But I’ve never had to adapt to this. I’ve never had to conduct therapy while my primary clients have active contracts on their lives and their entire household is in protection mode. Darius sits at his desk in my waiting room with a gun visible under his jacket for the first time since I’ve known him, and Wyatt works from my kitchen table because it’s already inside the secure perimeter.
Adán Pareto is talking, and I’m listening, but part of my brain keeps circling back to a recognition I can’t quite place.
It’s not just that I’ve seen him before. The café, weeks ago. That I remember. We were both waiting for our drinks, struck up a conversation. I mentioned my practice, he asked for my card. Nothing unusual. But there’s a pull underneath that memory. A familiarity in his bone structure, the set of his shoulders, the particular darkness of his eyes.
“—I’ve tried everything else,” he’s saying. “I can’t get past their security. No one will listen. And I’m running out of time.”
I lean forward slightly. “Running out of time for what?”
He meets my gaze. Holds it.
And tells me something that makes the pieces fall into place so fast I almost can’t breathe.
My mouth is still open, response not yet formed, when the door explodes inward.
Darius comes through, weapon drawn, and everything happens too fast to track. Adán is already moving, reacting with a precision that has nothing to do with panic. He catches Darius’s arm, redirects his momentum, and puts him on the ground with a controlled strike that speaks to real training.
Not trying to hurt him. Just enough to create an opening.
And then he’s through the door to the waiting room, and I hear the front door slam a second later. Darius is struggling to his feet cursing, and I’m standing in the middle of my office with my heart pounding and my mind still reeling from everything Adán said before the world went sideways.
“Nina!” Wyatt’s voice from the hallway. He appears a second later, weapon drawn, taking in the scene: Darius on his feet but clearly rattled, me standing frozen.
“I’m fine,” I manage. “He ran.”
Wyatt doesn’t hesitate. He’s out the front door in a flash, disappearing after Adán.
“Fuck.” Darius presses a hand to his ribs where Adán struck him. “Fuck. I’m sorry, Dr. Palmer. He moved like—I didn’t expect?—”
“It’s okay.” It’s not, but that’s not Darius’s fault. “Are you hurt?”
“Pride, mostly.” He’s already pulling out his phone, calling it in.
Wyatt reappears through the office door a minute later, breathing hard. “Lost him. He had a motorcycle stashed down the block. He’s gone.”
And I’m left standing in my office, heart still racing, holding a secret that changes everything.
Lucia appears in the doorway that connects to my living space, her expression tight with controlled alarm. “Dr. Palmer. We need to move you.”
“The man who was in here—he’s not dangerous. He was trying to help?—”
“With respect, ma’am, I don’t care what he was trying to do. Grab your go bag. You’re being relocated. Now.”
She doesn’t touch me, but she doesn’t need to. Her body language makes it clear that this isn’t a discussion.
I grab my bag, my phone, the essentials, and let her guide me through my own house like I’m a stranger in it. Kitchen, back hallway, garage. A black SUV idles in the driveway, windows tinted dark enough that I can’t see inside.
Lucia opens the rear door and gestures me in. “Go.”
I climb in. Wyatt slides in beside me a moment later, his jaw tight, still breathing harder than normal from the chase.
The interior of the SUV is cool, leather seats, that new-car smell that always feels artificial. The driver pulls out before either of us has gotten our seatbelts fastened. It registers that Wyatt didn’t have a go bag since he wasn’t technically living with me, but he doesn’t seem fazed. He’s too focused on watching the street as we pull away from the house.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Safe house at Point Dume.” Lucia’s already on her phone, thumbing through contacts from the front seat. “The other principals went to ground this morning. You’re being moved as a precaution until we assess the threat level.”
I want to argue. I want to tell her that the man they’re treating like an assassin is actually trying to save lives. But Lucia’s already talking to someone, her voice clipped and professional.
