Page 49 of Deadly Force

She straightens, jaw tight. "Then I guess we’d better make sure I don’t die."

I let out a slow breath.

Right. No pressure.

Just me, one stunningly stubborn reporter, and a hunt for evidence someone’s willing to kill her for.

Yeah, this is sonotthe cakewalk Silas promised.

Brooke

I sit cross-legged on the faded linoleum floor, the cold seeping through my jeans as I stare at the water-stained ceiling tiles. Construction paper cutouts of Bible verses hang crooked on the walls, their cheerful colors at odds with the stale air.

"Would you rather," I say, breaking the silence, "have to eat the same meal every day for a year, or never be able to eat your favorite food again?"

He tilts his head, actually considering it. Thelinoleum creaks under his weight as he shifts. "Same meal."

"Boring but practical," I tease. "Your turn."

"Would you rather be able to read minds or be invisible?" he says.

"Invisible. Reading minds would be too depressing." I pull my knees up to my chest, the floor numbing beneath me. Outside, a car door slams. We both freeze until the sound fades.

"Would you rather have perfect memory or be able to forget anything you want?" I ask.

He pauses at that one. "Easy. I’ve done plenty of things I’d rather forget."

I open my mouth to ask if he’ll tell me any of them, but he cuts me off with a loaded look. “Don’t,” he says.

I smother a frown. “Am I allowed to ask when you learned Spanish?”

He grins. “Aprendí español en la secundaria, cariño.I picked it up in high school.”

My phone chirps—just the battery warning. I check it again, knowing it's pointless. His does too, every ten minutes like clockwork.

The youth group's motivational posters seem to mock me from the walls. "Faith Over Fear" hangs directly above a water stain shaped like a mushroom cloud.

"How long do you think—" I start to say.

"Would you rather," he cuts in gently, "alwaysknow when someone's telling the truth or have everyone always believe you're telling the truth?"

"Know when they're telling the truth," I say without hesitation. "Real truth is more valuable than appearing truthful."

I can think of a few people that I wish understood the difference. My colleagues and boss being just a few of them.

Time crawling by, I check my phone again. Still nothing. My laptop feels like it's a world away instead of just across town. All my work, my notes, everything that will help me draft this story fast are on it.

His phone buzzes. The change is instant. His shoulders square, jaw sets, and when he stands, it's with the fluid precision of someone switching modes. The easy protector vanishes, replaced by something harder.

"Mateo just checked in."

I'm already on my feet, hope and dread colliding in my chest. The floor protests as I move, my legs stiff from sitting too long. "He got my stuff?"

He shakes his head. "He couldn't get in. One of your neighbors spotted him and called the cops."

The disappointment hits like a physical blow. "I need that laptop."

"I know." His voice drops, takes on an edge that makes the youth room feel even smaller.