Page 54 of Shadow

And he—he was assigned to wave to the neighbors as he carried in suitcases like a Sherpa.

Or a husband.

It wasn’t a terrible safe house. End unit with wood siding painted gray, attached garage, privacy fence on one side. Mountains visible in the background, peaks catching late-afternoon sun. The air smelled clean, sharp with approaching evening and distant pine.

Asher scanned the street as he pulled out Destiny’s overstuffed suitcase. Golf cart passing two houses down, elderly couple walking a small terrier, woman on a porch watering hanging baskets despite the November chill.

Normal. Aggressively normal. Like he might be in the Truman movie.

Or on the set of The Stepford Wives Go Geriatric.

Asher headed through the garage, then closed it and went inside.

The kitchen opened into a living room with a large sectional, glass coffee table, mounted TV, and gas fireplace. Everything rental-neutral in beige and brown. Laminate wood flooring felt hollow under his boots, new-carpet smell mixing with whatever cleaning products the rental company used.

Roger had taken residence on the sofa.

His hand held his right side where the stab wound was healing. The appendectomy cover story would work as long as he kept moving like someone recovering from surgery.

Destiny emerged from the master, elegant despite the long drive. Cashmere sweater perfectly draped, designer jeans without a wrinkle, scarf tied just so. She looked like she belonged at a country club, not in witness protection.

“Okay, so Roger probably can’t climb stairs, so he has the other main-floor bedroom,” Daphne said, coming out of it. “The windows are secure. Keep the blinds closed.”

Roger shrugged, clearly having lost the battle.

“That leaves the bonus room for us,” Asher said quietly.

Daphne looked up into the loft, visible from the living room through a wooden railing. Pullout sofa, completely open to the house below. No door, no privacy, no escape.

“The bonus room,” she repeated.

“Problem?”

“No. Fine.”

Asher grabbed his utility bag. “Let’s get this over with.” He motioned to Destiny. “Have a seat.”

“Why?”

Asher pulled out the tracking anklets. “A little jewelry for your stay on this cruise ship.”

Destiny stared at it with no limit on her horror. “No.”

Roger looked at it. “What is that?”

“GPS tracker. Medical alert device. Looks like fall detection, actually tracks your location within three feet anywhere in the continental United States.”

“I’m not wearing that.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not a prisoner.”

Daphne stepped in. “You’re a protected witness. Draven Frost wants you dead. This anklet means if someone takes you, I know where you are. Your choice—wear it, or I walk and you take your chances with federal protection.”

Roger stared at her, dark eyes challenging and testing. Daphne didn’t blink.

And Asher—shoot, something terrible and dark rose in him, a sort of spurt of, what—protectiveness?