Chapter 225: Jake
Sloane came back two days ago—earlier than planned. I’d told Charlie to text if she showed, and around midnight she pinged that she was heading to bed and Sloane wasn’t home yet. Thank God, I figured, Mads would sleep through it. I’m still hoping she did.
Yesterday we were coiled tight anyway. On edge enough that we “needed” Madeline at our SWMRI house after Sloane wrapped the boat—reviewing the institute’s patrol notes, double-checking the grid, anything to keep her out of that house. We cooked for her like it was our job: chicken simmered with capers, tomatoes, garlic, onions; basmati rice fluffed with a fork; steamed vegetables finished with lemon. We took our time making it. Then we made her take her time eating it. Then we took our time cleaning up before “getting back to the work.” Every delay a soft hand on the clock.
By eleven we drove her home. She was so wiped she went straight upstairs, lights out. No run-ins with Sloane. Another small mercy.
Today is the day we stop slow-rolling this.
The plan is simple and tight. We texted the crew that Finn and Mads are on the boat this morning so she can walk him through the new grid from the institute. Liam’s tasked with pulling a packet of her research and dropping it at our house first—then he’ll join them on the boat and run her through ropes, buoys, deck safety, the whole “extra hands” curriculum. Keep her busy. Keep her moving. Keep her nowhere near Sloane.
Meanwhile, Sloane and Charlie meet us at our SWMRI house. Sit down. Lay out the whole thing. Ask Sloane where the hell this came from and what she thinks she’s doing. Decide what happens next.
Cruz showed up at dawn, civilian clothes, cop spine. We briefed him on everything—who Madeline is to us, what she’s told, what Sloane’s been saying, the email, the “report.” He did not like any of it. Having him nearby feels like sandbags before a storm. He just looks like one of our friends, in town for a little bit.
Reid’s pacing the length of our kitchen like it’s a short deck, coffee going cold on the counter. I’m setting chairs—one at the head for me, one at the far end for Reid, two side by side for Charlie and Sloane because I want the angle. Phone face down, ringer on high only for one name. Front door unlocked, back door latched. Windows cracked an inch for air I won’t use.
We text Mads one more time—have a great time, send pics if one of the guys fall in the water—and then put our phones screen-down. When the knock comes, we’ll start.
“I hate this,” Reid says, voice stripped down to metal. “Sloane’s been one of my favorite captains I’ve ever worked with, and now—” He breaks off, jaw ticking, energy coming off him like heat.
“I know,” I say, because I do. Cruz, sunk into the far end of our couch, nods once like a man who’s seen this particular storm line up on radar a hundred times.
He shifts to get comfortable and immediately winces. “Ah—my bad. Whose phone did I just sit on?”
We both look over. A white case with a tiny blue wave is half-wedged in the cushion. Madeline’s. I pull it free, thumb the side button—black screen. Dead. I set it on the kitchen island, coil a charger out of the drawer, and plug it in face-up. The red battery sliver blinks to life and disappears. It feels better sitting there where I can see it, even if it’s meaningless.
Reid can’t stop moving. He stalks to the window, checks the street, back to the sink, lifts his mug, remembers the coffee’s cold, puts it back. Fingers flex, fists, flex. “She was solid on a squall line with me two summers ago,” he mutters, like he’s arguing with the wall. “Spotted a trap line foul by sound. I would’ve trusted her with my boat.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I hate this.”
Cruz watches him for a few breaths, then says, not unkindly, “I’ve got a bad feeling.”
My head comes up. “What kind of bad feeling.”
He works his jaw, cop-brain sifting. “The kind where all the parts aren’t on the table yet, but I’ve seen the edges of this shape. When I saw her at that Seafoam bar for your birthday?” He glances at me. “She stood out. Not loud—opposite. Like someone trying to fold herself small and not understanding that light leaks anyway. She didn’t drink much. Kept a water in her hand like a prop, phone face-down because she didn’t want to see it light. Every time the door opened, she looked. Not the door—past it. That’s a tell.”
A hot prickle of irritation flashes under my skin—if he noticed her, how many other men did?—but I choke it down, because that’s not where this needs to go.
Cruz keeps going, voice even, clinical without being cold. “Cases where a man won’t leave a woman like that alone? They follow a slope. First you get the ‘ping’ behaviors—texts at odd hours, missed calls, vague social posts. Then you get triangulation—finding friends, coworkers, inserting in the edges. Paperwork comes next if he’s crafty. Fabricated reports. Complaints. He makes her spend time proving the sky is blue. If he still isn’t getting what he wants, it turns physical—proximity breaches. Showing up. The kind of contact you can call ‘accidental’ until you can’t.”
Reid’s hands curl again on nothing. “So we’re already at paperwork.”
“Yeah.” Cruz nods once. “And if he’s got someone here helping him move it? I don’t like it.” He tips his head toward the harbor, eyes gone distant. “In a bit I might take a walk, stand where I can see your boat, their boat, the street to her house. No sirens, no badge. Just… air on the line.”
Reid’s color is high; he looks like a man one sentence away from putting his fist through drywall. “We shouldn’t be sitting here. We should be at that station. Or at her house. Or—”
“Breathe,” I cut in, not looking away from him. “We can’t go at Sloane hot or she’ll clam up and lawyer. We need her talking.” A beat. “Charlie will be here. Cruz is here. We keep the temperature down and get the facts.”
He drags air in like he’s learning how. “She’s getting texts. Calls. He’s talking to Sloane. How long until he figures out Northhaven?”
“Longer if we don’t advertise panic,” I say. “We’ve got Finn with her on the water, Liam running interference, Charlie in the loop. We’re not guessing anymore.”
He paces to the island, glances at Mads’s phone charging, and flinches like it bit him. I know what he’s thinking because I’m thinking it too: out of her pocket means off her mind for an hour. We need more hours like that, not fewer.
Cruz leans forward, forearms on his knees. “I’ll say this straight. You two are big men with money and a boat and a team. That helps, but it can make him escalate faster, not slower. Keep her patterns messy. Don’t post your days. Don’t give him a grid to work. And when he shows up on paper again, we’re ready with a real chain, not a gut.”
Reid nods, that cold purpose sliding back into place over whatever was boiling. “Copy.”
The house goes quiet enough to hear the charger hum.
And then—three knuckles, sharp and polite, at the front door.