Page 10

Ten

Jackson

The only vehicles parked in front of 254 Waterfront Road are a gray Pontiac Vibe and Stephanie’s SUV.

I had to leave my truck a little farther up the road, not wanting to draw attention to myself, and ended up approaching the trailer on foot. Just close enough to where I could get a clear view of the place.

I have no intention of interfering in Stephanie’s investigation, and am happy to keep my distance, but I didn’t like the idea of her ending up in a situation where she might need backup and wouldn’t have any.

In fact, I suspect she wasn’t nearly as sure of herself as she made it sound, why else would she call and give me the address where she’d be? My gut told me to get my ass out here and keep a discreet eye out.

Which is why I’ve been about ten feet up a tree, perched on a thick enough branch to hold my weight, watching the place. Climbing with my prosthesis was more of a hindrance than a help, and I was tempted to take it off, but that would seriously slow me down on the ground if I had to move for some reason. Fortunately, my upper body strength is decent, and I have some experience getting up and down trees, so I managed.

The moment I see Stephanie stepping out the front door, I breathe out a sigh of relief and lower myself to the ground. Then I quickly make my way back to my truck, reaching it just as her SUV comes out of the driveway and pulls onto the road.

I keep my distance, but when her CR-V comes to a halt at the end of the road, I have a vehicle behind me and have no choice but to pull up right behind her.

As she pulls away from the stop sign, my phone rings and her name pops up on the screen on my dashboard.

“Are you following me?” is the first thing out of her mouth when I answer.

“Define following?” I evade, while trying to come up with an answer that doesn’t make me look like some weird stalker.

“Jackson…” she threatens, and I decide the truth is probably the best option.

“In case you needed a safety net. I figured normally you’d have your team for backup, but they aren’t here, and I had nothing better to do. At least nothing better than doing laundry, and I was already sick of that.”

It’s quiet, and I’m half-waiting for her to get pissed, but she surprises me by laughing softly.

“I swear, you cowboy types can’t help yourselves, can you?”

“Not sure what you mean.”

That’s a lie, I have a pretty good idea. I’ve had a first-row seat to several of my teammates developing a protective streak for the right woman. I always thought it was kind of funny, given every last one of those women can take care of themselves, but I’m not laughing now.

“This alpha thing. You do realize I’m a trained and seasoned FBI agent, right?”

“I do,” I concede before confessing, “and I’m sorry to tell you, it doesn’t make a lick of difference. It must be a hormonal thing; a surplus of testosterone or something. It’s animal instinct.”

I grin when I hear her snort.

Jesus , how long has it been since I’ve casually joked around with anyone, let alone a woman? I used to be pretty lighthearted, loved to goof around, but I haven’t been that person for some time now.

“Are you following me all the way home?” she asks.

I hadn’t really thought about it, but that sounds like a fine idea.

“I guess I am.”

“Good. You can—” Her voice suddenly falls away, but she’s back the next moment. “Oh, I’ve got a call I have to take. See you at home.”

Before I have a chance to respond, she ends the call.

I wonder if that is the colleague she mentioned on the other line. The one who asked her for a favor. Something about that doesn’t sit right. If she is here in Libby to take a break—find some peace and quiet, as she indicated—then why would a colleague not ask someone else for a favor? Unless, of course, he has a special connection with Stephanie; something to make him think he has a right to lay claim to her personal time.

Does this guy know why she is hiding out in Libby with shadows in her eyes? Or worse yet, did he have something to do with putting them there?

Not normally a jealous person, it takes me a moment to realize that’s why I’m grinding my teeth as I follow Stephanie back to the trailer. The thought she won’t share with me what some other guy already knows makes me even more determined to find out what brought her here.

“So was your lunch informative?” I prompt her when we walk into the trailer twenty-or-so minutes later.

She dumps the small purse on the kitchen counter and toes her shoes off before answering.

“Very. He’s in the area; she’s seen the suspect several times and he is staying close by. She has no clue who she’s dealing with.”

Stephanie plops down on the couch and I take a seat beside her.

“He’s dangerous?”

She glances at me from under her eyebrows.

“That’d be par for the course, with the FBI after him. He went away for armed robbery and aggravated assault for fifteen years, overcrowding and good behavior got him released in ten, he did not hesitate one single second to get right back where he left off—bank heists—except this time he went a little further and killed a police officer in the process.”

“Nice guy,” I observe.

“Right? I don’t know how it is possible, but he somehow managed to get on a dating website five years ago where he met Tracy. He’s been grooming her ever since. She believes he was wrongly convicted in the first place.”

“Let me guess, he told her he was set up?”

“Something like that.”

She abruptly gets to her feet and heads for the kettle sitting on the stove.

“I’m making tea. Want some? Or would you rather have a beer?”

“I’ll have a tea.”

Can’t remember the last time I had a fucking cup of tea, but I don’t feel like beer and I want an excuse to stick around longer.

“So what’s gonna happen now?” I probe. “Does this mean you’re back to work?”

I hate myself for pushing the moment I see her face fall.

“No. My boss would be pissed if he found out. Ben is coming here.”

