I sit beside her, close enough that if she bolts, I can stop her without making a scene.
Cal stands across from us, hands braced on the table. “Start from the top.”
I pull Rowan’s phone from my pocket. “Unknown number texted her while we were en route. Threat implied they can track her even with protection.”
I slide the phone across the table to the tech. “This is it. It went into a faraday pouch right after the message. No further interaction.”
The tech nods and plugs it into a device that looks like it could either save a life or ruin a marriage.
Cal’s gaze stays on me. “Timeline.”
“Two vehicle incidents in three weeks. Last night was deliberate contact on the highway. Door lock shows tool marks. Police wrote it off as random.”
Rowan lifts her brows. “They also called it ‘unfortunate.’ Which felt like a personal critique.”
Cal’s eyes flick to her. “It was sloppy work. Someone wanted you scared more than dead.”
Rowan’s humor falters. “Great. So I’m being emotionally terrorized.”
“Not great,” I correct.
Her gaze slides to me, and she tries to make a joke, but it lands softer. “I hate it when men can’t commit.”
I should ignore that. I don’t. I take the bait. “You’d rather they commit to murder?” I ask.
She huffs a laugh. “When you say it like that, it feels unreasonable.”
Cal watches us for half a second, then returns to business like he’s seen this dynamic a hundred times and already knows where it ends. “Your story,” he says to Rowan. “Tell me what you uncovered. The details matter.”
Rowan sits straighter. This is her comfort zone. Facts. Threads. Patterns. She speaks quickly, but clearly, explaining the shell nonprofits, the money trail, the fundraiser, the questions she asked, and the way one man’s smile went cold when she mentioned a specific contract number. Cal listens without interrupting.
I watch her while she talks.
Long brown hair, pulled back loosely while a few strands escape near her cheek. Brown eyes that hold fire even when fear tries to smother it. A mouth made for smart remarks, but also honesty when it counts.
Pretty isn’t even the right word.
Pretty is a painting.
Rowan’s a storm.
My phone buzzes again.
Banks: New intel. Ledger ties to a consultancy out of D.C. Name on the paperwork: A. Shaw. Ring any bells?
My pulse ticks once, hard.
Alden Shaw. Dad’s old handler. Or the man who used to be, depending on which version of the story is true.
I lock my face down and type back.
Me: It does. Dad’s handler. Keep digging. Carefully.
Rowan finishes her explanation, hands clasped tightly now on the edge of the table. She’s back to stillness, but I notice the shallow breath, the way her thumb rubs the side of her finger like she’s sanding off nerves.
Cal nods slowly. “You were right to push. You just did it without a shield.”
Rowan glances at me like she hates that word in this context.
