Page 110 of Only the Hunter

I’m about to ask him how he stays so calm—he’s always been like this, the quietest of my brother’s friends—but I notice he’s not looking at me. His gaze roams the room, looking everywhere. It almost looks like he’s scanning the place for someone better to talk to—but I know better. This isn’t boredom. It’s vigilance. He’s assessing the semi-packed room, likely noting the faces, just in case they reappear.

I settle on reading the screen listing flights and status and notice the word BOARDING flashes by our flight. It’s not until we’re in line to board that I feel calmer and take the time to more fully observe Gabe.

He’s composed. My first assessment was absolutely correct. And he is most definitely observant of our environment. But he also keeps me close, and he beats me to my suitcase more times than not, insisting on taking it even though I’m more than capable. But there’s something else threaded through his expression—or maybe through his silence. Something held back.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He caresses my shoulder, and the corner of his lips curve ever so slightly. “Yep.” Then, as we hand our tickets and passports to the gate agent, he says, “Don’t forget to reach out to your dad.”

“Has he been in touch with you?”

“No.” His lower lip protrudes slightly as he shakes his head in the negative. “But he’ll worry if you don’t get back to him.”

As Gabe lifts my suitcase into the overhead bin, I remember his mention of his father. He’s not just following in his footsteps—he wants to learn more about his father’s death. Reading between the lines, he suspects he wasn’t ever told the truth. And it’s completely possible he was given a cleaned version of events—one meant to ensure national security. His father was CIA, after all.

Given his loyalty to his father, I suppose it makes sense that he’d want me to be in touch with mine. Gabe’s aware of my fights with my father. Of his controlling nature, and worse, how he gave Scott endless freedom but fought me at every turn. But those fights were years ago.

I won my independence. I’m not following the path my father wanted, but he’s still present in my life. He still loves me.

As we buckle into our seats and passengers file past to board, I take out my phone and message my father. Once we take off, I plan on taking out my laptop. I’ll review the IG complaint draft, review the documents we possess, and note the documents we need.

Last-minute booking means we’re across the aisle rather than side by side—close enough, and not.

Me

All ok?

Three dots immediately emerge—which isn’t normal for Dad. Half the time I suspect his assistant responds for him, so maybe she’s in possession of his phone at the moment.

Dad

Call me

Me

Dad, we’ve boarded. Is everything okay? Can I call when we land?

Dad

You rushed a return flight. What’s going on?

Me

Nothing. Just personal leave. Last minute plans.

Dad

Who approved this leave?

I stare at the screen. Of course he’d ask. As if I need permission beyond my supervisor.

Me

Rebecca Hanford.

Dad

I see. And you went to Switzerland?