Page 77 of Reckless

He says nothing.

Sin gives the smallest nod. “Last time I ask nice.”

Still nothing.

The two men keep their mouths shut while Sin studies them with that unnerving patience of his, as though silence is simply another answer he’ll deal with when he’s ready.

Ghost moves to the passenger side, methodically emptying pockets onto the crumpled hood—wallet, phone, keys, a folding knife. Anchor photographs each item while Ghost keeps working with the same efficiency I’ve watched him bring to every problem since the day we met.

Then his hand pauses.

His fingers disappear back into the inside pocket of the passenger’s jacket before slowly drawing out a folded piece of paper. Nothing about it looks remarkable from where I’m standing. Just another scrap to add to the growing collection spread across the hood.

Ghost unfolds it.

I can’t see what’s on it, but he can.

Whatever he’s looking at steals something out of him so completely that I feel it from twenty feet away. Whatever he’s looking at reaches him in a place I didn’t know could be reached.

I’ve spent months watching Ghost move through the world like he already knows how every problem ends, seeing the pattern before anyone else and working out the next move before the rest of us even realize there’s one to make.

That certainty slips away.

In its place is a stillness so unfamiliar that every conversation around him dies without anyone needing to ask why.

Even Sin notices. His question dies before he asks it, his attention shifting from the two men to Ghost instead.

The silence settles over the highway in a way that has nothing to do with the desert around us and everything to do with the man standing beside that wrecked SUV.

A knot begins to pull tight low in my stomach. I can’t see what he’s found from here. I can only see what it’s done to him.

I’ve watched Ghost solve problems that left everyone else standing still. I’ve watched him uncover things that changed the course of investigations, stare danger in the face without losing that calm, steady presence that somehow makes everyone around him breathe easier.

Whatever he’s holding, this is different.

Ghost finally lifts his head. His eyes find mine across the distance, and something in my chest drops so hard it almost hurts.

I’ve spent months learning the language of his face, the tiny shifts most people never notice, the twitch at the corner of his mouth before he smiles, the way his eyes soften when he looks at me, the focus that settles over him when he’s working.

This? This is something else.

For the first time since I met Ghost, he looks like the ground has just disappeared beneath his feet.

Everything else seems to blur around the edges.

The brothers.

The wrecked SUV.

The wind rolling across the desert.

For one suspended heartbeat, it feels as though it’s only the two of us standing here, and I don’t know what he’s looking at. I don’t know what was hidden inside that man’s jacket. I only know that whatever he found has reached into the calmest man I’ve ever known and touched something so deep I don’t recognize him anymore.

Not because he’s angry, but because he isn’t.

That’s what frightens me.

The part of Ghost that never seems to hesitate is still there. It’s simply changed direction, narrowing into something so absolute it steals the air from my lungs. His gaze never leaves mine as he carefully folds the photograph back along the same creases he’d opened it with. He slips it into the inside pocket of his cut with deliberate precision, before finally breaking eye contact.