Page 22

Thatcher

Under the shroud of night, with only the moon as our unreliable witness, we creep towards my house.

The rhythmic tap of my heart plays counterpoint to the silence that wraps around us like a cloak.

Griffin is a shadow on my left, his footsteps whispering against the turf.

Hunter lurks, a silent sentinel, always half a step behind.

“Two o’clock,” I signal, eyes locked on a figure that doesn’t belong in this suburban still life wearing black pants and a hoodie pulled up over their face.

A shiver runs down my spine as he lurks outside my house, peeking into my living room window.

Griffin catches my eye and nods, the muscles in his jaw working quietly.

Hunter seems to grow taller, if that’s even possible, his broad shoulders set and ready for whatever comes next.

We don’t need words; we’ve had countless silent conversations etched in the dirt of far-flung places where words could get you killed.

As we close in, I can feel the tension singing through my veins, slowing the blood flow; slowing my breath.

It’s a familiar tune—the adrenaline, the focus, the readiness.

My hand signals slice through the darkness: assess, surround, contain.

Griffin and Hunter peel off with the precision of a well-oiled machine.

Our steps are measured, our breathing controlled.

My mind races ahead to every possible scenario, playing them out in rapid succession.

But there’s a part of me that’s holding back, that’s not quite ready for what’s to come.

“Easy now,” I murmur under my breath, mostly to myself.

Everything about this feels off—like the punchline to a joke I’m not getting.

I shake it off, focusing on the here and now.

That’s all that matters.

Keep Duke safe.

Uncover the truth.

Protect what’s mine.

We’re a triangle closing in on the unwanted guest, our formation tight and practiced.

My fingers twitch, feeling the absence of a weapon they’ve grown too accustomed to wielding.

But we’re not on some dusty battlefield now; we’re home, where the rules are different.

And while Griff, Hunter, and I each are strapped with our proper licenses for owning concealed weapons, we’d rather not use them here in my sleepy suburban neighborhood if we can help it.

The shadowy figure shifts, oblivious to the net drawing tighter.

Griffin’s almost within arm’s reach now, his presence an unspoken threat.

Hunter looms like a specter of vengeance, barely a sound to betray his position.

And then there’s me, Thatcher Bryant, father, friend, soldier—caught somewhere between war and peace, love and duty.

Gotcha , I think, the word never making it past my lips.

The figure is trapped now, whether they know it or not.

Time to find out who our mystery guest is.

The moment our circle snaps shut, the night erupts into chaos.

The prowler startles like a cornered animal and trips over his own feet as I lunge forward, my fingers locking around his arm.

My brain registers how small the figure is compared to me.

Not only in height, but also in stature.

And a true professional never would have tripped over his own feet.

I’ve got one of the kid’s flailing arms in my hand and I pin his wrists together as Griffin yanks down the hood from his eyes and the baseball hat from his head.

Hunter’s just a looming shadow behind him, silent as the grave, but I know that presence is enough to make anyone spill their guts.

The boy’s eyes stare at us, wide moons in the dim light.

“Who the hell are you?” Griffin asks.

“Logan Matthews,” I mutter.

My voice is all gravel and authority, the bark of a drill sergeant that echoes off the siding of my house.

“Who the hell is Logan Matthews?” Griffin mutters.

I narrow my eyes at the same kid who tried to rob me and Allie several nights ago.

“What are you doing here, kid? Did I not make myself clear? You had one chance.”

“May I suggest that we take him into your house?” Hunter says quietly with a sweeping look around my neighbors’ homes.

It’s late, but not too late that everyone would already be fast asleep.

I give the guys a nod and we march the kid inside.

It’s like stepping into another world.

The soft glow from the living room lamps feels like a spotlight on a stage.

Hunter closes the door with a soft click that screams “no escape” louder than any bolt thrown.

“Sit,” I command, pointing to the couch.

Logan drops to the couch, perched on the edge like he’s afraid the cushions might swallow him whole.

“Start talking,” I say, but he clams up, eyes skittering from me to Griffin, who leans against the wall with deceptive casualness, then to Hunter, who’s as still as a statue, save for those eyes that don’t miss a beat.

“Look, kid,” I try again, softer this time but no less firm.

“You’re in deep, so it’s in your best interest to be straight with us.”

His lips press into a thin line, a battle raging behind those darting eyes.

But I can see it—the crack in his resolve.

It’s only a matter of time before he spills.

I lean in, my arms resting on my knees as I fix the kid with a stare that could strip paint.

“You’re not leaving until you tell me why the fuck you’re prowling around my house,” I say, voice low but loaded.

It’s not a threat; it’s a promise.

Hunter’s over there, silent as the night itself, his dark gaze locked on the kid like he’s prey.

