Chapter 9 #2
The timing shouldn’t surprise me. Yesterday I would’ve been furious—security is a sore point with me, thanks to my father.
I don’t need another overbearing man in my life.
But after surviving a spray of bullets, I can’t pretend there isn’t something disarming about a friendly, familiar face showing up exactly where I need one.
That doesn’t mean I’m ready to live my life with someone shadowing my every move. It just means today isn’t the day to fight about it.
Gabe parks and is out of the car before the engine’s off.
“I’m not going to ask how you knew,” is all I say.
“Are you okay?” He looks to the officer for an answer.
“I’m fine,” I say. “But you just saved me the cost of a lift.” That wins his attention back to me. “What’re you doing here?”
A tow truck, with a cartoon caricature of a tow truck painted on the side door, pulls up, and I sidestep Gabe to get the driver’s attention, pointing in the direction of my rental.
“What car is that?” Gabe asks.
“A rental,” I answer with a sharp bite.
I’m not actually angry at Gabriel. I’m just tired.
And if I’m honest, unnerved. The police officers haven’t asked what I do for a living. The liquor store owner has taken up most of their time. An armed robbery occurred at this location over a month ago, and he’s worried it will happen again.
The assumption by all parties seems to be joy riders. The bullets shot in my direction just chance. Just like the bullet shot at the liquor store.
After I conclude my brief chat with the tow truck driver, Gabe leaves the officer and strides across the street to join me.
“Did you tell them you’re with the DOJ?”
Gabe’s question diverts my attention from watching the tow truck driver hooking up my rental.
“They didn’t ask.”
He huffs and crosses the street once more to converse with the MPD.
It’s true, they didn’t ask where I’m employed. But I also know that the information won’t change things from their perspective. They believe it’s random.
But I don’t.
It’s not until I’m in Gabe’s car, seat belt secured, and we’ve said goodbye to the cops, that I repeat my question. “How did you know where I was?”
“Your name came across in relation to a shooting.”
“You’re tracking me?” Yesterday, that thought would’ve sent me into a controlled fury.
Right now, it barely registers. The adrenaline that should be fueling outrage is nowhere to be found—just a strange, hollowed-out quiet where my anger usually lives.
I have no doubt it’ll catch up with me. Just not yet.
“Not me,” he says, checking his rearview. “Rhodes MacMillan. Guy’s got connections.”
“He’s watching me?” That doesn’t make sense.
“I’m not sure watch is the right word. Monitoring. He has a flag on you—any law enforcement contact triggers a notification. You’d have to ask him for details. But word came from him to KOAN.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on Alicia Morgan’s detail?”
“My colleague took over.”
“Not necessary,” I mumble as the traffic increases the closer we get to the B-W Parkway, as does activity along the sidewalks.
“Almost shift change. Not a problem.”
I stare out the window, reminding myself that the annoyance eating at me isn’t directed at Gabe and that I shouldn’t take it out on him.
“You’re aware the chances that this is random are slim, right?”
I could argue. If I were actually angry, I likely would argue, but relief overwhelms any anger. Someone else sees a connection. It’s not just in my head. I’m not being paranoid. My eyes sting with this revelation. The relief is embarrassing in its intensity.
“Evie?”
With a deep inhale, I shift in the seat, giving Gabe my full attention. “Yes. I’m aware.” I bite back my gratitude, the thank you that wants to slip out for him believing me. If he believes I’m scared, he may become unbearable.
We ride in silence, and my mind drifts to what he told me yesterday—that he requested a transfer because he heard I was in over my head.
There was too much to process then. It’s still too much now, but the pieces won’t stop fitting themselves together.
I believe him when he says Dad didn’t put him up to any of this. The move-in request and showing up today, that’s just the way Gabe’s built. He doesn’t have siblings, so maybe I fell into that role—his best friend’s little sister who needs protection. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
Except my actual brother wouldn’t do any of this. Wouldn’t have requested a transfer. Likely would’ve called instead of jumping in the car when alerted.
I won’t examine that gap too closely.
I steal a glance at him. Both hands on the wheel, textbook driving form as always, checking mirrors and road with the kind of focus that probably makes him good at his job.
His demeanor hasn’t changed much since those nights he’d pull up a stool at our kitchen island and hang out with my brother.
But he’s older now. Filled out. Broader.
The presence that was once noticeable now makes the car feel smaller.
Magnetic, even. If he was a stranger, I’d notice him across a crowded room.
Scott’s friends weren’t particularly memorable.
Gabe was the standout, and I’d bet he’s still the most handsome of the entire crew.
There’s a stillness in him that befits a leader.
I always knew he’d make something of himself.
If I’d been in his class, I would’ve voted for him as most likely to become president.
Thank god he’s here.
Like so many unbidden thoughts, I shove it aside before it takes root.
It’s not until he turns off the parkway that I realize I don’t know where we are.
“This isn’t my exit.”
“We’re stopping by my place. I’m packing a bag.” He pulls up to a stop sign, and says, “Unless you want to stay with me. But my guest room is used for storage. You have more space.”
I also have a cat that mostly sleeps and when awake is somewhat antisocial, but I still wouldn’t want to leave him behind.
“I’m not going to live my life like a suspect.”
“Not asking you to. I’m asking you to be smart. Safe.”
The word hangs between us. Safe.
I should argue. Should tell him I can take care of myself, that I’ve been doing it for years, that his protective instincts are misplaced. But the truth is, I don’t want to be alone tonight. And if I dig deeper—which I won’t—he makes me feel safe.
“Fine,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “But I have ground rules.”
His mouth quirks, almost a smile. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“This is temporary. A few days, max. And you’re not shadowing me at work.”
“Agreed.”
“And you’re not—” I pause, searching for the right word. Protecting me sounds too vulnerable. Babysitting me too defensive. “You’re not running my life.”
“Evie.” He pulls into an apartment building parking lot and shifts into park, turning to face me. “I’m just trying to keep you alive.”
The way he says it—simple, matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—brings a level of warmth to my chest that is best to leave unexamined.
“Then we’re on the same page,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Because that’s my plan too.”