“Someone expendable if it all goes sideways.”
“Someonecapable.” She stood, smoothing her coat. “Claire doesn’t have much time. Days, maybe. The stalker sent his first direct message three days ago. His previous victims were dead within a week of first contact.”
Garrett’s stomach went cold. Three days.
“The FBI knows she’s next,” she continued. “They’ve assigned a protective detail. They’re doing everything by the book. But this predator has already circumvented their security twice. Left messages for Claire where no one should have been able to reach her.”
She picked up her bag, left cash on the bar for the water she hadn’t touched.
“When you change your mind—and you will—call that number.” She nodded to the business card. “I have an official office front in town, a compound outside the city limits. I’ll be at the office tomorrow morning. Eight a.m.”
“I’m not coming.”
“Yes, you are.” She smiled, but there was something sad in it. “Because you can’t live with another failure. And if Claire Dawson ends up dead while you’re hiding in this bar, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
She stopped for a moment and patted his shoulder. “I did my research on you, Garrett. I know about Lily. I know Claire was her best friend. And I know that’s why you’ll show up tomorrow.”
She strode to the door. Another gust of cool September air rushed in, then disappeared.
Garrett sat frozen, staring at the photographs. The three dead women. The Colombia mission. Claire’s FBI badge.
I know about Lily.
His hands shook.
He grabbed the folder, shoved everything back inside. The white business card fell out, landing face-up next to his empty glass. No name or company logo. Just a phone number and address.
He should burn it. Should walk out of this bar, drive to his cabin, and forget Dr. Genevieve Montgomery and her Shadow Point Security team existed.
But Claire’s photo was staring up at him from inside the folder.
Those blue eyes that had been full of guilt at Lily’s funeral. That had silently asked Bobby for forgiveness. Bobby—the name she’d known him by—hadn’t been able to give it. That had haunted him every day for fifteen years.
“Hell,” Garrett muttered.
Jake materialized. “Another?”
Garrett looked at his empty glass. Looked at the folder. Looked at the door.
I can’t. I failed Lily. I can’t face CJ.
Bobby couldn’t save his sister. Garrett couldn’t save Claire.
But the memory came anyway. Always did, especially when the whiskey wasn’t working.
Lily at ten years old, making him promise. “If anything ever happens to me, Bobby, you’ll take care of CJ, right?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you, Lil.”
“But if it does. Promise.”
“I promise.”
Eight years later, he’d broken that promise. Stood at his sister’s grave while CJ cried, apologized, and blamed herself for surviving.
He'd enlisted the next day. Became Garrett Cross—his father's surname, his first name. No more Bobby. He became someone strong enough, lethal enough, skilled enough that he'd never fail to protect someone who needed it again.
And now CJ needed protection.
