Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Rhea
Gideon's cabin sits farther up the mountain than I expected.
The paved road ended a mile back. What follows is gravel and switchbacks and a stretch of trees dense enough to block out most of the sky. One wrong turn and I would end up stuck or worse.
As I white-knuckle my way up the mountain, it occurs to me for the thousandth time that this is probably a really bad idea.
Under normal circumstances, I’d never meet a man I barely know at his remote cabin in the woods.
I’ve seen too many movies and read enough books to know it’s foolish.
Especially when the man is a detective who probably knows a dozen good ways to dispose of my body.
And speaking of my body… there’s also the fact that I spent all night tossing and turning as I dreamed of his body on top of mine.
The man is entirely too attractive.
And then there’s the fact that if the actual embezzler finds out that I’m working with Gideon to track them down, my life could very well be in danger.
When the cabin comes into view, it looks solid. Intentional. Wood and stone fitted together without ornament. Smoke curls from a narrow chimney. There are no decorative touches. No planters or wind chimes or anything that exists purely for decoration. Everything here serves a purpose.
It suits him.
Gideon is outside when I pull in. He is leaning against the porch railing, sleeves rolled up, phone in hand. He looks like he belongs exactly where he is, as if the mountain arranged itself around him rather than the other way around.
"You found it," he says as I step out of the car.
"Your directions were clear," I reply.
He pockets his phone and gestures toward the door. "Come in."
Inside, the cabin is warm and cozy. A fire burns low in the fireplace.
The main room is open, kitchen on one side, a table and chairs on the other.
There is a couch facing the fire, a rug that looks hand-woven, and shelves lined with books.
It’s tidy, too, and I wonder if Gideon cleaned up because I was visiting, or if it’s always this way.
I suspect the latter. He just seems like the kind of guy who likes things to be tidy and organized. Same as me.
"Coffee?" he asks.
"Please."
He moves to the kitchen and pours two mugs from a pot near the stove. “How do you take it?”
“Black is fine.”
"I figured we could work at the kitchen table," he says, setting our mugs down.
I sit. He takes the chair across from me and sets a thick folder between us.
"I found something," he says.
I set my mug down and lean forward slightly.
"A permissions change," he continues. "Logged after hours. Not from your account. I think they’re the culprit."
My pulse quickens. "Who?"
"Your supervisor," he says. "Warren."
Warren. I sit back, taking in the news. Of course it would be Warren.
He has been with the company long enough to know how the systems work.
Long enough to understand where the gaps are.
And he has been increasingly irritable over the past few months.
Snapping at minor mistakes. Hovering over my shoulder when I work.
"Can you prove it?" I ask.
"I can document the access pattern," Gideon says. "The rest depends on how much cooperation we get from RidgeLine's IT department."
I nod slowly. "What do you need from me?"
"Access to your records," he says. "Anything that shows your normal work patterns. Login times. Transaction histories. I need to build a comparison."
"I can get that," I say.
He slides the folder toward me. "Take a look. Tell me if anything stands out."
I open the folder and start reading. He already has so much information. There are stacks of bank statements, login logs, and email timestamps. The pattern becomes clear quickly. Warren's access coincides with the withdrawals. Not perfectly, but close enough that it cannot be coincidence.
"He was careful," I say.
"Not careful enough," Gideon replies.
I glance up at him. He is watching me with that same steady focus from yesterday. My skin grows hot under his watchful gaze.
"How long have you been doing this?" I ask.
He leans back in his chair. "I’ve been doing private-eye work for just over five years."
"What did you do before that?"
"I was a detective with the Denver PD for about a decade.”
I nod. That explains a lot. "Why did you leave?”
He considers the question for a moment. "I got tired of playing the game. So much of police work in a big city is political. Funding depends on who is in office, and keeping politicians happy isn’t what I signed up for. All I ever wanted was to be a good cop and solve cases.”
When he speaks about Denver, there is no bitterness in his voice. Just a statement of fact. It wasn’t making him happy, so he left.
I’ve had that feeling a lot lately, too. Being an accountant for a major company isn’t satisfying me—and that was before I discovered my supervisor’s been embezzling money.
Gideon and I continue to work through the documents together.
He explains what he is looking for. I point out discrepancies I recognize.
The process is methodical and focused, and we’re making fast work of it.
But there is something else brewing underneath the surface.
An awareness of each other. A zip of electrical current seemingly hovering in the air between us.
Our hands brush when we both reach for the same page. He does not pull back immediately. And neither do I. The contact lasts only a second, but I feel it long after.
The fire crackles in the background. Outside, the light shifts as clouds move across the sun. It is quiet here. Peaceful. Free of the constant hum that exists in the city. There’s just the wind through the trees and the occasional birdcall.
"You hungry?" Gideon asks after we have been working for over an hour.
I realize I am. "I could eat."
He stands and moves to the kitchen. I watch him pull ingredients from the refrigerator. Bread. Cheese. Tomatoes. He works efficiently, slicing and assembling sandwiches without wasted motion.
He grins at me. “And now, for the secret ingredient that really elevates a sandwich…” He holds up a mason jar with a flourish. “Homemade Sweet Habanero Dill pickles.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You make your own pickles.”
He chuckles heartily. “Heavens, no. I buy them at the local farmer’s market. That’s where I get most of my ingredients. I go every Saturday.”
I smile. “You’re a bit of a conundrum.”
He cocks his head. “How so?”
“Well, you have a remote cabin way out the woods suitable for the Unabomber. But you seem totally engaged in small-town life, too.”
He shrugs. “Best of both worlds.”
He sets a plate in front of me and takes his seat again. We eat in companionable silence. When I finish, I notice he is watching me again. Not staring. Just looking. Like he is trying to decide something.
"What?" I ask.
"You're a conundrum, too, you know.”
I smile. “Oh?”
He grins. “Well, on the one hand, you’re a nerdy accountant.” He holds his hands up when I start to protest. “I mean that as a compliment, I promise. But on the other hand, you’re a badass warrior on a mission for justice. The way you stormed into my office the other day… you were a little scary.”
I glare at him. “Scary?”
He barks a laugh. “Also a compliment. You can hold your own, that’s for sure.”
The air between us shifts just enough that I notice the weight of his attention. The way his gaze lingers a fraction longer than necessary. The appreciation in his eyes as he sizes me up.
I want to throw myself at him, to be the badass he seems to think I am. But the nerdy accountant in me wins out. I’ve never been the first to come onto a man, and I’m not brave enough to try it today.
So, instead, I clear my throat and say, “I can get more documents to you in a day or two.”
"Sounds good. With your help, we can nail the bastard.”
I gather my things slowly. He walks me to the door. When I step onto the porch, the cold air is a shock after the warmth inside.
"Drive safe," he says.
"I will."
I get in my car and start the engine. When I glance back, he is still standing on the porch, hands in his pockets, watching me leave.