“Coffee?” he offered.
“Please.”
They moved through the morning rituals in companionable silence. He didn’t ask how she was, didn’t probe at wounds exposed in the dark. He just fixed her a coffee the way she liked it and leaned against the counter, giving her room to breathe.
Her phone buzzed. Security update. No sign of Chester on the resort cameras overnight. No incidents reported.
Still here, then. Still somewhere on the island. Still waiting.
The suitcase in the closet sat heavy in the back of her mind.
“David...” she started, stopped, unsure of her words.
He waited patiently, as always.
“Thank you,” she managed. “For last night. For not… trying to talk me out of how I feel.”
“You don’t need to thank me for basic decency,” he said, but his voice was gentle.
“Most people think they’re helping when they do that,” she said. “When they tell you you’re being irrational. That you’re safe now. That you need to move on.”
“You’ll move at your own pace,” David said. “Or you won’t move at all. Either way, it’s your choice.”
The words settled something in her. Not fixing anything. Just acknowledged the truth of where she stood.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, Marco’s name flashed across the screen.
Paul called out sick. Called in Emily.
She showed David the message. “I should get to work.” He nodded, already moving toward the door.
“I’ll drive,” he said.
Lena grabbed her phone, her key card. Left the suitcase where it was.
Not running yet.
But ready.
Just in case.
Chapter 41
Fault Line
David strodeinto their home meeting room, the leather soles of his shoes hitting the varnished floor with clipped precision. Each footfall echoed in the homey space, a rhythm that matched the pounding of his heart. The air buzzed with the hum of distant waves and the aroma of espresso from the half-drunk mug on the table—Nick’s, judging by the precise placement three inches from his tablet.
Zach and Nick looked up from their devices, their expressions tight, expectant. This wasn’t another debrief; tension coiled under the surface like a storm front building over the ocean.
David’s teeth clenched as he crossed to his seat, his mind still replaying the tremor in Lena’s voice when she’d told him about the calls. The way her fingers had tangled together, knuckles white. The flicker of fear she’d tried so hard to hide behind that sassy exterior he now craved like oxygen.
He didn’t waste time. No one here needed a preamble. They’d all lived through enough crises to recognize the gravity of silence before bad news.
“Two things,” David’s voice rang with the energy that came from too much coffee and too little sleep. He flicked his wrist andbrought up a projected display from his tablet, the blue-white hologram casting subtle shadows across his brothers’ faces.
“First, the phone calls to Lena were from a burner—basic prepaid junk. Not registered. But right now?” He gestured to the glowing red dot hovering over a stylized map of Mimosa Cay, his fingers cutting through the projection. “It’s pinging on the island. So we can track this idiot any time we want.”
The satisfaction should be sweet. Instead, acid churned in his stomach as he thought about Chester Dinkley’s face on the security feed. The man had made Lena’s life hell, and now he was here—breathing the same air, walking the same island, making those calls that stripped the color from her cheeks and the sparkle from her eyes.
