Tuesday – 5:03am
The under-cabinet lights cast a gentle glow across the polished granite counter, softening the edges of the otherwise darkened room. The faint illumination skimmed the coffeemaker’s sleek edges and lingered on the curves of two black porcelain mugs, as though the shadows themselves had reached out to cradle them. The stillness was absolute, yet it carried the brittle tension of glass.
One breath, one shift, and it could all shatter.
The coffeemaker gurgled beside Brook, its steady drip the only sound in the pre-dawn serenity. The rhythm failed to calm the tightness spreading across her chest, and she had to stem the nausea that seemed to plague her lately. She stood motionless by the counter, staring at the follow-up report on the search for her brother—more specifically, the last line.
SEARCH FOR WALSH SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY
The bold letters stood out against the subdued paragraphs before it, as if the Bureau needed to emphasize its conclusion. The official search for Jacob's body in a remote Alaskan ice cave where he'd been presumed dead after a catastrophic collapse had officially come to an end. Seven months of intermittent exploration had yielded nothing but frustration and frostbite for the recovery teams.
She set the phone face down on the counter.
The FBI’s conclusion meant nothing, and their insistence rang hollow in her mind.Survival was next to impossible, they claimed.And yet Special Agent Russell Houser had made it out alive.
Russell, who'd dragged himself through ice and rock with three broken ribs and a punctured lung. Russell, who'd somehow managed to reach an area where extraction had been possible despite blood loss and hypothermia. Russell, whose recovery had been deemed ‘miraculous’ by the same officials who were now confident that Jacob Walsh could not have performed a similar feat.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter until her knuckles ached from the force. She finally willed herself to relax, one finger at a time, a deliberate exercise to regain control of her emotions.
She believed, despite the Bureau's assertions, the reports, and the logical impossibility of it all…Jacob Walsh wasn’t dead.
She sensed him.
The same way she had as a child.
The coffee continued its rhythmic dripping, each drop hitting the growing dark pool below with a soft plink. She closed her eyes when warm arms encircled her waist from behind, not startled in the least. She’d heard Graham approaching from the soft rustle of his fleece jogging pants. She tilted her face,welcoming his soft lips as they pressed against the side of her head.
She allowed herself a brief moment to lean back into his solid warmth.
“I couldn't find my shirt,” Graham murmured against her hair.
She hummed in acknowledgment, her hands automatically moving to cover his where they rested on her stomach. The worn navy t-shirt she wore hung loosely around her frame, the faded Marine Corps emblem stretched across her chest.
“I like wearing it,” Brook admitted quietly, turning slightly in his embrace. “It smells like you.”
Graham's eyes, still heavy-lidded from sleep, studied her face with the intensity she'd come to recognize as concern masked as casual observation. Despite just leaving his bed, there wasn’t a strand of his close-cropped hair out of place.
“They called off the search.”
“Yes.” Brook wasn’t surprised by his perception. “It was only a matter of time.”
“We can touch base with Alex DeSilva. He can send a team in to?—”
“No.” Brook turned completely in Graham’s arms, resting her palms on his bare chest. She traced the raised ridge of an old scar, a permanent reminder of Kandahar that she’d touched so many times she could draw it from memory. “I know how this is going to sound, but I’m comfortable knowing he's out there somewhere. It's like we've fallen into some old routine, only now I have a better understanding of him. Jacob will seek me out eventually.”
Graham's body tensed against hers, the shift subtle but unmistakable. She could sense the conflict in him. The desire to comfort her conflicted with his instinct to prepare for a threat to her life.
He was a man who'd experienced things most people could only imagine in their darkest nightmares. A man who'd fought wars, carried the weight of lives lost, and yet he carried himself with a quiet strength that never faltered.
He was a protector, a Marine, but also a lover and a friend.
Graham Elliott had become her rock in the storm, her calm in the chaos. His frustration with not being able to control the situation was evident, yet he would respect her decision, even if he didn't agree with it.
His tall, muscular frame was a constant source of warmth and shelter. A barrier between her and the world that sought to break her. His dark eyes held an understanding few could comprehend, mirroring her own hidden torments and fears and acknowledging her pain without judgment.
He was a man of few words, choosing to communicate through his actions. While his silence was disconcerting to some, it always managed to create a sanctuary of peace, allowing her the space to breathe and process.
“When do you need to leave for?—”
