“This way. Watch yer step, son.” The endearment gives me pause. I don’t recall ever being called son, and it hits me strangely in the chest as we step inside.
The house smells like old wood polish, coffee, and something that might be potpourri, but is also faintly reminiscent of the senior center Aunt Vivi made me volunteer at before I began training with ex-special forces—fish oil vitamins left in the drawer too long with a lingering scent of peppermint.
It’s a combination you’re not quick to forget.
Chief’s kitchen is small with yellow linoleum floors that were probably installed in 1975. Floral curtains hang like dust bunnies over the sink. A table and two chairs that don’t match are pressed against the far wall.
It’s nothing like the sterile perfection of my condo in Charlotte, and yet it has the homey feeling of the Harrington estate.
“Sit,” Chief orders.
I do, though I haven’t followed orders in years.
He pours two mugs of coffee that look as though they could strip paint, then slides one across to me while he settles into the other chair with a sigh that says his joints hurt but he’s too stubborn to admit it.
“So,” he says. “You saw your Honeybee.”
Heat rips across my ribs. “Don’t call her that.”
“Why not?” He smirks. “You did.” There’s a sparkle, mischief in his gaze I don’t understand.
“That was— I didn’t mean to—” I run a hand through my hair. “It just came out.”
“Uh-huh.” Chief sips his coffee. “And what else came out?”
Lifting my coffee to my lips, I study this guy.Clover loves him.That one statement makes me want to trust him too—even if it makes no sense whatsoever.
“I told her what I remembered—” His eyes smile at me, full of warmth, and I continue. “She thought I abandoned her.”
He doesn’t look surprised.
“Well, she’s been writing to ya for fourteen years, and ya never responded until that weird-ass poem you sent.” He squints his eyes and leans forward. “Poetry ain’t dead, son, but it’s not a popular way to court the ladies anymore either.”
The room narrows in around us as everything inside my head becomes hyper-focused on the man before me.
“What poem?” I’m still. Controlled. Ready for the next threat. I’ve trained for years—hypervigilant in my quest to protect—to anticipate the next move from wherever it may come.
This is something I didn’t see coming. Then I’m blinded—a flash, sharp as a knife.
A small hand pressing a folded piece of paper into mine. A whisper. “Promise you’ll write back.” Brown hair. A bumblebee sitting on a flower.
Then it’s gone, the memory invading my senses like a sneak attack.
Chief leans back in his chair, a loud whistle echoing through the air. “You didn’t send the letters, did ya, son?”
Thump. Thump. Whoosh.
Thump. Thump. Whoosh.
The sound infiltrates my ears. It’s my heart syncing to the rhythm, while my fists flex to the beat.
“What letters?” I say, the words hitting with deadly precision—a threat on their own.
“Well, shit. That’s a question Clover should answer. I’ll make you some breakfast, then we can head next door and start the process.”
Thump. Thump. Whoosh.
“What process?”
