Fuck, did he leave?
I can’t believe he’d leave me here after how we connected, but then again, it did feel like a new chapter, like we were turning a page in our story.
Maybe I didn’t realize it was a goodbye?
Just before I exit the hall into the living space, a squeak of some kind sounds, and I jump back.
“Sorry,” a man says, lifting his hands off his wheelchair. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Holding my hand over my heart, as if it’ll slow its rhythm, I swallow. “That’s alright… Who are you?”
“Chase. Did Koen not tell you that I was coming?” His eyes rake down my body, which I’d only wrapped in the top sheet from the bed.
Blush floods my cheeks. “No, he didn’t.”
“Typical. Well, he had some business to handle, and he was worried about you being alone and didn’t think it was safe to take you with him, so… here I am.”
“Business about Helms?” I step closer, the sheet and my state of undress forgotten as I realize that Koen’s headed toward danger and there’s nothing I can do about it.
“Yes,” Chase answers, his brows furrowing as he probably assesses that he’s not supposed to tell me much.
“Is he going to kill Helms?”
“Chase’s eyes narrow further. “Fuck, he really likes you, doesn’t he?”
I have a feeling the question was meant for him, not me.
“I’m sure he’ll speak to you about everything when he gets back,” Chase says when I don’t respond.
Unease claws at my stomach lining, causing a burning to flutter and bubble.
What if he doesn’t come back?
32
Koen
Lasko wanted to meet somewhere public, and I don’t blame him. He has to know I’ve been tailing him. Not close enough to let him knowwhois on his tail, just enough to have him making moves a bit more carefully.
I’ve gone as deep into things on my end as I can, and with the last bit of information Chase dug up last night while I was deep inside Greer, ignoring the world and its fucking problems, I think I’ve got enough to move on Helms.
It could go left.
Anything in life could.
So, before I make the wrong move, I need Lasko’s take on things.
His eyes swivel around the room, watching everything and everyone. Even in his street clothes, he looks the part of an off-duty officer.
I slide into the booth he chose in the back of the coffee shop, steepling my hands on the peeling tabletop that looks like it’s from the 70s.
“Evening,” I say with a smirk.
One of his hands leaves the coffee mug on the table and slides onto his lap.
“Is that a weapon, or are you just happy to see me?” I tease.
“I know who you are,” he says.
