Page 17 of Only the Hunter

“Nothing particular.”

She accepted that the way she accepts most things—without pushing, but likely not forgetting it either. I’ve noticed that about her. She’s patient in a way that isn’t passive. She waits for the right moment, which means she’s always paying attention.

It’s one of the things that makes her exceptional at her job.

It’s also one of the things that’s going to get her killed if someone doesn’t stay close.

She’s still hopeful she’ll get an estimate that shows her car’s not totaled. I think a better use of her time this afternoon would be car shopping. But I drive her home.

She keeps glancing out the window as we drive, like she’s half-expecting something to appear.

She offered to get an Uber, but I insisted on driving. She studied me for a beat, then nodded—like she weighed whether letting me drive was a mistake.

As I pull up to her townhome, I snag a spot on the street.

“Well, I guess we don’t really need to do dinner now,” she says, one hand on the door handle, seat belt undone.

“I don’t have dinner plans.” I live ten minutes away from her—by design. Heading home and coming back to get her is easy. I don’t see the issue.

“Well, this has taken up more time than I planned.”

Those espresso eyes read as apologetic, but with her hand on the door handle, her body posture reads as hesitant. I get caught up in the bruises. They’re painful to take in, and a reminder that she needs both protection and rest. Her lips are full—possibly swollen. There’s a scab splitting the center seam of her lower lip, and I have the strangest impulse to brush my thumb across her lower lip—injury or not.

“Thanks again.”

My attention snaps from her lips to her hand on the door latch.

“You’re planning on working? On a Saturday night?”

I’ve noticed she works weekends—but Saturday night is extreme, even for her, based on what I’ve observed.

She shrugs. “I’m kind of behind with the wreck. I couldn’t focus after the concussion. Reading was…” She wiggles her fingers in the air and I interpret the motion combined with her tone to mean difficult.

“Rain check?” She smiles, the door opens and her feet are on the ground. “I’ll see you around. Thanks for driving.”

I watch as she moves up the sidewalk, bypassing a pedestrian walking a dog. She talks to the dog, not the walker.

She glances back as she puts the key in the lock. Waves. Steps inside.

I’d like to get a look inside her place. When she drove, she always entered from the back, as the car park area is entered from the alley. I climbed her fence. Beyond the paved carport, there’s a garden area with wintering plants. And a glass storm door in front of a door that I presume leads to her kitchen. I’d gotten a look at her back entrance and garden, but the front door locks had been out of reach without drawing attention. I’d like a better look.

I hop out of the car, reach her front door, and rap against it.

There’s a doorbell, and my index finger hovers above it when the door opens.

“Gabe?”

“Hey. Do you mind if I use your restroom?”

“Oh.” She backs up, opening the door wide. “Of course. Come in.”

The front door opens into a front living room with a gas fireplace. The sofa and two chairs are light gray. Everything is either light gray or white, even the modern abstract art hanging over her fireplace.

After closing the door, she watches me, arms crossed, like she’s awaiting a verdict.

“Nice place,” I say.

On the back wall is a staircase that stretches across the room, with a doorway to the back of the townhouse to the side of the staircase.