“Ben is the friend who asked you for the favor?”

“Hmm, not a friend, a colleague.”

Interesting distinction.

“Why would the guy ask you to do something that could get you in trouble?” I want to know.

She shrugs and turns her back to grab a couple of mugs from the cupboard. “It’s complicated.”

This is where she shuts me down if I let her, so I get off the couch and walk right up behind her.

“ Un complicate it for me.”

She turns around slowly and looks right at me, hesitation in her eyes. I lift my hand and brush away a strand that is stuck to her eyelashes.

“Please?”

* * *

Stephanie

There’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to spill everything to this man.

However, that would require making myself vulnerable. Not something I’m accustomed to or particularly comfortable with. The image I try to portray of a strong, capable, even-keeled person is one I honed for most of my life. First at home, my father and brother would never tolerate weakness after Mom died, and all the years I’ve worked for the Bureau since have made me a master at keeping up that unbreakable shield.

Oh, who am I kidding? Clearly, the shield has already crumbled, or I wouldn’t be here in Libby licking my wounds. I may be concerned with maintaining as much of my reputation as I can, but I have a feeling Jackson doesn’t care much about reputation or expect any kind of perfection.

“I was put on leave.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

There’s an obvious bite to his voice suggesting he’s upset about that on my behalf. It’s weirdly complimentary and makes me feel a little better. Still, I have to swallow hard to clear my throat before I can continue.

“The official word is for health reasons. As I mentioned, my suspected heart attack was really high blood pressure coupled with an anxiety attack, which was embarrassing enough, but it wasn’t all.” I glance up and the equal mix of concern and curiosity I read in his eyes prompts me to go on. “It wasn’t the main reason why I was sidelined.”

This next part is hard, and I need some space to get through it without a meltdown. Turning my back on Jackson, I walk over to the sliding glass doors and fix my eyes on the view of the creek and the mountains beyond, as I try to find the right words.

“The last week of November last year, I shot and killed a sixteen-year-old in front of his parents.”

Just saying the words out loud has the bile rise up from my stomach. The silence behind me is thick, but I push on.

“It was a domestic terrorism case. We were following up on a credible lead to a ranch property just outside Thompson Falls. A family of preppers, pretty isolated, minimal contact with the outside world. The information we received suggested they were possibly manufacturing bombs on the property. Because of the potential danger, we went in armed.”

I shake my head, vividly remembering the sequence of events, the images flooding back faster than I can blink them away.

“They sent the kids out first. Five of them, the youngest couldn’t have been more than three, just a toddler. It threw us off long enough for the oldest two kids to produce automatic weapons and open fire on us. Two of the children and the father were injured, but my bullet hit the oldest boy in the head and he died instantly.”

I’ll never forget the look of shock on his siblings’ faces when they realized this wasn’t some survival game their parents had trained them for, but real life, with real bullets, and real consequences. Even their mother seemed stunned this could be the outcome; one child dead and two more plus her husband gravely injured.

I hear soft footfalls behind me and quickly rush to finish my story.

“Anyway, we had helicopters with cameras overhead that captured the whole thing, so it was quickly deemed we did everything by the book and we received our absolution and congratulations on a job well done.”

My last words sound bitter, even to my own ears. That’s the part I’ve struggled with; yes, we foiled what turned out to have been an elaborate plan of coordinated attacks on a number of federal buildings in five different states. We found enough evidence to pick up an additional seven individuals who were all part of the conspiracy. We managed to save what could have potentially been in the hundreds or even thousands of lives lost.

I know all that, but a sixteen-year-old boy still lost his life at my hand.

“Did you talk to anyone?”

Jackson’s voice is so close, it startles me. His strong hand settles on my shoulder, and when I glance up at the reflection in the window, I see him standing right behind me, his eyes aimed at the mountains as well.

Despite his physical proximity, by not looking at me, he’s still giving me space, which I appreciate.

“My boss made me attend a few sessions. I didn’t find them helpful. I guess I was numb. I tried to take a little time off, but I didn’t last long, I did better back at work. Or at least I thought so. It wasn’t until earlier this year I realized it was starting to have an effect on how I functioned. I felt a hesitancy every time I had to draw my weapon, my instincts weren’t as sharp as before, and my confidence started slipping. Apparently, I didn’t hide it well enough.” I bark out a bitter laugh. “The anxiety attack was confirmation and my boss used the blood pressure issue as an excuse to sideline me until—and these were his words—I got my shit sorted out.”

Jackson removes his hand and crosses it in front of me to reach my other shoulder, his forearm braced against my upper chest. It forces me to take a step back, right into his strong body.

“You lived for your job. No wonder you’ve looked so lost. I get it.”

I’ve been able to hold my shit together until now, and I don’t even bother holding back the sob that gets the waterworks going.

Right now, in this moment, in this man’s hold, I’m not an agent, not a collection of skills or a sum of accomplishments, but a flesh-and-blood human being.

“Let it out,” he mumbles in my hair.

So I do.

I let it out, after months of desperately holding myself together for fear of falling apart, I let myself purge.