Page 23

CAROLINE

“And you’re all right?”

Sophia’s question rings through the speaker. I’ve already done a sweep of the bathroom for listening devices. The reflection staring back at me begs the same question, but the day’s inconsistencies are of greater interest.

Thankfully, I packed a burner phone. A last-minute precaution that Luke insisted on when I packed, though I doubt he thought my phone would melt in an inferno.

“We got really lucky.” It helps that Dorian learned from the best flight instructors. He’s got skills.

“Has Dorian mentioned who he suspects did it?”

“Honestly, I don’t think he’s thought much about it.” Or he has, and as is typical Dorian, he hasn’t shared his thoughts. “He plans to send an investigation team to the crash site and wait for their report.”

“If someone attempted to take you out, wouldn’t you be concerned?”

I’m not an idiot. I hear the suspicious tone. She’s wondering if my judgment is compromised.

Are attempts on his life a common occurrence? What has his life been like since I left?

“Who do you think did it? Does Arrow have any intel?”

“None. The AP release didn’t mention suspicions of sabotage. Emergency landing and faulty hydraulic lines. That’s all we’re hearing. A full report has yet to be filed from the local authorities.”

“But you believe it’s sabotage?”

“It’s a new helicopter, top of its class, and we assume it’s well-maintained. Hydraulic lines are relatively easy to fuck with. Sabotage is the rational conclusion.”

“Who do you think would do it?” Somewhere out there, there’s a suspect list forming.

“I don’t know,” she grumbles. “Our source let us know he’s not so sure Dorian is the guilty party.

He’s second-guessing his original conclusions.

If the syndicate is no longer considering Dorian a threat, then maybe something related to Zenith would provide incentive to sabotage his helicopter.

Or maybe someone isn’t happy he’s on the short list for chief of staff. ”

“The persons of interest list must be a long one.”

“NSA isn’t sharing. Local police in the crash vicinity are preparing for the incoming storm. The investigation into the helicopter crash isn’t a priority.”

The jurisdictions and authority chains are complex. Local LEOs, FAA, NTSB, possibly FBI, given Dorian’s profile. The bureaucratic maze could work in someone’s favor.

“For the record, I believe you should leave.”

“I understand, but…Sophia, I feel like I owe him this weekend. And maybe I owe myself this, too.”

“I guess a near brush with death can make you realize something like that. Are you considering getting back with him?”

“No.” The answer rushes out of my mouth faster than my brain processes the words, but the memory of the kiss heats my skin in direct contradiction to my spontaneous answer.

“I mean, we just…” I exhale and exit the bathroom to avoid my reflection.

“It’s complicated. Communication isn’t our strength.

It’s one reason I left. I think I just want closure. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so.”

“I’m going to be upfront with him. I’m going to share what’s going on.”

“You want to read him in? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Someone tried to kill him. Isn’t that evidence he’s not the person behind the planned attacks?”

“Why would that be evidence?”

Her annoyance comes through, and once again, I don’t have the answer.

“He’s not the person you’re looking for,” I state. “Even your source is second-guessing his information.”

As certain as I am the sun will rise tomorrow, I am certain he’s not the psycho orchestrating a multipronged attack on the free world. Yes, he could conceivably have a financial motive, but he has more money than he can spend in a lifetime.

Sophia’s disappointment in me comes across in her audible sigh. “He could’ve staged the issue to appear innocent.”

“Sophia, come on.”

“The point is, we don’t have adequate intel. You need to be careful. Emotions cloud judgment.”

“Even if he’s involved, he’d never hurt me. I’m absolutely positive about this.”

“We have evidence that links communications from his compound to North Korea and Russia. He’s in regular contact with Russia.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s guilty. They’re probably clients. He’s an influential person with contacts across the globe.”

“There’s also his father,” Sophia says it as if this fact is a piece of evidence. “Our source hasn’t ruled out his father.”

Mr. Moore’s office in New York City had photos of him with world leaders ranging from presidents, prime ministers, and yes, I recall one photograph of him and Putin in tuxes. I didn’t ask questions, but I distinctly remember the photos in silver frames on the wall where his executive assistant sat.

“His father is ninety-two. According to public flight records, the elder Moore hasn’t been to New York in years.” And we both know the Moores aren’t the type who travel long distances by car.