The two of us, we’re a regular good cop, terrifying cop routine without even trying.

“Okay!” Logan finally bursts out, his voice cracking under the weight of our stares.

He’s shaking now, eyes wide and flickering between Hunter’s stony silence and my unblinking scrutiny.

“It was Allie’s boss, all right? She paid me to watch your house, see who comes and goes. And follow you around.”

The words hit me like a gut punch.

Allie’s boss?

Why would the editor of a food critic be interested in me?

My head spins, but I keep my face stone cold.

Can’t let this kid see the storm that’s brewing inside.

“If you are supposed to be following me, then why are you here at my house when no one is home?” Especially since I was just with Allie at her place.

He looks down at his hands, wringing his fingers together.

“I was paid to follow Allie on her date tonight and take photos. But then I saw you two kissing and I, um, I stopped taking pictures.”

I feel both Hunter and Griffin’s eyes whip to me, but if Logan is aware, he doesn’t let on and continues talking.

“It felt wrong. I like Ms. Larsen… I don’t want to get her in any trouble. So I decided to go a little rogue and come snoop around your house while you were...” He fades off.

“Keep talking,” I push, my tone sharp as a tack.

“What does Allie’s boss want with my place? With pictures of Allie’s date?”

He shrugs, a jerky, scared little movement.

“Man, I don’t know. I’m just doing my job. You’re the one who told me to get a job!”

“Actually, that was Allie,” I say.

“ I wanted you to go to jail.”

“All I know is that Allie’s boss wanted documented photos of Allie’s date tonight. And I was supposed to keep an eye on you. I was...to report back, man. I don’t know what for. Honest.”

Honest.

Right.

If honesty had legs, it’d have sprinted out of this room faster than you can say “undercover surveillance.” But the kid’s telling the truth—I’ve seen enough liars to know.

And that truth has got me racing down a rabbit hole I never wanted to tumble into.

I’m standing there, a statue with a pulse, the kid’s words echoing in the hollows of my mind.

Allie’s boss.

Surveillance.

Betrayal.

It’s a bitter cocktail, and it’s got my insides doing somersaults.

Disbelief is the first chaser, numbing the initial burn.

“There’s no way Allie could be part of this, right?” I murmur, looking up at Griffin in shock.

We did our due diligence.

I looked into her.

I made sure she was exactly who she said she was.

She’s all quirky smiles and puppy snuggles and impromptu dance-offs in the living room.

But then anger elbows its way in, hot and fierce, like I’ve swallowed coal.

“Thatcher,” Griffin starts, his voice a low thread in the heavy air.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, blue eyes clouded with concern.

“Is Allie lying to you?”

“I’m not sure,” I say, voice flat as a pancake.

My chest feels tight, every breath a tug-of-war between keeping cool and wanting to punch a hole through the wall.

Hunter stands there, a silent sentinel, but his clenched fists speak for him.

The guy has my back without saying a word, and that’s more comfort than he knows.

“Maybe the kid’s got it wrong,” Griffin offers, but we both know he’s grasping at straws.

His attempt at a reassuring grin is about as convincing as a politician’s promise.

Logan rolls his eyes.

“ The kid doesn’t have it wrong. I don’t know why Allie’s involved, but she is involved somehow.”

My mind races back to Allie’s date with Kenneth and the weird way her sister was trying to take photos of the date.

“What if Allie isn’t a food reviewer,” I say, the words tasting like acid on my tongue.

I can’t stop the images flashing through my head—Allie laughing in my kitchen.

The guilty look on her face in my office.

How she seemed to know things before I told her.

Now they’re just question marks, hovering like dark clouds over every memory.

“Could be,” Griffin concedes, but the seed of doubt is already planted, roots digging deep into my gut.

Achingly sad doesn’t even begin to cover it; it’s like watching your favorite record warp in the sun—something beautiful turning into something you can’t quite recognize .

“What do we do with the kid?” Hunter finally asks, voice like gravel.

There’re a few ways to handle this, but calling the cops will only alert Allie and her boss that we’re onto them…

if there’s anything to be onto in the first place.

“Drop him back at his house. He has a grandmother to care for…isn’t that right?”

Logan’s eyes find mine, momentary relief in them.

“Thank you?—”

“Not so fast,” I say, grabbing his phone and holding it up.

“Delete these photos. Now .”

“Are you sure?” Griffin asks.

“Excuse me? Of course I’m sure.”

“Okay…but we could use this kid as our insider now. A little double agent action.”

“Right.” I nod, my resolve flickering back to life.

“Delete the images of us kissing,” I say to Logan.

“And any images that might have my son in them. Understood?”

Angry or not, sad or not, I need answers.

And if there’s betrayal at the end of this road, I’ll face it head-on—with these two by my side, come hell or high water.

