“Let’s talk specifically about the FBI case and that truck that ran you off the road.” Huck’s voice was calm. Too calm. Laurel’s instincts pinged at the measured tone, the subtle flattening of his words. Huck was usually easygoing with a streak of smart-ass confidence. When he went deadpan like that, it meant something was stirring underneath.
Anger. Annoyance. Or maybe that cold sort of calculation he used when lining up a shot. She couldn’t decide which.
She tried to read his expression, but his face remained neutral. The man was good at compartmentalizing. Dangerous when he wanted to be.
“The Seattle field office sent out a crime tech to gather the casings”—she hesitated, aware that he was listening to every nuance of her voice, just as she was dissecting his—“but I doubt we’ll find anything in the system.”
His arms tightened around her. He’d pulled her onto his lap without a word, maneuvering her easily with his impressive strength.
The intimacy should’ve felt off, but it didn’t. Not after everything. His warmth seeped into her, pressing back the chill that had settled along her bones since the shooting. They had grown closer during their time away, the aftermath of loss building something new between them, raw but steady.
She appreciated Huck’s steadiness more than she could ever say. It was one of the things she respected most about him. He didn’t play games or leave her wondering where she stood. The man was a fortress of straightforwardness in a world full of double meanings and unspoken motives.
They had both mourned the loss of the baby, though Huck had been characteristically equitable about it. “Doesn’t change anything between us,” he’d said, his voice strong but quiet, as if daring her to challenge him.
She didn’t. Not out loud. But deep down, she figured it had changed things. The pregnancy had forced them into a timeline neither of them had consciously agreed to, only to have that timeline snatched away. Now she felt like she was stranded somewhere between what could have been and what was. Or she was overthinking it all.
Huck’s gaze stayed locked on her, his brown eyes sharp. “So, you’re telling me Wayne Norrs is in charge of the investigation into the attack on you as the head of the field office in Seattle?”
“Yes. Considering Walter and I were fired upon, it makes sense to have an outside team investigate the attack.”
The Pacific Northwest Violent Crimes Unit worked all over the region, headquartered out of Genesis Valley but often crossing jurisdiction with Seattle and other offices. Her unit was specifically tasked with violent crimes and serial killers, but cooperation with other agencies had always been a given.
For now, anyway.
Agent Norrs definitely had taken over the investigation. That hadn’t surprised her. His expertise was solid, his presence commanding, but he had a tendency to bulldoze anyone who got in his way. Of course, the man’s temperament wasn’t her biggest concern. Abigail was. If she grew bored of dating Agent Norrs, which she inevitably would, things would become tricky.
Right now, everyone seemed to get along, but alliances had a way of crumbling under pressure.
“What about the truck?” Huck’s voice rumbled against her, low and patient, though his fingers were drumming against her thigh with the restless precision of a man holding himself in check.
“They haven’t found a thing, and they probably won’t.”
“Hell.” Huck’s frustration broke through, punctuated by a rough exhale. “I suppose both you and Walter are going through old cases of yours to look for an enemy.”
“We are. There might be something relevant from one of our pasts.”
Huck’s mouth tightened. His fingers stopped their rhythmic tapping against her leg, settling there with a solid, possessive weight. “Or both,” he said.
The possibility hung between them, thickening the air.
But instead of pressing the point, Huck’s hold softened. His hand slid absently along her side, drawing warmth through the fabric of her shirt. The man’s touch was a grounding force she didn’t know she needed until it was there.
They weren’t done talking, but for now, she let herself lean into him. And Huck, true to form, let her take the moment on her terms.
“I don’t think anyone from my father’s church would fire upon me, but that’s definitely an angle we need to look at. Considering someone shot at Abigail as well . . . the connection could be the two of us,” she mused.
The words tasted sour, thick with the bitterness of too many threads tangling into a knot she couldn’t quite unravel. Theories and probabilities spun through her mind, refusing to settle.
She let out a sigh, the sound rawer than she intended. “I’m tired of thinking about it.”
Huck barked out a laugh. “Laurel Snow is tired of thinking. Now, that’s a headline.”
She grinned, rolling her eyes. “Whatever.”
He laughed again, the rich sound vibrating against her skin where his chest pressed into her back. “I’ve never heard you say ‘whatever’ like that. There’s usually a long litany of words that come in front of it. Usually something about probability ratios or statistical anomalies.”
Laurel leaned back into him, shaking her head. “I’ve been spending time with Kate’s teenage daughters. I’m picking up on modern vernacular.”
