Page 5

Lincoln

Morning light filters through the windows, casting soft golden stripes across the hardwood floor. I’m up before dawn—old habit from my military days—though I actually manage to sleep later than usual last night, thanks to the peaceful quiet out here. Hard to believe I’m still on a job when birds are chirping and fresh mountain air fills my lungs.

I rub the back of my neck as I stand at the kitchen island, my phone pressed to my ear for the third call of the day. Everyone I know has a slightly different story about Morris Rolfe, but the general consensus is that he’s a slippery son of a bitch who trades in black-market intel for a living. Not exactly surprising.

“Yeah, I understand,” I say into the phone, tapping a pen against the countertop. “So you haven’t seen him since last year?” The contact on the other end—a former colleague from a private investigation firm—confirms it. “All right, thanks. Keep me posted if anything changes.”

I hang up, grabbing the slip of paper I’d been scribbling notes on. Yesterday’s digging turned up a handful of old addresses, a few known associates, and the rumor that Morris has been spotted near Chicago in the last month. Could be nothing. Could be everything. Either way, it’s a lead.

A clatter from the stove draws my attention. Isabel’s bustling around the kitchen, hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing a T-shirt and a pair of lounge pants. She’s got a spatula in one hand and a determined look on her face. Something smells amazing—bacon, yum.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” I say, stepping closer to peek at the pan.

She throws a glance over her shoulder, a wry half-smile curving her lips. “Surprised? I’ve had to fend for myself a lot over the years.”

I can hear the undercurrent of pride in her voice. It’s not defensive, exactly, just a quiet statement of fact. Part of me wants to ask for details, but I hold off. I’m still piecing together the mosaic of who Isabel really is—beyond the fierce, take-no-prisoners professional side I’m used to seeing at Maddox Security.

Instead, I set the notes on the kitchen table, next to my laptop. “Thanks for cooking. I usually live off protein bars and black coffee on the job.”

She snorts. “Sounds healthy.” Then she points with her spatula at the bacon. “I hope you like it crispy. That’s the only way I make it.”

“Crispy’s fine,” I say, sliding into one of the wooden chairs.

She piles bacon onto a plate lined with paper towels, then starts in on some scrambled eggs. The crackling sound and the mouthwatering smell is enough to make my stomach rumble. It’s all so… domestic. Strange, considering we’re here because she’s in real danger. But at least we can pretend for a moment that things are normal.

As she works, I glance out the big window above the sink, which frames a sweeping view of pine trees and the faint silhouette of mountains in the distance. If not for the tension humming beneath the surface, this place could pass for a cozy weekend getaway.

“So,” Isabel says, shutting off the burner, “did your calls turn up anything useful? Or are we still stuck at square one?”

I lift the slip of paper. “Morris Rolfe’s last known location might be Chicago. My contact couldn’t confirm it, but I’d wager if he’s got ties there, he might have gone back to old stomping grounds.”

“Chicago,” she repeats, a slight frown creasing her forehead. “Then again, Chicago is a big place. He could vanish in a crowd pretty easily.”

“True.” I watch as she takes two plates out of the cupboard, spooning eggs onto them. “But if he is there, we’ll have ways of finding him—friends of mine, or maybe even your brother’s old network. You’re both Chicago natives, right?”

Isabel nods, busying herself with the food. “Yes. Dean and I didn’t exactly grow up in the best neighborhood, but it taught us a lot about how to get by on almost nothing. And since Dean always had a knack for hacking, we never went completely without. He and his best friend—Xavier Stone—used to mess around with security systems. Next thing I knew, they were outsmarting half the city’s alarm companies.”

I let out a low whistle. “That’s quite a skill set.”

She shrugs, setting a plate in front of me and sliding into the chair across the table. “It paid off, I guess. Once Xavier had some money to invest, he gave Dean a chunk to start Maddox Security.” Her expression turns distant, like she’s remembering the early days. “We went from living in a tiny two-bedroom apartment to buying nicer gear, renting an office. Next thing we knew, we were landing big-name clients.”

I pick up a fork and scoop some eggs onto a piece of bacon. “I knew part of the story, but not all the details.”

She grimaces playfully. “Well, let’s just say there were some interesting lessons learned along the way. I can remember Dean staying up all night, tinkering with old computer parts, building prototypes. And I’d be there with a flashlight, trying to help any way I could. Usually by handing him screwdrivers.”

I chuckle softly, picturing a young Isabel—scrappy and determined—hovering beside her genius brother. “Sounds like you two made a good team.”

She raises a brow. “We made an unstoppable team. But he’s still my big brother, so yeah, we argue and butt heads. Kind of like we do now.”

