Page 64 of Shadow

But lying there in the dark, listening to the quiet sounds of Asher turning pages downstairs, Daphne had the sinking feeling that being careful wasn’t going to be enough.

Not when domestic bliss felt this good.

Not when his smile made something move inside her.

Not when waiting for him to come home felt exactly like the safety she’d been running from for fifteen years.

She closed her eyes.

Twenty-seven days to go.

She could maintain professional boundaries for twenty-seven days.

Probably.

Out of all the undercover assignments in his life, who knew that a retirement village potluck might be the thing that did him in?

Asher stood in the retirement community clubhouse watching Destiny talk with a woman named Ellen about local artists. Roger was sulking in the corner, his mood matching the thick gray clouds that cluttered the sky. The air smelled of rain, maybe snow.

And across the room, Daphne, his wife, was laughing in a group of other women, like she belonged here.

Yeah, the most dangerous part of this operation wasn’t the syndicate hunting them—it was how easily fake normal was starting to feel real.

A week of domestic routine. A week of no threats. A week that made him wonder if maybe they could actually pull this off.

The clubhouse smelled like casseroles and baked cookies. A hockey game played on the mounted TV in the corner—Avalanche up by two. Long tables were covered with crockpots and foil-covered dishes, with desserts crowding a separate table, and on another, paper plates, plastic utensils, red SOLO cups.

Not just normal. Aggressively normal.

“Asher!” Julie Martinez waved from across the room. Lively brunette with bright energy and a smile that lit her whole face. “Come settle an argument. Dean says the Avalanche are going all the way this year. Craig thinks they’ll choke in the playoffs. What do you think?”

Asher moved toward the cluster of men near the TV. Dean—tall, solid build of a former athlete and girls’ basketball coach who still looked like he could run drills. Craig—balding, professorial, gesturing with a beer. Mark Sullivan, standing slightly apart, dark-haired, watching the game with quiet intensity. He was their next-door neighbor, an aficionado of “vintage” cars, given the decrepit Chevy Nova from the Stone Age sitting in his driveway, rust dripping onto the pavement. Asher had seen him once with the hood open, tinkering.

“I think it’s still November,” Asher said. “Little early to be predicting playoffs.”

Dean handed him a beer, despite the community’s semiofficial “no alcohol in common areas” policy. Asher took it. Refusing would be suspicious. But he sipped slowly. Stayed alert.

“So,” Dean said during a commercial break. “You and Daphne. How long you two been married?”

“Year and change. Last October.”

“Newlyweds!” Julie appeared beside Dean with a plate of seven-layer dip. “That’s so sweet. Where did you meet?”

The story rolled out easily now. “She hired me to remodel her house. I’m in construction, she’s in the travel industry.”

“Ooh, falling for the contractor. Classic romance trope,” Julie said. “I love it. Do you have kids?”

“Not yet. Careers are busy. But we’ll think about it when the timing’s right.”

“Timing’s never right.” Ellen joined the conversation. “You just jump and figure it out. Craig and I have two girls. Both grown. One’s a teacher, one’s an economist.”

“They succeeded despite our mistakes,” Craig added.

“That too.”

Across the room, Daphne stood with Destiny and Renee Sullivan. Renee—beautiful in that effortless way, dark hair falling in waves, artist’s hands gesturing as she talked. Destiny looked more relaxed than she had all week.

And Daphne was laughing again.