Page 2 of Jenna's Protector

Sure, there are other detectives, but like me, they’re buried under a mountain of paperwork. We have receptionists who answer the phones and track down information as they can. The beat cops are tired, stuck in a job that should make them heroes, but their contributions are devalued under a wave of public opinion and outcry over a few unfortunate events and bad apples that have left their stain on our profession.

“You know the Guardians only take on certain cases—hostage rescue and human trafficking. We’re not really into the missing person’s gig.” Blake chuckles, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

“You sure about that?” I can’t help but challenge him. “All of your cases are about those who’ve been taken—aka missing. You literally work missing persons.”

“Not gonna split hairs with you—again, but you always have an open invite to join us. Better resources, better support… Or you can keep being dissatisfied with what you’ve got.”

I grit my teeth, the familiar argument bubbling up. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Just—give me Forest’s info.”

“I’m serious. We could use someone like you.” Blake’s tone softens. “Guardian HRS is always hiring good men. Think about it.”

“I don’t have all the fancy-schmancy SEAL training you have. I’m just an average Joe, doing what I can to protect and serve.”

“Team skills can be taught. Your detective nose, however, that’s a true gift. Honestly, we could use someone with your abilities.”

“I’ll think about it,” I mutter, already dreading the empty promises of my current job. “Thanks, Blake.”

Max nudges my hand, sensing my frustration. He looks up at me with his expressive eyes. I swear the mutt can read my mind.

“Don’t worry, boy. We’ll figure this out.”

I dial Forest’s number.

He answers on the second ring.

“Carter Jackson?”

“Yes.”

“I take it you spoke to Blake.” The man’s voice is deep. Not a baritone, but octaves lower. He sounds like boulders grinding against each other.

“He said you have something for me.”

“I do, but first, I need you to promise me you’ll be discreet.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“There’s someone you need to talk to, but I hesitate to give out her name.”

“You have a lead?”

“Maybe. Jenna was never forthcoming about what happened, but I’ve got a sense about these things.”

“Jenna?” Surely, he can’t mean…

“Jenna Marlowe. I think you know her.”

Holy fucking shit, do I know Jenna Marlowe. Just the mention of her name makes my stomach clench and heart race.

“I do.”

“Well, she may or may not be connected to these cases in a way that could be crucial.”

I lean back in my chair, processing his words. “Tall, long black hair, alluring green eyes?” He can’t mean my Jenna.

Not that she’s mine. I’ve yet to work up the courage to ask her out.

My days begin and end at Jenna’s café. They begin with a stout coffee—that I don’t particularly like—and end with a pathetic run-in to grab one of her savory sandwiches for my evening meal.

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