24. Henry
Henry
The cold night air seeps into my truck, but I don’t roll up the window. The stale scent of black coffee lingers in the cab, mingling with the leather and metal of my gun holster as I keep my eyes trained on the cheap roadside motel across the street.
It’s been three hours.
Three hours of watching, waiting.
I shift in my seat, adjusting my grip on the binoculars resting on my lap.
The neon sign of the Silver Pines Motel flickers every few minutes, humming like an old streetlamp, casting the entrance in a sickly green glow.
The two men I spotted a few days ago are still here.
They haven’t left since checking in earlier tonight.
I don’t trust it.
I don’t trust them.
And then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch the gleam of headlights. A sleek blue Mustang rolls past, its engine humming low and smooth as it slows near the motel. My jaw clenches the second I recognize the driver.
Dane Jacobs.
What the hell is he doing here?
He doesn’t stop. Just cruises past, gaze flicking toward the motel before speeding off down the dark road, disappearing into the night.
I file that away, my gut tightening.
The sound of knuckles rapping against the glass makes me react instantly. My fingers curl around the handle of my gun, but I exhale through my nose when I recognize Chief Tom Harrison standing outside, shaking his head.
I unlock the passenger door. "You’re getting slow, old man."
Tom grunts, climbing in with a sigh. "And you’re getting reckless, kid." He shuts the door, rubbing his hands together for warmth before narrowing his eyes at me. "You know, there are laws against stalking civilians."
I scoff, shifting in my seat. "It’s surveillance, Chief. You want me to leave? Go ahead and arrest me."
Tom lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Jesus Christ, Henry." He peers at the motel, rubbing his temple. "What exactly do you think these guys are up to?"
"They’re not here on vacation, that’s for damn sure," I mutter. "The conversation I had with one of them the other day only made me more certain they’re up to something."
Tom exhales sharply. "You talked to them?"
"Damn right I did. They’re cagey as hell."
"You questioned them, Henry." Tom glares at me. "Like you’re a cop, which, in case you forgot, you are not."
I ignore him, eyes back on the motel. "You’re telling me it’s just a coincidence these guys show up right after the gas station gets broken into? Right after Alan Mason—who works at the gas station—ends up stabbed? Come on, Chief."
Tom rubs his jaw, silent for a moment. "Alan said it was an accident."
"Alan’s full of shit," I snap. "The hospital confirmed it was a knife wound, didn’t they?"
Tom grumbles under his breath but doesn’t deny it.
"Think about it," I press. "Alan probably saw something he shouldn’t have. He confronted them. They shut him up."
Tom huffs, shaking his head. "You and your goddamn conspiracy theories."
I clench my jaw, frustration simmering beneath my skin. "I know I’m right about them."
Tom looks at me, then sighs. "Even if you are right, you need proof, Henry. Facts. Clues. Not just gut instinct and paranoia."
I shake my head. "Paranoia keeps people alive, Tom."
Tom lets out another long sigh, rubbing his temple. "Jesus, you’re exhausting." He leans back against the seat, stretching his legs. "And while we’re on the subject of paranoia—what the hell was that about you choking a guy in Emily’s house?"
I tense.
Fucking great.
"News travels fast, huh?" I mutter.
Tom snorts. "You could say that." He tilts his head at me. "Who’d you think the guy was? Dane?"
I grit my teeth, but I don’t respond.
Tom studies me, then shakes his head. "You’re an idiot, Henry."
I glare at him. "Appreciate the vote of confidence."
Tom ignores me. "That was Emily’s father, you dumbass."
"What?"
"You heard me."
I shake my head. "That guy—"
"Richard Carter. Just got out of prison on parole."
Everything inside me locks up.
Shit.
The man I nearly strangled unconscious—Emily’s father.
Tom keeps talking. "He’s been back in town for about three months. I think he’s the one who threw the stone the night Emily’s car got smashed up. Maybe warning her. Maybe trying to keep her safe."
I stare at him, brain working overtime.
That shadow in the woods. The warning. The stone.
Had I been chasing the wrong enemy?
Tom sighs. "Henry, you can’t fight every battle like it’s a war."
I grip the wheel. "Tell that to the people who keep trying to hurt her."
Tom is silent for a beat. Then he asks quietly, "She’s really leaving, huh?"
My throat tightens.
I nod once.
Tom studies me. "And you’re just gonna let her?"
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know.
Tom exhales heavily. "Look, I get it. I do. You think running is the right call. Safer. Easier. But you and I both know that’s bullshit."
I don’t move.
Tom’s voice lowers. "You applied for deployment, didn’t you?"
I glance at him sharply.
"Yeah," he says, reading the answer in my expression. "I figured."
I stay silent.
"You’re a goddamn coward, Henry."
The words hit like a gut punch, but I don’t flinch.
Tom shakes his head. "You’re running because you’re scared. Because you think if you stay, you’ll lose her. Or worse, she’ll lose you."
I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white. "People who love me end up dead, Tom."
Tom’s voice softens. "That’s not love, kid. That’s life."
My chest tightens.
Tom leans in. "You want proof Emily doesn’t love you? Then go ahead—leave. But if there’s even a chance she does? Don’t be an idiot and throw it away."
I stare out the windshield, jaw clenched.
Tom sighs. "Think about what you really want, Henry. Not what you’re afraid of."
