"You got all that from some bent leaves?"
"I got all that from paying attention." He stands, offering me a hand up. "Everything leaves a trace. Animals. Humans. Weather. The key is learning to read the story the ground is telling you."
His hand is warm and rough around mine. He pulls me to my feet, and for a moment we're standing too close, my chest nearly brushing his, his green eyes looking down into mine.
I should step back. Create distance. Remember that he's my bodyguard and this is a professional relationship.
I stay exactly where I am.
"Where did you get that?" I hear myself ask. "The scar."
I'm looking at the thin line that disappears into his hairline above his left ear.
His expression shutters. "Kandahar."
"The ambush?"
"Shrapnel. Piece of a car door. Missed my eye by about an inch."
"You were lucky."
"Six people under my command died that night. Lucky isn't the word I'd use."
He releases my hand and steps back, the moment broken. I want to kick myself for bringing up something painful, but I also can't help cataloging every piece of information he gives me. It's who I am. I build cases from fragments, construct narratives from evidence. Deck Cross is a case I'm actively working on, even if the only verdict I'm seeking is understanding.
"Show me more." I gesture at the forest around us. "What else should I be seeing?"
He leads me deeper into the trees, pointing out details I would have walked right past. Broken twigs. Disturbed soil. The subtle differences between natural patterns and human interference.
"Someone walked through here recently." He crouches beside a barely visible impression in a muddy patch. "Boot print. Size eleven or twelve. Heavy tread, probably tactical."
My blood runs cold. "Someone was here? Near the cabin?"
"Relax. It's mine. From yesterday's perimeter check." He glances up at me. "I'm testing you. Making sure you can tell the difference between a threat and normal activity."
"That's not funny."
"It's not supposed to be funny. It's supposed to make you vigilant." He rises, brushing dirt from his knees. "Fear is useful when it's directed. Panic gets you killed. Learn to tell the difference."
"I know the difference." The sharpness in my voice surprises us both. "I've been living with fear for six weeks. I know exactly how to channel it."
He studies me for a long moment, those green eyes seeing more than I want them to. "What happened? After the second attempt. You said you killed the man with a lamp. What else?"
I don't want to talk about it. I've given my statement to the marshals a dozen times, recited the facts until they lost all meaning. But Deck's quiet intensity pulls the words out anyway.
"I was staying at a safe house in Sacramento. Fourth-floor apartment, federal marshals on rotation downstairs. I couldn't sleep. I never can anymore. So I was in the kitchen making tea when I heard something at the front door. Carver was on rotation. He should have been watching the door."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the morning sun filtering through the trees.
"I keep thinking about Carver's face when I told him I was turning in early. He looked... relieved. But I brushed it off. The marshals should have stopped him. Later, we found out one of them had been compromised. Let the guy right past security in exchange for two hundred thousand dollars." I laugh, hollow. "That's what my life is worth, apparently. Two hundred thousand."
"Go on."
"I grabbed the first thing I could find. This marble lamp from the entryway table. Heavy, ugly thing. I hid behind the door to the bedroom and waited." My hands are shaking. I shove them into my pockets. "He came through with a suppressed pistol. Professional. Quiet. He cleared the rooms like he'd done it a hundred times. When he got to the bedroom, I just... reacted."
I can still feel the impact. The sickening crunch of marble against skull. The way his body crumpled.
"I hit him three times. The first one dropped him. The second and third were..." I swallow hard. "I wanted to make sure he stayed down."
