Page 37 of Catch Me When I Fall

Another thing that fucking floored me was the fact that she was more stunning in person. For that reason alone, no normal, red-blooded male could blame the man for pursuing her. Still, it made me want to kill him.

Why in the fuck did I want to kill him?

Hale was just a goddamn mark.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered, pushing off the light post and walking back to my Tahoe as I pulled out my phone. Before she and the man came out of the restaurant, I’d tagged her bumper with one of my cheaper trackers. Pulling up the app, I watched as she made her way across the small town, heading further and further away from her house. Sighing, I got into the vehicle, and followed her.

Ten minutes later, I came up to a simple one-story home, warms light flooding outside from the windows. My eyes went to Hale’s car in the driveway before snapping back to the side windows in search of her. The house was on a steeper hill than the one Hale was staying in, the front of it turned slightly away from my viewpoint, giving me a good view of the back deck.

I leaned back in my seat, spreading my knees as I kept my eyes on the sliding glass door at the back of the home. Two minutes passed before Hale came into view—with none other than Sarah Humbly. My eyes narrowed, and before I could help myself, I was pulling out my laptop and running a background check on the couple.

Michael Humbly was a straight shooter, and everything he’d told me this morning was true. His wife, Sarah, was clean as well.

Flexing my hand, I looked back up to house, my eyes landing directly on Hale.

Her hair was curlier than in her photos, somewhat brighter. Her blonde wasn’t a golden blonde, having more of a white tone to it. It was unique and made her stand out in the crowd.

That irritated me too.

So many fucking things about Carrie fucking Hale irritated the ever-living shit out of me, and I couldn’t figure out why.

I pulled out my phone and called Ash.

“Doss,” he answered.

“Call Jeremy Jones and tell him Hale will be back in St. Louis within forty-eight hours,” I ordered, keeping my eyes on the target as she smiled at Sarah. My muscles tightened at the sight, and I wanted to fucking kill something. My mind drifted back to the fisherman…

“On it. Anything else? You sound off,” Ash said, reading me like an open fucking book.

“Just ready to get this job done and move on. How are things on your end?”

“Working on a few things here and there, but nothing major,” he told me.

“Right,” I muttered, rubbing my jaw.

“So you found her, yeah?”

“Yes,” I pushed out through clenched teeth. Yes, I fucking found her, and I haven’t been the same since.

“Good. Oh—Mags called for you today.”

Mags calling me at the office was an old habit of his. He never called my cell in case I was on a job. I would always call him. “You answer?”

“Nah, Dominic did.”

Hale and Sarah made their way out onto the deck illuminated with hanging lights. The warm light on Hale’s skin made her hair seem…unreal. I watched her as she explained something to her new friend, taking in her body language. She seemed comfortable but still reserved, like she had been with the blond man earlier.

“Grayson? You still there?” Ash asked, breaking the spell I’d been under.

Clearing my throat, I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, I told him to remain on standby for the night. I was nabbing the target, taking her back home, and leaving this fucking town behind me.

After I ended the call, I drove over to her house and picked the lock at the back door.

Something inside me didn’t like that she didn’t have a security system, but I brushed it off, reminded myself that she wouldn’t be staying here much longer.

The smell of berries filled my nose as the floorboards creaked underneath my weight, my boots carrying me across the kitchen, into the living room. I looked back to the kitchen, noting how clean it was, then back to the living room. My eyes landed on the vase filled with red tulips on the windowsill beside the couch, reminding me of something her therapist had said in her file.

Day 120: Patient asked for some flowers to be put into her room—again. She complains about not having enough color. This is the eightieth time she has requested flowers.

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