Logan nods and gets to work deleting photos, me watching over his shoulder.

I note that most of the images are of Allie on her date with Jason.

There aren’t many of me.

“I don’t have any of your son,” he says.

“But there. No more kissing photos.”

“All right then, let’s go,” Hunter says, gripping the kid’s arm and hauling him to his feet.

Hunter has Logan out the door and loaded into his car in moments.

As the roar of Hunter’s engine fades into the distance, silence settles over the room like a heavy quilt.

Griffin’s gaze bores into me, his hand resting on my shoulder.

“ So…you and Allie, huh?”

I shoot him a look.

“What about it?”

He holds up his hands.

“Last I checked, she was only a client.”

I sigh, raking a hand through my hair.

“It just…happened. Her date tonight was a disaster. And then I drove her home and…” I trail off with a shrug.

Griffin’s brows lift.

“So it was more than just a kiss?”

“You don’t actually expect me to tell you all that, do you?” Griffin has known me for years.

“When have I ever been the kiss-and-tell type?”

His expression softens.

“Never. Listen, I know how tough it is to open yourself up again after…everything. But this thing with Allie? You gotta be careful, brother. We don’t know her real motives yet. And with Duke to think about...”

My jaw tightens at the mention of my son’s name.

Griffin’s right.

I let my guard down too easily, let myself get pulled in by big hazel eyes and infectious laughter.

But now, with these new suspicions swirling, I don’t know which way is up anymore.

“I know,” I say quietly.

“My priority is Duke, always. It’s just...”

“Your heart got tangled up before your head could stop it?” Griffin offers.

“I get it. She’s beautiful, no question. And if she makes you happy...”

“Made,” I correct him.

“Past tense.”

“You don’t know anything for sure yet,” he says gently.

I snort.

“Oh come on. Her editor sent a kid to take photos of us while out, then stalk my house. That’s not exactly a sign of innocence. Even if she didn’t have anything to do with that specifically, something is going on here.”

Griffin chews his lip.

“Okay, that’s pretty damn suspicious. But we need more intel before we make any judgments. And maybe keep things on the DL with Allie for now.”

He’s right, as much as I hate to admit it.

I trusted her too quickly, let her get too close.

Griffin sighs.

“I don’t want you to miss out on a great woman because you’re too suspicious either.” He crosses slowly to the door.

“Talk to her,” he adds before leaving my house.

I spend the entire night pacing my living room, continually going over in my head what the hell happened with Allie.

The cold light of dawn filters through the blinds, casting a lattice of shadows across the room.

It’s too quiet, the kind of silence that creeps under your skin and sets up camp.

I’m pacing now, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight as I try to outrun the thoughts chasing me.

I clutch my phone where Allie has sent me a few text messages asking if I’m okay.

Checking in.

I can’t bring myself to respond with any length yet.

I merely sent her a quick, Everything’s fine in response.

I can still see Allie’s smile, the one that made me think maybe, just maybe, I could have a different life—a normal one with birthday parties and family barbecues.

Duke’s laughter echoes in my mind, a sound that used to be the sweetest melody.

Now, it’s a haunting refrain, reminding me of what’s at stake.

My heart feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise.

The anger, yeah, that’s there—a fiery beast clawing its way through my chest.

But underneath that?

There’s this gut-wrenching sadness, the kind that feels like you’ve been hollowed out and left empty.

Who’d have thought Thatcher Bryant, tough-as-nails soldier, could get sucker-punched by his own feelings?

“Dammit,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face.

The stubble there scrapes against my palm, grounding me back to the here and now.

I should be mad, furious even, but instead, there’s this ache, this hole where dreams of soccer games and weekend pancakes used to live.

“Answers,” I demand of my reflection, fierce despite the turmoil.

“We’re gonna get some damn answers.” And with that, I grab my jacket off the hook, the fabric rough against my fingers—a sensation that’s real, tangible, unlike the swirling mess inside my head.

There’s a fire burning within me, fueled by betrayal and the sting of vulnerability, and I’ll be damned if I let it consume me without a fight.

Confrontation isn’t just a word; it’s a catalyst for change.

And it’s time to make this change.

I just hope it’s for the better.

“Let’s go unravel this mystery,” I tell the morning, stepping into the light, uncertainty my unwelcome companion.

“Time to face the music, Thatcher,” I say to my reflection in the window.

It’s a grim picture—the determination etched into my face, the green eyes that used to hold a spark now dulled by betrayal.

But there’s a fire kindling there too, a resolve to uncover the truth, no matter how ugly it may be.

“Let’s see if this house of cards you’ve built can withstand a little wind,” I whisper, the promise hanging in the air as I grab my keys and head out the door.

Allie Larsen is hiding something.

And hell or high water, I’m going to find out what.