Page 19 of Only the Hunter

The comment has me taking in her blazer and jeans. She loves suits—pant suits, from what I’ve seen. Always appropriate and professional—it makes me wonder what actual casual wear looks like on her.

Upstairs there’s a long hallway, dark wood, and four doors. The door at the end is open, and light streams through three windows. It’s a small room, and the bed takes up much of the space. The comforter is patterned, the furniture all matching light wood, and several pillows soften the space, giving it a feminine vibe. Books are stacked on a bedside table, and in columns against one wall. There’s a framed photo of Sprocket, Evie’s pet Schnauzer growing up. There’s no way he’s still alive, but I like that she has his photo by her bed. She leans against the rail, watching me as I peak my head into each of the rooms.

“The designer did almost everything. I can’t take any credit.”

“It’s refined without being stiff,” I say as I peer into the small guest bedroom that butts up to the master. I continue down the hall and open the door, looking back once to check it’s okay.

She says, “It’s my office.”

Her office is a street facing bedroom, with three windows on one wall, just like the master, but whereas the master had an additional window that overlooked her neighbor, the only windows in this room face the street.

The walls are covered in photographs, timelines, color coded index cards with notes, names circled, arrows pointing, strings held up and pinned with pushpins. I step closer, studying one section of a wall with tons of photographs of the same woman. If I didn’t know better, the wall would read as devotional.

“It’s my case. Project Safe Passage,” she says under her breath.

Judging from her walls, safe is an ironic word choice.

“You’re still working the case?” I turn to face her. She leans against the door frame, one hand massaging her shoulder. Likely still sore from the wreck. “You’re working it alone aren’t you?”

“Like I told Rhodes. We dropped it. There is no case.”

My gaze flicks back to the haunted eyes. Photos snapped in a variety of seasons. Locations. “You haven’t dropped it.”

She steps closer, pointing. “That’s Lina. The missing witness. I promised her we’d keep her safe.”

I don’t miss the note of regret. “Is it possible she’s safe? Maybe in WITSEC?”

“She’s not in the database. I don’t think she’s in WITSEC, but now that we’ve dropped the case, if she is and they just kept it from me because I don’t have clearance—which seems to be what you’re implying—then that’s all the more reason for me to find her. Because no case, no witness, no protection.”

She licks her lips, and I force my attention back to the wall.

The issue with Evie is her eyes. The depth has always drawn me in. Even as a kid, those eyes gave the impression she was the wisest person in the room.

I scan the walls, reading the meticulous case notes and noting the absence of answers. “I can help,” I say. “I’ve got the time.”

“I’m sure you have better things⁠—”

“I don’t.”

Those eyes become impossibly darker. Addictive.

I focus on the wall, her notations. “I have an intelligence background. A team with experience. Skills. Access. You shouldn’t be working this alone.”

My gaze cuts from Evie to the open windows and the view across the street. I clock the windows that could be used to monitor her.

“Why don’t you have blinds in here?”

“Because I like the light. And when I work at night, I like to see the streetlights and check the weather.”

“Noted,” I say, making a mental note to look into window film.

I step back to circle her desk, positioned in the center of the room, facing the three windows. On her desk, there’s a laptop, closed. A monitor. And stacks of files. No photographs.

It’s like my desk back when I was in MI. Nothing personal. By design. But this is her home.

She stretches her head to the side, this time working her other shoulder.

“Pain from the wreck?”