“I don’t really remember it,” I lied. “Just one of those nights.”
He pressed his lips to my shoulder and let it go. That was one of the things I loved most about Jack. He knew when to hold on and when to leave a door open without walking through it.
“What time is it?” he asked.
I glanced at the clock. “Almost six thirty.”
He groaned but didn’t let go. “Daniels should have something for me by now. She said she’d email the prints report first thing.”
“Then you should probably check your email.”
“Probably.” But he didn’t move. Just held me, his breath warm against my skin, his hand still laced with mine over my stomach. “Five more minutes.”
I closed my eyes and let myself have it—five minutes of Jack’s warmth, Jack’s heartbeat against my back, Jack’s hand over the place where our daughter was growing. Five minutes where nothing was wrong and no one was crying and every door in the house opened exactly the way it was supposed to.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Five more minutes.”
I showered quickly, letting the hot water beat the last of the sleep from my muscles. We had interviews today—the gym, the construction site— which meant looking professional. I dried my hair and left it down, so it hung chin length. I’d been thinking of getting bangs, which on some psychological level probably represented the upheaval in my life, but I’d never been one to live my life based on psychology. That was more Jack’s area of expertise.
I didn’t linger in front of the closet. I never saw the point. I pulled on black trousers—slim cut, comfortable enough to move in—and paired them with a silk shell in deep crimson that made me feel like I meant business. I added a black blazer and slid my feet into black ballet flats.
I gave my reflection a once-over. Good enough. I could only assume my good genes had come from my birth mother. The woman I’d been stolen from had been French, which meant I could get away with nothing but moisturizer and my bone structure on most days. Today was one of those days.
My wedding ring caught the light as I reached for my bag. It was the only jewelry I ever wore, and the only jewelry I needed. Losing things in a body cavity while doing an autopsy was never fun, so I’d learned early on to limit myself in the bling department.
Jack was already in the kitchen when I came down. He was dressed in black DBUs and a black polo, his duty belt and badge firmly secured at his waist.
The smell of coffee filled the kitchen. Doug was slumped at the table with a bowl of cereal, his phone propped against the milk carton, some video playing at low volume. His eyes were red rimmed, his hair a disaster. Oscar was wedged under his chair, chin on his paws, watching us with the lazy contentment of a dog who’d already been fed.
Doug Carver had come to live with us under circumstances that were complicated even by our standards. His uncle Ben, Jack’s best friend, was on the run from people powerful enough to make the FBI look the other way, and Doug had his own legal entanglements involving the Pentagon and a computer that technically shouldn’t exist. He was sixteen, brilliant, and under close watch by the federal government. It didn’t seem to bother him too much.
“Why are you up so early?” I asked, heading straight for the coffeepot. “I thought you were going to milk every second of summer break.”
“I am,” he said. “Haven’t been to sleep yet.” He shoveled another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “I was on a raid with my guild. We almost beat the final boss but Tyler died like an idiot and we had to start over.”
I had no idea what any of that meant, so I made a noncommittal noise. Jack already had my coffee ready in a to-go cup, and he handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, taking the first sip that would kick-start my brain.
“Anything good come up lately you guys are going to need me for?” Doug asked.
“Maybe,” Jack said. “Right now it’s just foot work. We’ve got a few places to check out this morning. You have any plans today?”
“Sleep,” he said. “And then I might head into town. I found out one of my guild members lives pretty close. She said she’d meet me at the ice cream shop on the square.”
“She?” I asked, arching a brow.
Color rose to Doug’s cheeks. “Girls can be in the guild.”
Jack clapped him on the back. “Just make sure you meet in a public place. She could be a fifty-year-old man.”
“Gross,” he said. “I’ve got my Mace, and I’m not afraid to use it.”
“Be smart,” Jack said. “Call us if you need us.”
“10-4,” he said, and then went back to his phone.
Iron House Gym sat on the edge of King George Proper, a no-frills metal warehouse set back from the road with its own gravel lot. The building was exactly what it advertised—industrial, practical, and built for purpose rather than aesthetics. There was no fancy signage or neon lights, just bold black letters painted directly on the corrugated steel—IRON HOUSE GYM.
