"Copy."
"I asked about the Hartwell debrief. Twice."
"Completed. Filed yesterday. Threat assessment updated, publisher notified. The letter found at the inn traced back to a fan in Savannah—no criminal history, referred to mental health services through law enforcement."
"Good. Next assignment—corporate event in Charlotte, three-day detail, starts Monday. You're lead."
"Understood."
The briefing continues. I take notes. Answer questions. Contribute to the tactical discussion about a dignitary visit next month. I do the job, and I do it well, because the job is the one thing that doesn't require me to feel anything.
After the briefing, Decker corners me by the coffee machine. "You look like hell."
"Thanks."
"When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
"Sleep is a construct."
"Sleep is a biological necessity, and you're running on fumes." He pours himself a cup, leans against the counter. "This about the writer?"
"It's about nothing."
"It's about the writer."
The phone in my pocket buzzes. Channel 16.
Riggs: just saw on Instagram. Kassidy Monroe new book announcement!! "BREAKING POINT" coming next spring
Riggs: Tucker. TUCKER. did you see this
Decker: we're literally standing next to each other right now Riggs
I pull out the phone and open the link. Kassidy's author page, freshly updated. A cover reveal—dark blue background, white text, the silhouette of a man and woman standing on a beach. Breaking Point: A Novel by Kassidy Monroe.
And underneath, the dedication page preview her publisher shared: To T.B.—for showing me I still believe.
T.B. My initials.
The coffee in my hand goes cold while I stare at the screen. She dedicated her book to me. The book she was writing in our room at the inn, the book that has a hero with my face and my scars and my reading glasses. The book she wouldn't show her agent until it was perfect. She dedicated it to me.
And she still won't return my calls.
Not entirely true—she responds to texts. Polite, friendly texts that read like correspondence between colleagues. Hope you're well. Work is going great. The manuscript is coming together. No mention of the inn. No mention of the kiss, the dance, the night. Like it happened to someone else, or didn't happen at all.
I text her:
Me: Saw the announcement. The dedication. Kassidy...
The reply takes twenty minutes:
I meant it. How are you?
Me: I'd be better if you'd talk to me. Actually talk.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Kassidy: I'm trying, Tucker. I just need more time.
