Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
My phone buzzes with a screenshot—Subaru Guy’s face from a side angle under a streetlight. He reads like a company photo you never posted: haircut that happens every two weeks, jaw that’s seen a mouthguard, eyes that don’t stick to anything they can’t leave.
GUNNER: Ran it through a couple of friendly filters. Alias ping: Hero Hale. Freelance “reputation recovery.” Not violent. Sells “solutions.”
DUKE: He did three gigs this year for contracts tied to meltdown influencers, two for hedge types, one for a rival security firm we don’t like. No charges. Lots of smoke.
Motivation?
GUNNER: Whoever hired Mercer might’ve hired Hale to watch Mercer. Or to steal whatever Mercer digs. Either way, Hale’s a collector, not a hitter.
So the third shadow is a thief of thieves. Red herring? Maybe. Or maybe the guy who makes a mess without drawing blood.
The wind picks up. Snow shifts from pretty to strategy. I pull my collar up and shift my thinking from tail math to weather math again. If the grid blinks, elevators stall, cars stack up on hills, and routes shrink to walking distance. Mobility goes down. Births go up. I know too many EMTs not to respect barometric pressure.
I text Melanie.
Home status?
MEL: Cozy. Amelia insists we make a fort in the living room. Baby approves.
Power?
MEL: Flickered once, came back.
Fill the tub. Set the lanterns. Keep your phone on low battery mode. Cinnamon roll if you’re fine, gingerbread if the world tilts.
A beat.
MEL: Cinnamon roll. Also the fort has an orange.
Fortify.
I do one more loop around Kipling and cut over to Harborview to sit in Gunner’s passenger seat while we thaw out our fingers on coffee lids and trade observations like baseball cards. He’s bullish on Hale being a poacher. I’m not betting yet.
“Storm’s going to pull half the city off the board,” he says, tapping the windshield where snow makes confetti. “We’ll have three times the calls and half the roads.”
“Then we stage now,” I say. “If we lose comms, we revert to Plan Lemon: I move to her, not the office. Duke anchors the client. You float wherever needs hands.”
“Copy,” he says, then side-eyes me. “You’re not sleeping tonight, are you?”
“If the lights hold and Mel sleeps, I’ll run light rest,” I say. “The listening kind.”
“Dad mode,” he says, not teasing. “Looks good on you.”
I don’t answer. My throat does a thing I’m not trained for.
By the time I’m back on Melanie’s block, the snow’s thick enough to make tires whisper. The world’s holding its breath. I park nose-out again, brush the hood, and take a second to just… listen. Snow has a sound when it’s deciding to get serious. It’s here.
Upstairs, the living room has transformed into a ridiculous, perfect nest—blanket fort pitched between the couch and the tree, twinkle lights threaded like we planned cozy on purpose. Amelia salutes from inside like a snow queen, then grabs her coat with a wink. “My watch is over. Yours begins.”
When the door clicks, Melanie peeks out with a grin that smacks me in the sternum. “Enter, Sir Snacks-a-Lot.”
“I’ve been promoted,” I say, and crawl in, radio on low, phone face down, all my edges filed down by the sight of this woman in a T-shirt and leggings, hair in a knot, cheeks warm, brave as ever. The lights flicker once.
“Any news?” she asks, settling against me, my arm a bracket around her, my hand finding the baby’s slow roll.
“Third guy’s probably not the hitter,” I say. “Might be tailing Mercer. Might be a poacher. Doesn’t mean harmless, but it changes how we play it. We’ll keep learning. And we’ll keep the bubble tight.”
“Good,” she says, and presses closer, like I’m part of the fort instead of the reason for it.
The snow thickens to a wall. The barometer in my head drops a notch. Power hums. The heater kicks. The baby shifts under my palm like they’re picking their team.
I run the weather checklist again, quiet, then the storm labor checklist I filed under just in case years ago—towels, warm water, call thresholds, the difference between rehearsal and showtime. I don’t say it out loud. I don’t need to. I’m ready to move without moving.
Duke texts once more.
DUKE: Hale peeled west. Mercer’s lights still on. We hold. You hold.
Holding.
Melanie’s breathing evens against my shoulder, then hitches when the baby does a decisive kick. We both laugh, too softly for the storm to steal.
“Hey, Peanut,” I murmur to the fort air. “Pick a good time, okay?”
The wind answers. The city hunkers. The lights stay on.
I tuck Melanie closer, count the sandbags I’ve set, and listen for the one variable you can’t time with a watch.
When the world blurs into white, you make the perimeter small and the promises smaller.
20
Melanie
The pain folds me in half before my brain has a chance to name it.
Not a cramp. Not a Braxton Hicks. This is a live wire pulled tight from spine to belly, heat and pressure and inevitability. I lurch to sitting inside the blanket fort, gasping, hands flying to my stomach as if I can press time back into place.