“Our source claims his father is still heavily involved in syndicate matters. Caroline, I get that there’s a personal component here.

If I hadn’t seen Fisher in years, I’m sure I’d be just like you.

But remember, you left Dorian for a reason.

The relationship died for a reason. And even if he’s not the mastermind behind these attacks, he’s involved somehow.

Don’t lose sight of the facts. You were with him a long time ago. People change.”

“I know,” I say, sufficiently scolded.

I’m not the same woman from before, either. I’m far more independent and assertive.

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

“And contact me every day. When are you returning?”

“Sunday. I have work on Monday, right?” There’s a bite to my tone I don’t intend, but I don’t appreciate her lack of confidence.

“You know Ryan will give you the time off if you need it. You can take the time if you want it.”

Can I? Of course, I can. Because I’m technically doing exactly what the Arrow team wants me to do. I’m learning more about a person of interest and gathering intel.

My eyes fall to the clothes Dorian must have laid out on the bed for me.

I finger the old Brown University sweatshirt with the frayed edges and navy sweat bottoms. Several T-shirts are stacked on the comforter beside the sweats.

The clothes in my suitcase survived, but they reek of fumes from the explosion.

I used to love wearing his clothes. More than once, I wished I hadn’t left this sweatshirt behind. It’s from his undergraduate days, and it’s soft and worn, and well, it was always my favorite.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say and end the call.

I’m tired and done talking with Sophia about Dorian.

Project Unity consists of hundreds, if not thousands, of investigators from multiple countries, each person tasked with a role.

I will perform my part and get them the intel they’re seeking, but in my gut, I know Dorian’s innocent, and my role is to rule out his involvement.

Now his father is another story…but Halston wouldn’t do something without his son’s knowledge.

Dressed in Dorian’s clothes and thick wool socks I found in the chest of drawers, I head into the great room.

Through the picturesque windows, scattered white flakes swirl in a stunning array before the aspens and firs.

Instead of getting lost in the magical scene, I find myself assessing sight lines, possible surveillance positions, and natural cover points.

The snow will make tracking movement easier, but it also means we’re more isolated, if that’s possible.

The driveway to Dorian’s house is over a mile long, and it’s an even longer drive to his father’s place.

“Might get a couple of inches,” Dorian says in greeting. “Are you in the mood for tea? Hot chocolate? Something stronger? What can I get you?”

Thick marled grey socks peek out from beneath the bottom of his jeans, and the untucked flannel shirt he’s wearing brings me back to when we met in England.

This was his weekend look, and I could never get enough of it.

He’d wear a tee with a flannel tied around his waist when warm and over the tee, unbuttoned, when chilly.

Yes, when I met him, there was nothing to indicate he was any different than the other students.

His gaze catches mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch, and I swear I can feel the connection between us, like an invisible string, tying us together, as if years haven’t separated us.

The normalcy of the moment makes it hard to believe we almost died earlier in the day or that the world is on the brink of war.

It’s bizarre. The far-off chaos feels surreal, like something I can ignore, and that’s exactly what I want. To drink hot chocolate and watch the snow fall.

“Do you have whipped cream?”

The devilish grin that flashes heats my cheeks.

I place a hand on my waist and give him a look that says I’m serious, but I can’t stop the grin.

“No, but I can fix that easily.” He moves to his phone on the kitchen island.

“The grocery store delivers?”

“My house manager does.”

“Don’t bother. Tea is fine.”

He sets about filling a kettle with filtered water, then picks up his phone and taps at it, sending a text to someone. If I were to guess, someone received an order to deliver whipped cream.

“I meant what I said about talking.”

“So did I,” he says. “We can watch the snow fall while we talk.” He pauses, gaze flitting up and down my body. “Damn. You still look good in my clothes.”

“They swallow me.” I finger the frayed edge, and a flash from the past, of him peeling this off me, comes out of nowhere.

Sometimes, he wouldn’t even bother to remove it; he’d just remove my bottoms, and his hands would roam my skin, finding my breasts beneath the sweatshirt, tweaking my nipples— stop .

“How old is this sweatshirt, anyway? It must be nearly twenty?—”

“Cara.” His voice is firm, but he’s grinning enough that the dimple shows, and I love it. “Don’t go there.”