Page 5 of Only the Hunter

Leo hands me my coffee in a white Styrofoam cup and my bagel wrapped in thin paper.

“Thanks, Leo.” I don’t argue about paying—there isn’t time—but I make a mental note to pay him back in tip tomorrow.

“Evie.” Michael’s hand brushes my elbow. “Hold up.”

“Aren’t you getting coffee?”

“No.” He falls into step beside me as we head into the federal building. “Come here.”

Controlling men checking in on me whether I want them to or not. I’ve had a lifetime of practice not reacting.

Inside, the lobby hums with morning movement—footsteps on marble, the whine of the X-ray machine, murmured voices echoing off stone. He pulls me aside, just far enough to create the illusion of privacy.

He exhales slowly, and his expression changes from stern to suspicious. “Last night. Where were you going?”

“To visit a friend.”

His head tilts a fraction. Evaluating. Suspicious because he knows me.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“No,” I lie.

His jaw tightens and he checks his phone.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says again. “You need rest. You have a concussion.”

Then he steps into the security line, phone already at his ear.

Am I irritated that my HIPAA rights didn’t survive a car wreck? Yes. Very.

Ten minutes later, after security and a slow elevator ride, I’m at my desk, halfway through my butter-slathered bagel, when there’s a knock and Rebecca steps inside.

“You look awful,” she says, stopping short.

“Thank you.”

“Should you be here?”

I offer a congenial smile, and insist, “I’m fine.”

“Michael Harridan said you’re still investing man-hours in Operation Safe Passage.”

I chew slowly to buy time. Technically, I work eighty-hour work weeks, so some of that time is mine and not official man-hours.

She studies me, skeptical but efficient. As US Attorney, she doesn’t waste time. Her lips purse and the overhead light catches on her ever-present single pearl strand. Today she’s in a black suit, and her dark, shoulder-length hair is down, which means she’s meeting with someone she considers important. Or maybe it’s a court day.

“I know you disagree with the decision to drop Safe Passage,” she says evenly. “And I hear you. But you have to trust the process. Some decisions aren’t yours to question.”

She pauses, just long enough to strengthen her point.

“Dropping a case doesn’t mean no one’s working it. It means you’re not.”

She doesn’t wait for my response, leaving me to watch her exit my office, silently fuming.

Because we had a solid case. A clean one. Two years of FBI work, solid evidence, a cooperative witness.

Lina—my witness. Nineteen years old when I met her, scared in the specific way of someone who has learned that trust gets people hurt.