Page 18

Allie

The vibration of my phone cuts through the silence like a siren in a library.

Snatching it up, I read Thatcher’s text—each word clinical, precise.

Not even a hint of acknowledgment of that kiss.

Two days.

Two days passed without any correspondence.

And now…

this is what I get?

Thatcher:

Text Jason to schedule dinner tonight.

7:30 PM at The Oyster Bar.

Wear something nice.

Tonight?

I think, my thumb hovering over the reply button.

That’s too short notice.

It looks desperate, doesn’t it?

Especially since I already canceled my hike with Jason this weekend.

My mind zips back to that kiss; unexpected, intense.

.

.

and now apparently forgotten.

Or at the very least, ignored.

Neither of which feels very good.

The fact that Thatcher’s trying to rush a date between Jason and me is like a splash of cold water—or maybe hot coffee—right in the face.

“Ugh,” I groan, sitting on the edge my bed, Biscuit jumping up beside me with a concerned yip.

“What the hell is he doing, Biscuit?”

Biscuit cocks his head as if to say: Don’t ask me, I’m just here for the treats.

I start typing a reply, thumbs clacking away before I hit backspace with a vengeance.

“Hey Thatch, about that earth-shattering kiss...”

Nope.

Too dramatic.

“Thatcher, when you kissed me, did you ? —”

Too desperate.

Do you like me: Yes or No?

Frustrated, I flop back onto my bed with a groan.

After several more attempts, my eyes flicker between the drafts and Biscuit, who seems to be getting impatient.

“What do you think? Do I go the direct route or play it cool?”

Biscuit barks, which I decide to take as an affirmative for the latter.

“Play it cool wins, I guess,” I say with a sigh as I type my response to him.

Allie:

Why dinner and not the hike this weekend that he and I originally planned?

Thatcher:

Because…

I need to be able to stay nearby while going undetected.

That’s easier in a restaurant than on a hiking trail.

Especially now that he thinks I’m your cousin.

Allie:

Does this mean I’ve been uninvited from dinner at your house?

I know it was for the other night, but I hoped the invitation would be extended…

I feel Biscuit’s big, brown eyes on me.

“Don’t judge me,” I say.

“Sometimes the direct route is also needed.”

Biscuit whimpers and rolls onto his back for a belly rub.

Thatcher’s reply takes an extra moment to come through as those three dots appear beside his name.

Finally, my phone buzzes.

Thatcher:

It was unprofessional of me to put you in that position.

Well, okay then.

Message received, Thatcher.

I try to ignore the gaping feeling at the base of my throat as I type my response.

Allie:

Okay.

I’ll text Jason and see if he’s available on such short notice.

There we go.

I guess we’re tucking that kiss into a tightly locked box and burying it.

But inside, it’s like a tornado’s tearing through my chest.

I’m torn between wanting to grab Thatcher by the shoulders and shake the truth out of him and just playing it safe, keeping our interactions strictly business.

I pull up the number Jason gave me two days ago and send him a quick message, fully expecting that he won’t be available on a random weeknight like this.

To my surprise, Jason responds back quickly.

Jason:

I can be there at 8.

I stare at the message.

He can be there at eight.

Tonight .

Huh.

Well, that’s surprising.

In my experience, most men aren’t so…

I don’t know…

forthright?

There’s usually games.

Hard to get.

A standard three days between seeing me and calling again.

I confirm with Jason that I’ll see him there, then toss my phone onto my bedside table.

I slide a quick glance at the notes I’ve taken for my story so far.

This is probably for the best.

If I go through with my story, I’m effectively exposing Thatcher and his clandestine business.

While I’m being careful to not legally break the NDA, there’s no doubt that I’m not acting in the spirit of it.

He’ll never forgive me.

“Act professional, Allie. You have a job to do,” I remind myself, trying to shake off the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Because when this all goes to hell, I’m going to need to remember this moment here.

The moment Thatcher chose to keep me at arm’s length.

Biscuit offers a sympathetic lick to my hand, and I can’t help but laugh.

“You’re right, buddy. I shouldn’t want someone who doesn’t want me back.”

Even still, frustration coils in my stomach.

Dismissed.

Undervalued.

Those feelings stew within me, hot and bitter, like coffee left on the burner too long.

With a huff, I pivot away from my modern dating woes and toward the enigma that is Thatcher Bryant.

“Fine, Thatcher,” I whisper to the empty bedroom, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“You want a strictly professional relationship? You’ve got it. ”

With an hour to spare before I need to start getting ready, I open the Nexus database and type in Jenna Bryant’s name.

