Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Rowan’s smile is bright and automatic. “Hi. I’m the inconvenience.”
“You’re the client,” Cal says, and his tone doesn’t soften, but it’s not cold either. “That means you're a priority.”
Rowan blinks like she didn’t expect that. Then she nods once. “Okay. I can work with priority.”
Cal’s gaze returns to me. “Bridge is ready. Tech is standing by.”
“Good.” I gesture with my head. “Let’s talk.”
We move through the space toward the stairs leading up to the loft. Rowan stays close without being told twice. Her bravado is still there, but it’s quieter now, like she’s conserving it.
Halfway up the stairs, my phone buzzes. I glance down.
Colt: Is she pretty?
Jace: I bet Sin falls in love with this one.
I exhale through my nose, irritation and amusement mixing in my chest.
Rowan glances over. “Your fan club?”
“My brothers.”
“They’re supportive.”
“They’re idiots.”
I type back with one hand while we climb.
Me: Focus on Dad.
A second later, another message pops up, this time from Nash.
Nash: Trail went cold at the mining camp. But we pulled something. Old ledger. A name tied to a shell company we’ve seen before. We’re sending details. Watch your six, Sin.
My jaw tightens. Dad again. Always Dad. The ghost that won’t stay buried.
I thumb a response.
Me: Copy. Keep me posted.
Rowan’s watching me now, her eyes sharp with curiosity she’s trying to pretend isn’t there. “What is it?” she asks.
“Family stuff,” I say.
“Is that code for ‘someone is trying to kill your family too’?”
I look at her. She’s attempting humor, but her voice is careful. I don’t lie. Not to myself, and not to her. “It’s complicated,” I say.
Her mouth presses into a line. “That’s a yes.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“Right,” she says, too light. “Because apparently my problems weren’t enough for the universe.”
We reach the top. Cal opens the door to The Bridge and steps aside so Rowan can enter first.
Inside, the loft is all glass walls and screens. An ops table sits in the middle with maps, tablets, and a projection setup. A couch and small kitchenette occupy the corner. Two techs sit at a workstation, headsets on, monitors filled with code and signal graphs.
One looks up as we enter. “Cal.”
Cal nods. “This is Rowan. We’re gonna look at her phone and anything touching it.”
The tech swivels his chair. “We can do a full forensic pass. Clones, logs, installed profiles, SIM behavior, carrier pings. If there’s spyware or a spoofed tower tag, we’ll find it.”
Rowan’s eyes widen slightly. “That sounds… intimate.”
“It is,” I tell her. “That’s the point.”
She shifts her tote strap higher. “Okay. Violations of privacy are very sexy when they’re saving my life.”
Cal gestures to the ops table. “Sit. Both of you.”
Rowan slides onto the stool and crosses her legs, posture composed. She’s putting on a show. She thinks if she looks calm enough, her body will follow.
I sit beside her, close enough that if she bolts, I can stop her without making a scene.
Cal stands across from us, hands braced on the table. “Start from the top.”
I pull Rowan’s phone from my pocket. “Unknown number texted her while we were en route. Threat implied they can track her even with protection.”
I slide the phone across the table to the tech. “This is it. It went into a faraday pouch right after the message. No further interaction.”
The tech nods and plugs it into a device that looks like it could either save a life or ruin a marriage.
Cal’s gaze stays on me. “Timeline.”
“Two vehicle incidents in three weeks. Last night was deliberate contact on the highway. Door lock shows tool marks. Police wrote it off as random.”
Rowan lifts her brows. “They also called it ‘unfortunate.’ Which felt like a personal critique.”
Cal’s eyes flick to her. “It was sloppy work. Someone wanted you scared more than dead.”
Rowan’s humor falters. “Great. So I’m being emotionally terrorized.”
“Not great,” I correct.
Her gaze slides to me, and she tries to make a joke, but it lands softer. “I hate it when men can’t commit.”
I should ignore that. I don’t. I take the bait. “You’d rather they commit to murder?” I ask.
She huffs a laugh. “When you say it like that, it feels unreasonable.”
Cal watches us for half a second, then returns to business like he’s seen this dynamic a hundred times and already knows where it ends. “Your story,” he says to Rowan. “Tell me what you uncovered. The details matter.”
Rowan sits straighter. This is her comfort zone. Facts. Threads. Patterns. She speaks quickly, but clearly, explaining the shell nonprofits, the money trail, the fundraiser, the questions she asked, and the way one man’s smile went cold when she mentioned a specific contract number. Cal listens without interrupting.
I watch her while she talks.
Long brown hair, pulled back loosely while a few strands escape near her cheek. Brown eyes that hold fire even when fear tries to smother it. A mouth made for smart remarks, but also honesty when it counts.