Page 167 of Only the Hunter

“I don’t know how you’re still awake,” she says, standing beside me, watching carefully as I settle into the bed.

Truthfully, I’m not entirely certain either. My eyelids feel like weights are tugging them down, and the exhaustion pulling at me is bigger than just the meds—though those aren’t helping. Now that she’s here, that exhaustion is like a weighted blanket, my body finally allowing the effects of the day to take their toll. The tension that’s been holding my spine upright dissipates. My body decides, without consulting me, that the perimeter is secure.

Evie exits the bathroom in an oversized T-shirt and pulls the comforter up over my chest. I run my hand up the back of her thigh. The heat of her skin under my palm is immediate, grounding. Real.

She offers a coy smile. “You need sleep.”

She’s right. I do. And I’d like to say I’m not in pain, but I am. Still, when she curls into my good side, the warmth of her body a balm, leg crossing over mine, I feel at ease. Not because the danger is gone. Because she’s here.

I press a kiss to the top of her head as her fingers trace my chest hairs up to the edge of the medical tape.

Atlas hops up on the bed.

“He won’t sleep here,” Evie says of her cat. “He’s just surveying the landscape.”

“Does his name have any meaning?”

She lifts her head from my chest, smiling. “You.”

“Me?” I don’t get it.

“You remember that paperback you carried around with you for a solid year? Corners curled on the edges?”

“Atlas Shrugged?”

“That’s the one.”

“I hated that book.” Could never get into it but was determined to finish. “How’d you remember that?”

She exhales slowly and her breath carries across my skin in a warm caress. “You’ll think this is weird, but I had this recurring dream, and you were carrying that book.”

“So you named your cat after that book of all books.”

“I named him for the memory of you.” She says it like it’s obvious. Like she’s been carrying that truth quietly for years.

A memory her subconscious wouldn’t let go. Not entirely different from the folder on my encrypted drive labeled Evie—photos of her that go back further than I’ve ever admitted. Or the fact that she’s one of three starred contacts on my phone. I don’t tell her that tonight. Some admissions need space to unfold.

Sleep comes fast and heavy, pulling me under before I can catalogue another variable. The last thing I register is the steady rhythm of her breathing against my chest and the faint, territorial purr of a cat who has decided this is acceptable. For the first time in a long time, I sleep easily and deeply.

Chapter 34

Evie

Two weeks later

Two weeks is enough time for the world to re-form around an absence.

It isn’t enough time for your body to forget what it learned.

The DOJ building looks the same the morning I return—same glass doors, same security turnstiles, same lobby that always smells faintly of burnt coffee and floor polish—but my body reads it differently. My shoulders don’t rise the way they did before, not quite, but there’s a tightness behind my ribs that wasn’t there the last time I walked in, as if some part of me expects the building to speak.

It doesn’t.

The guard at the desk nods like my entrance is ordinary. The elevator dings. A woman in heels scrolls through her phone as if no one has ever tried to write a suicide note in her voice. I badge in, pass through, keep walking.

I’ve prosecuted enough cases to know that institutions don’t change quickly.

People do.