Page 137 of Only the Hunter

But I can still see those alert eyes, sense the fear.

And the memory of how close this day came to ending differently sits heavy in my chest.

I am not losing her.

Not to bureaucracy.

Not to corruption.

And not to some shadow on the sidewalk.

Chapter 26

Evie

Jake steps inside, extending his hand. “Hi. I’m Jake Ryder.”

His grip is firm, friendly. He plants himself within a foot of the front door.

“Evie Thompson. Nice to meet you, Jake.”

My voice sounds steadier than I feel. Two minutes ago I was on the kitchen counter with Gabe’s hand between my thighs, and now I’m making small talk with his colleague. The shift gives me whiplash. Gabe’s hand settles briefly on the small of my back before he steps aside to let Jake in fully.

“Shoes?” Jake’s gaze falls to the floor, checking our feet.

“It’s fine. Come on in.” I’m barefoot, having kicked off my heels. Gabe’s still wearing his. My blouse is probably wrinkled. I resist the urge to smooth it again—I already did that once. Jake notices anyway. His expression stays professionally neutral, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe—before he focuses on Gabe.

He gestures to the sitting area. “Let’s sit.”

Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten. Gabe takes a seat on the sofa, and following his cue, Jake settles into one of the armchairs. I sit beside Gabe—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.

He’s quiet for a beat, before he clears his throat and says, “This morning, when you and Brie went to meet with the senator, I went to meet someone. A retired CIA officer—Dahlia Evans.”

The name means nothing to me. I wait.

“She worked with my dad.”

Oh.

The significance of that registers immediately. Gabe doesn’t talk about his father. Not the details. Not the classified parts. Not the parts that still hurt.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She came up in Quinn’s search—frequent contact with Meridian executives. Hudson sent me because…” He pauses. Exhales. “Because she’s looked in on me and my mom over the years. Signed a recommendation for me once. He thought maybe she’d talk to me when she wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”

“Did she?”

“She didn’t show this morning. Rescheduled for late this afternoon.” His jaw tightens. “Said something came up.”

I watch his profile. The muscle working in his jaw. The way his fingers lace together too tightly.

“You don’t believe the official story about your father’s death,” I say quietly. Shot in the line of duty.

His eyes cut to mine. Surprised, maybe, that I’ve put it together, or maybe just that I’m asking.

Jake pulls out his phone and studiously reads the screen.

“No,” he admits. “I don’t.”

The vulnerability in that admission—the trust it takes for him to say it out loud—makes my chest ache.