Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
He unlocks the door with a code, and the smell of fresh pine and lemon cleaner drifts out to greet us. The lights are already on, probably set on a timer by the same crew who stocked this place. I let out a sigh. It’s a place I know well—or at least the layout. I’ve contracted this safe house to be fully equipped for high-profile clients in need of discreet shelter. Guess the joke’s on me for ending up here myself.
Inside, the floors are hardwood, polished to a shine, and the living area is furnished with plush gray couches, a few rustic end tables, and a thick woven rug that gives it a cozy vibe. There’s a stone fireplace along one wall, flanked by tall windows that offer a partial view of the forest. It’s the kind of place people dream about for a quiet retreat, but in our case, it’s a fortress—albeit a subtle one.
I set my bag down on the couch, feeling a pang of annoyance at how…perfect everything looks. I can’t help but imagine the team that rushed in here earlier, stocking the fridge with groceries, fluffing pillows, and making sure the security system is armed. I was the one who gave them the instructions on how to set it all up, so at least there aren’t any unpleasant surprises.
Lincoln lingers behind me, every inch the vigilant guard dog. “Don’t get too comfortable,” he says, voice low. “We need to talk.”
I spin on my heel, crossing my arms over my chest. “Oh, good. More talking.”
He ignores my sarcasm, stepping closer until I can feel the warmth radiating off him. “We’re about to be stuck here together for who knows how long. We need ground rules.”
A tiny spark of defiance flickers in my gut. “What are we, kids at summer camp?”
“Call it whatever you want,” he says, jaw tight. “But if I’m responsible for your safety, I get a say in how this works.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Okay, Sergeant. Lay it on me.”
He takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for a fight. “Rule one: you don’t leave this house without me. Not even to go outside and breathe fresh air.”
I open my mouth to argue, but his gaze dares me to fight him on it, so I snap my jaw shut.
“Rule two,” he continues, “you tell me—up front—about any new leads, theories, or information you get about your threat. No more running off half-cocked on your own.”
I bite back a retort. “Anything else?”
Lincoln’s eyes flick over my face, and tension crackles between us like static electricity. For a moment, his guard slips, and he looks…concerned. Almost gentle. Then that layer of stone slams back in place.
“Rule three: for the time being, I’m in charge of security protocol. If I say something’s not safe, it’s not up for debate.”
A disbelieving laugh escapes me. “You want me to just roll over and accept all your commands like a good little soldier?”
He stands his ground, crossing his arms. “It’s not about commands. It’s about keeping you alive.”
I can’t argue with that, so I press my lips together, feeling my cheeks blush. “Fine,” I manage. “But you have to promise me something too.”
He raises a brow. “Which is?”
“That you won’t shut me out. You said we’d go over my leads together, and I want your word that you’ll actually consider them. No dismissing me because I’m not ex-military or because I’m Dean’s sister.”
He exhales, tension draining from his posture as he nods. “Agreed.”
We stand there in a standoff for a second, neither of us budging. Finally, I jerk my head toward the small dining table near the kitchen. “Let’s sit down. I’ll show you what I’ve got so far.”
Lincoln follows, and the shifting of his weight on the hardwood sets my nerves on edge. Part of me is dying to push him away, just to assert my independence, but another part—one I refuse to analyze too closely—feels a bit more secure knowing he’s here. Especially after the stunt I pulled climbing out that window.
The kitchen is tucked off to the right, separated from the living area by a half-wall. Everything gleams with newness—stainless steel appliances, freshly stocked cabinets. My safe-house prep team never disappoints. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and plop down at the dining table, which is a sturdy oak piece with enough chairs to seat four.
Lincoln takes the chair across from me, large hands resting on the table like he’s waiting for a briefing. Fine. I can handle that.
I unzip my bag and pull out a black folder. “Remember how I told you I tracked the phone records from that threatening text?” I open the folder, spreading out a few printed pages. “Turns out the number belongs to a burner phone, but I got a couple of possible hits from older database logs. It’s messy, but one name popped up: Morris Rolfe.”