Thatcher’s late wife—a tragedy wrapped in whispers and shadows.

The search results are a mix of articles, each one hinting at a tragic past shrouded in secrecy.

As I click through the different sources, a feeling of unease settles in my stomach, as if there was something lurking just beneath the surface of her story.

The somber obituary gives me nothing detailed about her death.

The initial reports were vague, at best.

But still, something nags at me.

A feeling in my gut there’s more to this than a young mother passing away tragically in a car accident.

My fingers idly scroll through news articles, searching for any shred of information that could lead me to the truth.

And then, like a breadcrumb falling into my lap, I stumble upon an article about Jenna’s car accident.

It’s only one small line about the other party involved.

The assistant to the Russian ambassador had been in town on business and had a heart attack behind the wheel, crashing head on into Jenna Bryant.

Neither party survived.

The man in Thatcher’s Drakon file is a Russian terrorist.

And now the man who killed his wife also happens to be from that country?

That’s far too coincidental.

My heart races with excitement as I delve deeper into the rabbit hole of this revelation, wondering if it could finally be the missing piece to solving Jenna’s mysterious demise.

Alexei Andreev.

I type his name into the search engine next.

Not much is written about him in US papers, so I expand my search internationally.

My screen fills with images of the stern-faced man with ice-cold blue eyes staring back at me.

Alexei Andreev was the right-hand man to one of the main US Ambassadors for Russia.

Together with the United States, they were working toward stricter visa restrictions to help tighten illegal drug and gun running in and out of our countries.

Okay, I can see why they would want Alexei Andreev dead.

But why Jenna Bryant?

Why target Thatcher’s wife?

The words blur and swirl on the page, but one thing is clear: Thatcher’s wife’s death was not simply a random act of violence.

It was connected to something bigger, something darker.

A chill runs down my spine as I realize that I may have stumbled upon a clue that could finally lead me to the truth behind her untimely demise—it’s only one piece to a large puzzle.

And I’m certain Thatcher already knows all of this himself.

“Focus, Allie,” I tell myself, tapping away, searching for any event or place where these Drakon goons might congregate.

“There’s got to be something here that connects it all.”

With new determination fueling my research, I lean into the glow of the computer screen, the rest of the world fading away as I chase down the truth—one keystroke at a time.

My fingers dance across the keyboard with a rhythm that matches the racing pulse of my curiosity.

I’m on to something; I can feel it in my bones—the same ones that shiver at the memory of Thatcher’s indifference.

But there’s no time for brooding; the scent of a story is far more intoxicating.

There’s a couple of Russian restaurants in South Carolina.

One locally just outside of Charleston.

The other, a deli and bakery in Columbia.

That’s a start, I guess.

“Come on, where do you Russian mobsters go to sweat out your sins?” I mutter to myself, scrolling through forums and obscure local blogs.

And then, like a beacon cutting through fog, there it is—the mention of a Russian bathhouse tucked away in Goose Creek.

“Gotcha.” The word escapes my lips as a victorious whisper.

The thrill of the hunt zaps through me, sharp and sweet.

I jot down the address, already picturing myself stealthily navigating steam rooms, eavesdropping on clandestine conversations.

My heart thrums with resolve; if there’s even a sliver of a connection to Jenna Bryant’s death, I’ll find it in the vapors of that secluded haven.

Biscuit, sensing my excitement, leaps onto my lap, nearly toppling the tower of papers teetering on the edge of my desk.

“Easy, boy,” I laugh.

As if on cue, my phone buzzes with the alarm reminder that I need to start getting ready for tonight’s date with Jason.

Ugh, just what I need, a night of feigned interest and awkward small talk.

Especially when I’d rather be delving into secrets.

But the story won’t write itself—and neither will this date, unfortunately.

Dragging a hand through my wavy hair, I let out a sigh that feels too heavy.

There’s a tension coiling inside me as Thatcher’s stoic face flashes in my mind, stirring a cocktail of emotions I’m not prepared to sip on yet.

“Sorry, Biscuit,” I say, reluctantly slipping off my bed as he cocks his head.

“Duty calls.” And by duty, I mean the pursuit of truth, dressed up as a flirty evening with a guy who isn’t the one clouding my thoughts.

I stand and sift through my closet until I choose a cute dress.

Not too fancy.

But nice.

Nice enough for an average seafood restaurant.

Smoothing out my casual dress, I steel myself for the evening ahead.

With a last glance at the screen—where the digital trail to the bathhouse still beckons—I grab my bag.

The investigation will have to wait.

For now, I have a date to get through, and come hell or high water, I’ll get through it with the grace of someone who isn’t unraveling at the seams.