“That’s right. Those sweet messages weren’t hard to find once I was looking. Of course, I never would’ve looked if my men hadn’t spotted you two in Montana. Haven’t you ever heard the phraseyou can’t go home again? Pretty sure that saying is exactly for reasons like this.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Thomas Wolfe had you in mind when he wrote it,” she muttered.
“It took time to trace Lincoln Bollinger.” Randall stopped in front of her. “Impressive security. So I knew I had to draw you out here, let him think he was three steps ahead of me. Men like him are predictable. They think they’re the smartest person in every room.”
Morgan said nothing. Kept her eyes off the box.
“Once I realized you were working with a computer genius, I knew it was only a matter of time before you found the database that would make all the details in your pretty little head make sense. So, I set all this up.”
She looked up at him then.
“That’s right. This littleclient meetingwas completely manufactured to draw you out. The vulnerable moment Bollinger thought he was exploiting never existed.” Randall glanced toward the burning section of the building. “He and his little pals walked into this believing he had the advantage. They were wrong. I had to sacrifice a few of my men too, but it was worth it to get you back.”
The words landed like blows, but Morgan didn’t let herself feel them. Not yet. She couldn’t afford to feel themyet. Lincoln was dead. Bear. Joy’s baby would never know its father.
Not yet. Feel it later. Right now, survive.
“No rescue is coming, my little filing cabinet,” Randall continued. “No cavalry. You’re going to disappear. And this time, believe me, no one will ever find you. It’s time for us to get going. I know this warehouse is in the middle of nowhere, but the fire department will still eventually come.”
She stared at the box. At the darkness waiting inside.
Randall smiled. “Why don’t you go ahead and get back in. You and that box are going to be spending a lot of time together.”
And something cold and clear began to form in her chest.
Lincoln may be gone, but he wouldn’t want her to collapse. Wouldn’t want her to give in. He would want her to fight.
He had taught her she was valuable. That she was worth loving.
They’d both shown each other that their strange minds weren’t burdens to be tolerated, but something extraordinary.
She was not going back in that goddamn box.
The certainty crystallized. She was not going to spend the rest of her life serving the man who’d murdered Lincoln. She was not going to memorize and bleed and exist as a capacity to be filled.
If Lincoln was dead, she had nothing left to lose.
Randall’s guard stood to her left. Close. The weapon holstered at his hip almost within reach.
Morgan measured the distance. Calculated the angle. Let her shoulders slump like she was giving up, like the fight had drained out of her.
The guard relaxed. Just slightly. Just enough.
She lunged, her hand closing around the gun’s grip in the holster, and she yanked it free. Spun away from grabbing hands.
She leveled the weapon at Randall’s chest.
The guards froze. Randall raised one hand, a calm gesture that halted them in place. His expression didn’t change—still that flat, professional assessment. Like she was a problem to be solved rather than a threat to be feared.
“You won’t shoot me.” His voice was almost gentle. “You’re not a murderer, Morgan. We both know that.”
“Maybe not.” Her hand was shaking. The gun wavered. “But I don’t have to be.”
She turned the barrel and pressed it to her own temple.
Everyone went still.
Randall’s face went blank. The composure cracking as he processed variables he hadn’t anticipated.
