications executive.”
“Alicia Morgan?”
I side-eye her. “You know her?”
“No.” She flicks a nail between her teeth. “But I read about her recently.”
I’m sure she did. After an attempt on her life and getting wrapped up in a murder investigation, there are some salacious articles out there. “I do daytime detail.”
“Huh. What brings you out here so late?” She checks her watch. “I’d say we should get coffee, but…wow, it’s late.”
I’d like to point out that she often works this late, but I don’t wanna give up my cards, so instead I say, “We should do dinner.”
Her townhouse is up ahead, so it’s a timely segue.
“Yeah. Let’s.”
I pull up at the curb in front of her townhouse, gray brick with a blue door, sandwiched between two townhomes, one with black painted brick and the other a bright terracotta. Evie’s is the adorable one, with two potted shrubs on each side of the front door.
Her hand stills on the door handle as those wide eyes take me in. “And why did you say you’re out so late?”
She’s suspicious. Of the Thompson siblings, she’s the brightest. Could run circles around Scott. Hands down one of the most intelligent people I’ve known. “Worked late today. Ms. Morgan had a thing.”
“Oh.” She nods slowly and pulls the handle. “It’s good seeing you.” Her nose slightly crinkles, her version of emphasis.
Some things don’t change.
“Dinner?” I repeat my question. “You got time for an old friend?”
“My brother’s old friend, you mean?”
“Ow.” I slam my palm against my chest. “That hurts.”
Her smile widens. “Yes. I’ve got time. Maybe Saturday?”
She doesn’t work late Saturdays.
Or at least she hasn’t since I’ve arrived in town.
“Saturday it is. I’ll text you.”
“Do you have my number?”
“Scott gave it to me.” It’s the truth. She’s been in my contacts since she was in high school.
“Great.” She holds the door a beat, smiling. “It’s good seeing you, Gabe. I’m glad our paths crossed.” She stands there, and for a second I think she’s going to say something more, but she slams the car door closed.
I remain idling on the curb, watching until she climbs the four black iron steps up to her front door and closes it behind her, secure for the night.
I let myself imagine walking her to that door.
Staying long enough to catch up, to hear about her day—the real version, not the one she’d tell Scott, scrubbed for her father.
Watching her move about in her own space, guard down, heels off.
A chance to get to know her in a different way.
The age difference that was once monumental is now insignificant.
But no. That’s not what I’m here for.