TWENTY FIVE

TWENTY FIVE
"Justice," I said simply. "For Sadie. For all the girls who never got to tell their stories."

The words hung between us, honest and raw. Hank's thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, and I felt the calluses there—evidence of his fishing life, the one he'd built to escape his past.

"That's a dangerous thing to fight for," he said.

"Most worthwhile things are."

Jim stirred in his chair, muttering something in his sleep before settling again. The cabin creaked around us, old wood adjusting to the night temperature.

"When I first saw you on that beach," Hank said, "standing over Sadie's body, I knew you were going to be trouble."

"Good trouble or bad trouble?"

"The kind that makes you question everything you thought you knew about yourself."

I understood what he meant. A week ago, I was content to hide in my cottage, refinishing furniture and pretending the past didn't exist. Now I was sitting in a journalist's safe house, planning to take on a crime family.

"Do you regret it?" I asked. "Getting involved with me?"

He looked at me for a long moment, firelight dancing in his dark eyes. "Ask me again when this is all over."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got right now."

Fair enough. I didn't know how I'd answer that question either.

Outside, something rustled in the underbrush. Hank was on his feet instantly, gun drawn, moving to the window with the fluid silence of a predator. I held my breath, listening.

The rustling stopped. Just an animal, probably. A deer or raccoon passing through.

But Hank stayed at the window for several long minutes, scanning the darkness beyond the glass. When he finally returned to his chair, the tension in his shoulders told me he wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

"You can't stay awake forever," I said.

"I can try."

"What happens when exhaustion makes you sloppy? When you miss something because you're too tired to think straight?"

He knew I was right. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened.

"I'll take first watch," I offered. "You get a few hours of sleep. Then we switch."

"Elise—"

"I'm a cop, remember? I know how to keep watch."

"Former cop."

"The instincts don't go away just because the badge does."

He studied my face, weighing whether to trust me with our safety. Finally, he nodded.

"Wake me in three hours. Or sooner if anything feels wrong."

"I will."

He handed me his gun. "You know how to use this?"

"Point and pull the trigger, right?"

"There's a bit more to it than that." But he settled back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Safety's on the left. Round in the chamber. Don't shoot unless you're sure of your target."

"Got it."

Within minutes, his breathing had evened out. Not fully asleep, but resting at least. I sat there holding his gun, feeling the weight of it in my hands, and wondered how we'd gotten here.

A former detective and a reformed mobster, hiding in the woods from criminals who wanted us dead. It sounded like the setup for a bad joke.

Except nothing about this was funny.

I thought about my mother sleeping upstairs, finally safe after thirty years of hiding. About Maddie, who'd lost her cousin to the same trafficking ring we were trying to expose. About Jim, who was risking his career and possibly his life to help us.

And about Sadie Cooper, whose dead eyes still haunted my dreams.

The fire burned lower, casting shifting shadows across the cabin walls. I fed it another log, watching sparks spiral up the chimney.

Somewhere out there, Vincent Torrino was planning his next move. Coordinating his people, refining his strategy, preparing to eliminate anyone who threatened his operation.

Tomorrow, we'd start planning our counterattack. Tonight, I just had to keep everyone safe.

I checked my watch. Two more hours until I woke Hank. Two more hours of watching and waiting and listening for threats in the darkness.

The gun felt heavy in my hands. Foreign, despite my training. I'd never liked guns, even when carrying one was part of my job. Too final. Too permanent.

But tonight, I was grateful for it.

A branch snapped outside, closer than before. I moved to the window, careful not to make noise. The forest beyond looked empty, just shadows and moonlight filtering through pine branches.

But something felt wrong. That sixth sense that good cops develop, the one that tells you when danger is near even if you can't see it yet.

I stood there for ten minutes, watching, waiting. Nothing moved except wind-stirred branches.

Finally, I returned to my chair, but kept the gun in my lap. Just in case.

The next two hours passed slowly. Every sound made me jump. Every shadow seemed to hide a threat. By the time my watch showed it was time to wake Hank, my nerves were stretched tight as wire.

I touched his shoulder gently. "Your turn."

He was awake instantly, eyes sharp and focused. "Anything?"

"Maybe. Some sounds outside. Could be nothing."

"Could be everything." He stood, taking the gun back. "Get some sleep. You look exhausted."

I was exhausted. Bone-deep tired in a way that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with sustained fear.

But as I climbed the ladder to the loft, I heard Hank moving around below, checking windows and doors, making sure we were secure.

And despite everything, I felt safe.

Which was either a sign that I was finally thinking clearly, or that I'd completely lost my mind.

I settled into one of the bunks, listening to my mother's soft breathing from the other side of the small loft. Through the floorboards, I could hear Hank's careful footsteps as he made his rounds.

Tomorrow, we'd go back to Windemere Bay. Back into danger. Back to face Vincent and whatever violence he had planned.

But tonight, for just a few hours, we could rest.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think about all the ways tomorrow could go wrong.