Maddox pulled out his phone. “Do I have to call Cooper? Because he can pull rank.” He rested his phone on his thigh and stared me down. “I get it, man. I get that she’s got you all fucked up in the head. I get that almost dyingfucked you up a little bit. I get it’s further fucking with you that the dude who tried to kill Sylvie is still out there. It’s fucking with me too.”
“Not the same,” I managed to say.
“Yeah. I get that,” he said. “But Sylvie is covered. Wren and Miranda haven’t left the safe house. She’s fine. She needs sleep and pain meds and more sleep, just like you. If you’d agreed to get some rest when we busted you out of the hospital, I would have taken you back to the safe house. But now…” He gave me a scan. “Miranda said Sylvie’s been drifting in and out of sleep. She’s calm, she’s resting—getting a little better every time she wakes up. The last thing she needs is to see you like this. Your eyes are so bloodshot they’re full red, man. You look like you just ripped five bong hits, got flattened by a steamroller, and then puked on yourself. Pain pills, shower, sleep, then we’ll talk. Understood?”
A million comebacks flooded through my head. I settled for giving Maddox the finger and opening the passenger door of the SUV. I almost tumbled to the curb, my body so exhausted it wasn’t taking commands.
“Need me to walk you in?” Maddox asked, without a trace of sarcasm.
We’d all been through shit. A lot of it together. Sometimes you needed a buddy to take half the weight. There was no shame in that. Except this time, there was. Because again, he was right. I was a mess of my own making. I should have taken my ass home from the hospital and gone to bed. But I couldn’t stop thinking of Sylvie, unconscious and bleeding, and that asshole still out there, still gunning for her. I was in rough shape because I’d driven myself there. I’d get myself to the goddamn front door of the barracks on my own, even if I collapsed just on the other side.
I didn’t. I managed the coded lock, aware that Maddox was still idling at the curb, watching to make sure I got in okay, like an overprotective parent. The big metal door pressed back at me, heavier than I remembered. Fuck, I was weak, the throb in my head relentless.
Pills. Shower. Sleep.
I thought about that sensible to-do list and trudged through the wide-open living space that made up the center of the barracks. I passed the industrial-style oversized kitchen and the long stainless steel dining table with enough chairs to seat twenty. Opposite, there was a massive TV with an equally huge sectional sofa, big enough for a guy my size to spread out for a nap or to watch a game with plenty of room left for everyone else. The office space on the other side of the room had bookshelves, desks, and monitors. There was even a small gym area off to the side with a padded floor and weights. And above that, an open walkway that looked down into the central area on two sides. Off the walkway, there were ten bedrooms, each with an ensuite, roughly half of them big enough to be more like an efficiency apartment.
It was a sweet space, perfect for our team. And while it was industrial in design—probably why it hadn’t done well as a short-term rental/bed-and-breakfast—everything was top of the line. I thought about the rainfall showerhead in the bathroom, and in my imagination, I was already there, stripping off my sooty, dirty clothes, standing under steaming hot water until everything—the explosion, the last ten hours of searching—was all washed away.
In my imagination, that was what happened.
In reality, I made it as far as my roughly made queen-size bed before I collapsed face-first. I reached out justenough to drag a pillow closer, shoved it under my throbbing head, and was out.
The headache woke me hours later, still throbbing. Every inch of my body ached as I rolled to my side and slowly sat up. I moved as if I’d shatter like glass at the slightest misstep and, shuffling into the bathroom, grabbed a bottle of headache meds from the medicine cabinet and downed them with gulps of water from the faucet, the cool liquid sweet on my still-raw throat.
I stripped my clothes, leaving them piled on the floor, and stepped into the shower. I didn’t even flinch at the first rush of icy water. Flinching took too much energy—and I knew from experience the hot came fast. One of the many good things about lodgings in the barracks: an endless, on-demand water heater that didn’t make you wait. I cranked up the temperature and let the shower wash away dust and dirt, soot from the explosion, sweat—all of it.
My stomach growled, and I tried to remember the last time I ate something. Maddox had grabbed food while we were out chasing leads, but I hadn’t been hungry, my throat too raw to think about swallowing. I was way past due. The thought of food wasn’t appetizing, but that was what protein shakes were for. I didn’t need a meal so much as nutrition.
I went through the motions—toweling off my hair, pulling on a thermal and cargo pants—eyeing the mound of clothes I’d peeled off and wondering if it wouldn’t be better to just throw them in the trash. I wasn’t sure there was enough detergent in the world to get them clean again. Putting it aside as a problem for later, I headed downstairs to find the lights dimmed. In the kitchen, checking my phone, I realized it was after three in the morning. I glanced up to see Ryder, Maddox, and Shade’s doors all closed.
Miranda’s and Wren’s were both open because they were with Sylvie.
I grabbed a shaker cup, not wanting to use the blender and wake everyone up, and made myself a double-strength protein shake, dumping in a bunch of ice cubes. As soon as I had it mixed, the cold, thick liquid soothed my throat and filled my empty stomach. As I drank, I stared down at the screen of my phone, stuck.
What now?
I couldn’t call Sylvie, couldn’t risk waking her up. And even if I could, I didn’t know what I’d say.I love you back? I’m sorry I failed to capture the asshole trying to kill you? I’m sorry I pushed you into making a decision that almost got you killed?
I’m sorry I’m avoiding you.
I pushed those thoughts away and focused on the rage still simmering inside for the bomber.
I had no leads to chase, and even if I did, I was grounded—like I was a teenager who couldn’t be trusted to behave.Fuck that.I wasn’t close to back to normal, but with a few hours of sleep, my head had cleared somewhat. Enough that I knew I’d fucked up a lot of stuff—but I was alive, and Sylvie was alive. It wasn’t too late to fix what really mattered. I just had to figure out how.
My thumb hovered over the apps on my phone screen, and before I could think about it too much, I tapped the one for the podcast app.Evidence & Echoeswas on the home screen. I’d clickedFollowthe day I’d met Sylvie, but hadn’t gotten around to listening to an episode. The last week felt like a lifetime. It was hard to believe how annoyed I’d been about babysitting some podcaster. Amazing to think Sylvie had strolled into my life, her appearance so random and yet not random at all.
She’d changed everything.
I tapped the play icon and Sylvie’s voice hit my ears, so familiar, but with an extra layer of polish. This was her podcaster voice, and it drew me in.
“—though when Detective Henson spoke to the eyewitness, he ended up going back to his original evidence file. Eyewitnesses lie, sometimes even when they don’t mean to. But evidence doesn’t lie, and Detective Henson knew the truth was in that evidence file?—”
I tapped the pause button.Evidence doesn’t lie.
God, I was an idiot. I hadn’t gotten it, not really. Not until now.
Sylvie, looking through the files she’d found at the data broker’s warehouse. Evidence told her the truth, but it should have been me. She shouldn’t have to go through files to learn about the team or Silas. I should have told her.
