Page 112 of Deadly Force

I would if I didn’t think he’d cry.

"Will I see you at Mick and Sam’s wedding?" I say.

She breathes out a sigh. "Um… I’m not sure, dude. They keep me on a short leash."

"Aleash?" The word choice is odd. "You don’t work for Hightower willingly?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course I do." But she says it too quickly. "Just... I don't really do the whole meeting people thing that often anymore. I get out once a month, maybe. If Zack okays it."

I sit up a little straighter. Does she really think I didn’t notice that slip? "You have to getpermissionto leave?"

"Kinda. I mean. I don’t mind. I'm more of a behind-the-scenes person now. Less... face-to-face." She gives a little laugh.

"Is Zack your?—”

She bursts out laughing. “No way, dude! Sweet guys like Zack don’t waste time on trainwrecks like me.”

Okay. Another slip. I was going to ask if Zack was her supervisor.

"Gotta run!" she cuts me off, but the brightness sounds forced now. "Look out for those numbers."

She hangs up before I can press further, leaving me with more questions Caleb will sidestep. The hardest one—Is Hightower Delilah’s prison… or her refuge?

Caleb

I step into the coffee shop and spot her immediately—back booth by the window, sunlight warming her hair, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other holding her phone to her ear.

It's only been two hours. Just a quick visit to check on Betty at her new rest home. But it feels like a lifetime.

Brooke smiles when she spots me as she ends the call, and something in the torn muscle of my chest eases.

I slide into the booth beside her. “Betty says hello.”

She leans into me. “I’m sorry. I feel bad I couldn’t come this morning. Tomorrow?”

I bob my chin. “I told her we’d bring her some prickly pear candy.”

“You’re so sweet to her.”

I point to my cheek. “Yeah, I am. I deserve a kiss.”

She leans in, but I pivot so her kiss lands on my lips instead. Swatting me, she grins. “I’ve been offered a job,” she says.

I tilt my head, studying her face and praying it’s in North Dakota, or at least somewhere closer than Arizona. "Where?"

"Illinois," she says. "Small Christian press. But they're not afraid of big stories."

I mentally calculate the miles between Illinois and Hightower HQ. Not bad. Could be worse. A whole lot worse.

Not like I’d miss my apartment in Indiana. I barely use it anymore. And if I’m in Indiana, I’m usually crashing at my folks’ place in Bedford or killing time at the gym or the range.

“They read the article?”

Brooke nods. “They said they’d been praying for someone like me. They want hard stories told with conviction. With hope. They think I’m someone who writes the truth without flinching.”

Brooke certainly didn’t flinch. Not even a little.

A solitary sunbeam breaks through the overcast sky, soft and warm against the glass, like the Lord’s trying to show Brooke He’s behind this.