“You’re afraid he’ll hurt himself.”
Wyatt’s face crumples. The sound that comes out of him isn’t quite a sob; it’s smaller than that, more wounded. The sound of having something named that you couldn’t bear to name yourself.
And then the tears come.
Not dramatic. He’s not a man who falls apart loudly. They just spill over, tracking down his cheeks while he tries to keep talking, his voice cracking around the edges but not stopping. He doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t apologize for them. Just lets them fall while the words keep coming.
“My stepfather,” he manages. “He—my mom begged him to talk to someone. But he couldn’t ask for help, couldn’t admit he was struggling, and he—” Another broken sound, but his eyes stay on mine even as the tears keep falling. “I told Chris to leave. I sent him away when he was in crisis because I was hurt, and what if?—”
“Hey.” I pull him toward me, and he comes, folding forward until his forehead rests against my shoulder, his breath ragged against my collarbone. I wrap my arms around him and hold on. “Hey. Listen to me.”
He’s shaking. Full-body tremors that I absorb against my chest.
“You know about my dad,” I say quietly, into his hair. “So you know I understand this fear. I’ve lived it.” I take a breath. “I was away at college when it happened. Chris and Callie were the ones who got me through. Their family had already been my refuge for years. Chris saw what losing my dad did to me. That’s one of the reasons I don’t think he’d go there himself.”
He pulls back, searching my face. “You really think that’s enough to stop him?”
“I’ve worked with enough field operatives to know how they’re wired. Compartmentalization isn’t just a skill for them; it’s survival. Chris is good at it. Better than most.” I take a breath. “And he said something to me at my dad’s funeral, about people who check out that way. It wasn’t kind. I think I hated him for it, for about a week.” The memory surfaces, sharp-edged. Chris in a dark suit, twenty-two years old and already so certain about everything. Some doors you don’t get to walk back through. “But now I think he meant it. It’s how he sees it. And his own beliefs would work against him going there.”
“But he’s different now. After everything Vicente?—”
“He’s different,” I agree. “He’s not the same Chris he was before the op. The damage is real, and we’re going to have to help him through it. But at his core?” I hold his gaze. “He’s still the man who said those words. Still the man who believes walking out that door is the coward’s way. He’ll go dark. He’ll punish himself in a hundred different ways. But he won’t do that.”
Wyatt’s breath shudders out of him. He doesn’t look convinced, but he’s not spiraling anymore either. I’ll take it.
“We’re going to find him,” I say. “And when we do, we deal with whatever comes next. Together.”
He nods, wiping his face with the back of his hand. Before either of us can say anything else, the doorbell rings.
Lucia stands on the porch looking like she didn’t sleep either. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail, and there’s a tension in her shoulders that I recognize from my security briefings. Something’s wrong beyond the obvious.
“We need to talk,” she says without preamble. “Is Booth here?”
“Inside.” I step back to let her in. “What’s going on?”
She doesn’t answer until we’re all in the living room. Wyatt stands by the fireplace, arms crossed, the turtleneck hiding everything but the exhaustion on his face. His eyes are dry but still red-rimmed. Lucia studies him for a long moment but doesn’t comment.
“Two things.” She pulls out her phone, swipes to a screen. “First: Longo left in a hurry last night. My cameras caught his vehicle at 11:47 PM. Driving like something was on fire.”
“We’re aware.” Wyatt’s voice is steadier now. Still raw, but functional.
“Are you? Because I also noticed he hasn’t come back.” Lucia holds up a hand before he can respond. “I’m not here to interfere with your personal business. But your personal business becomes my business when it affects security. And a principal’s partner going off-grid after a high-profile event is a security concern.”
“He needed space,” I say. “He’ll be back.”
“I hope so. Because the second thing is more concerning.” She swipes to another screen. “At 2:14 AM, our cameras caught a vehicle we don’t recognize. Dark sedan, no plates visible. It parked three houses down with its lights off. Someone got out. We caught movement on your perimeter cameras, shadows along the east side of the property. Whoever it was spent about ten minutes looking at your house before getting back in the car and leaving.”
The temperature in the room drops.
“That’s not your people,” I say.
“No. And it’s not Flores security either. I checked. Someone else is watching this house.”
Wyatt straightens. “Could be the threat we’ve been tracking. The one connected to the Serbian consolidation.”
“Could be.” Lucia tucks her phone away. “Could also be connected to whatever’s going on with your missing third. Either way, you’re all on alert as of now. No one leaves this property without checking in with me or Darius first.”
Chris is out there somewhere. Alone. Unreachable. And now someone is casing our house.