A warm jolt of recognition goes through me. “You have the same dynamic at Maddox Security. It’s almost funny how you two still go at it sometimes.”

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “He can be impossible, but I guess that’s part of his charm.” Her gaze flicks to me. “Not unlike you.”

I decide to sidestep that little comment. “So, you’re the youngest?”

“By a couple of years. What about you? You have siblings?”

I shake my head, setting my fork down. “Only child. My mom passed away when I was twelve—cancer. My dad did the best he could, but we weren’t exactly close. I spent more time out of the house than in it.”

Her face softens with genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I shrug, though the old ache remains. “It was a long time ago. I enlisted in the military as soon as I graduated high school. Learned discipline, direction… gave me a purpose.”

Her gray eyes linger on me for a moment before she looks down at her plate. “And that’s why you’re so bossy now.”

“Guilty as charged,” I say with a half-smile. “But it’s also why you can trust me to have your back.”

She nods slowly, as though she can’t quite deny that. We eat in companionable silence for a bit, the tension between us easing, if only for a few minutes. The bacon is indeed perfectly crispy, and the eggs are fluffy. A quick glance at her plate confirms she’s already half-finished, too.

After we polish off breakfast, I clear my throat. “All right, so about Morris Rolfe. If he’s actually in Chicago, we have options. You mentioned going undercover yesterday—were you serious?”

She lifts her napkin, dabbing at her lips before answering. “Depends on how deep we’d have to go. But I know a couple of people from my old neighborhood who might be able to help me find him, if he’s operating on the fringes.”

My chest tightens at the idea of letting her wander around some shady parts of the city alone. “If we do this, it’d have to be both of us, together. We’ll keep a low profile and gather intel. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Her eyes flash. “I’m capable, Lincoln?—”

“I’m not arguing that,” I cut in gently. “But I made a promise to Dean, and… you know, I’d rather not spend my days worrying that you’re going to slip away again.”

She purses her lips, and for a second, I see a flicker of guilt. Probably remembering how she climbed out that bathroom window. “Fine. We’ll do it together.”

I nod, relieved she’s not fighting me on that. “We should probably wait until we have a solid lead. We don’t want to show our faces if we can’t confirm he’s actually there. Let me put out a few more feelers. I’ve got some ex-contacts in Chicago from my days in the service. Maybe we can pinpoint Rolfe’s location more precisely.”

She grabs her coffee mug and takes a sip, considering. “Dean would help, too. But I guess we should only loop him in once we know there’s a real shot at catching Rolfe, right? I don’t want him pulling the plug before we can get close.”

My gut twists. “I hate going behind his back. But you’re right—it’s best to have concrete intel first. Then we can update him, show we have a solid plan.”

“Exactly.” She lets out a long breath, tapping her nails on the table. “I hate being stuck here, waiting. It’s not in my nature.”

“You’re not stuck,” I say, standing and collecting our plates. “We’re regrouping. It’s strategic.”

She watches as I move around the kitchen, depositing the dirty dishes in the sink. “You make it sound so heroic.”

I catch her eye, giving her a faint grin. “That’s my job.”

She rolls her eyes again, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips, too. “All right, Lincoln. So, what’s the plan for the rest of today?”

I rinse the plates, the water hissing over the last bits of egg. “We lay low, keep trying to confirm Rolfe’s whereabouts. Check to see if any new threats come in. If he contacts you again, we might glean something from the message.”

She sighs, looking around the cozy kitchen as if it’s a prison cell. “Fine. But the second we have a hint of where Rolfe is, we’re out of here.”

“Agreed.” I turn off the tap and wipe my hands on a dish towel.

When I glance back at her, she’s sipping her coffee, eyes steady on me. There’s a challenge in her gaze, but also something more—curiosity, maybe. Caution. It occurs to me we’ve never really spent much time alone together outside of the office. Sure, we’ve had the occasional run-in at team events, or passing conversations about files. But this? Living under the same roof, strategizing together? It’s all uncharted territory.

“Well,” she says softly, setting her mug down. “I guess we should get to work.”

I nod, crossing the small distance between us. “Yeah. Let’s see if we can figure out where Rolfe’s hiding.”

We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving, and the silence stretches. I feel an odd pull in my chest—like part of me wants to say something more personal, but the rest of me knows better. I’m here to protect her, not to blur lines or chase any lingering sparks.

Still, I can’t help thinking, as she turns and heads to the makeshift command center we’ve set up by the laptop, that we’re about to walk a fine line—together. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Isabel Maddox, it’s that she doesn’t back down easily. And neither do I.

One way or another, we’re going to find Morris Rolfe, and we’re going to shut down whoever’s threatening her. But in the meantime, we’ll have to figure out how to live—and work—side by side without igniting a whole different kind of fire.