And then, just like that, he gets out of the truck, slamming the door behind him.
I don’t watch him leave.
Instead, I reach into the glove compartment and pull out my deployment papers.
I run my fingers over the crisp edges, rereading the orders I already know by heart.
Report to base in three days. One more day. That’s all the time I have left before I have to decide if I am to leave or stay.
I lean my head back against the seat, exhaling sharply. For the first time in my life, I don’t know the right call.
I grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary, the worn leather creaking beneath my fingers.
My gut is tangled in knots, my thoughts a chaotic mess of Emily, my deployment, and the gnawing feeling that something isn’t right.
The weight of indecision presses against my chest, and for the first time in my life, I don’t know the right call to make.
So I do what I always do when I’m lost.
I call my sister.
Sarah answers on the second ring. “Henry?” There’s a slight edge to her voice, as if she knows this isn’t just a casual call.
“Hey,” I clear my throat, staring at the road ahead. “You doing okay?”
A beat of silence. Then, “I should be asking you that.”
I sigh. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit,” she fires back without hesitation. “What’s going on?”
I hesitate. Then, because lying to Sarah is pointless, I tell her. “I got my deployment orders.”
Another pause. “Where?”
“Yemen. Three days.”
I hear her inhale sharply. Then, quieter, “And you’re going?”
I don’t answer right away. I don’t know the answer.
Sarah picks up on it immediately. “You’re running.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” Her voice hardens. “Henry, what happened to the boy who’d do anything for the people he loves?”
Her words punch straight through my chest. I swallow, gripping the wheel harder. “Maybe that’s the problem,” I mutter. “Maybe that’s exactly why I should leave.”
Sarah goes quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Do you love her?”
I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah.” The word is rough, torn from me like it physically pains me to admit. “I love her.”
Sarah doesn’t sound surprised. “Then why the hell are you leaving?”
I don’t have an answer.
After we hang up, I drive to the dry cleaners. Sarah left my dress uniform here a while back—part of a service Mr. and Mrs. Everett run for storing important clothes until you need them.
Mrs. Everett greets me with a bright smile when I walk in, setting down a folded pile of clothes on the counter. “Henry Walker! Haven’t seen you in here for a while, dear.”
“Been busy.” I force a polite smile. “Sarah said my uniform’s still here?”
“Oh, yes! Give me just a moment, I’ll fetch it from the back.”
As she disappears behind the curtain, I lean against the counter, my gaze wandering around the store.
That’s when I see it.
A dark blue jacket hanging on the side rack.
Something about it doesn’t fit—it’s too expensive-looking for a small-town dry cleaner like this. My eyes trail over the fabric until I spot the buttons.
One is different.
Something clicks in my brain, and I reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone. I swipe to the picture I took of the button I found outside Emily’s house after the break-in.
My pulse pounds as I compare it to the jacket.
Same design.
Same size.
One of the buttons has been replaced.
My stomach tightens.
Mrs. Everett returns with my uniform, carefully wrapped in plastic. “Here you go, dear. Good as new.”
I barely hear her. My gaze is locked on the jacket.
“Who owns that?” I ask, my voice carefully neutral.
She follows my line of sight. “Oh, that’s Doctor Jacobs’ jacket,” she chirps, adjusting her glasses. “Very fine material, isn’t it? He paid extra to have it cleaned properly.”
My blood goes cold.
“Dane Jacobs?” I repeat.
“Oh yes,” she nods, leaning in conspiratorially.
“Poor thing thought we lost his button! Had my husband searching everywhere for it, but I knew it wasn’t our fault.
I told him—‘Harold, I’ll bet that button got lost before it came to us!
’ But he still felt guilty, so he tried to find a replacement. Not easy, mind you.”
I clench my jaw, my mind racing.
Dane Jacobs.
The break-in.
The button.
He was there.
That son of a bitch was at Emily’s house that night.
My hands tighten into fists. I pull out my phone and call him, but it goes straight to voicemail. Gritting my teeth, I leave a message.
“We need to talk. Call me back.”
Then, without wasting a second, I call Chief Tom.
The line clicks, and Tom answers, sounding distracted. “Henry?”
“Dane Jacobs is involved,” I say, cutting straight to the point. “He was at Emily’s house the night of the break-in.”
Tom curses. “You sure?”
“Positive. I have evidence. His jacket—the button matches the one I found that night.”
Tom exhales sharply. “That bastard…”
“Where is he now?” I demand.
“No idea,” Tom mutters. “But listen, Henry, we’ve got bigger problems.”
Something in his tone makes my stomach drop. “What’s going on?”
“There’s been a fire,” Tom says grimly. “Same street as the motel you were watching earlier.”
My pulse spikes. “What?”
“Big one. We’re headed there now. Most of my guys are already on site.”
A pit forms in my stomach. Fire. The same street as the motel.
Dane was just there.
And now Tom and most of the cops in town are headed away from everything else, focused on the blaze.
The timing is too convenient.
My instincts scream at me that something is about to go very, very wrong.
I grip the phone tighter. “Chief, something’s not right.”
Tom exhales. “I know.”
My mind races.
Dane is moving pieces. The two men I’ve been watching are still out there. The cops are tied up at a fire.
And Emily…My stomach knots.
I’m already moving before I fully process my decision, shoving my phone into my pocket and heading for my truck.
I need to get to Emily and ensure she’s safe.