Page 14 of Lost Hope

TRUST FALLS

An hour later,finally dry and starting to get warm, at least physically, Maya watched steam curl from the ancient coffeemaker in the corner of the garage apartment, trying to stop her hands from shaking. Exhaustion or cold or shock—maybe all three. Her partner’s body was still out there in the bay. And here she sat, in a nondescript apartment less than a mile from the military base with two men who might have killed him.

Axel had picked the lock with a professional’s skills, insisting the whole time that this was his friend’s crash pad. She had to admit, the lone photo on the half-empty bookshelf did appear to show these two arm in arm with their SEAL squad, Ronan sandwiched in the middle grinning.

Her investigator’s mind wouldn’t shut off, cataloging details even as she fought the bone-deep chill. Ronan had fired her weapon, contaminating any GSR evidence that might have linked him to Tom’s murder. Their clothes were soaked, destroying any other trace evidence.

Her dad’s voice echoed in her head:The system only works until someone powerful enough wants it not to.She’d spent her whole career proving him wrong. Now she wasn’t so sure.

The space heater hummed, fighting the early morning chill. Their wet clothes hung nearby like dark ghosts—her tactical gear, their civilian clothes. The borrowed sweats draped her frame, making her feel smaller. More vulnerable. She fought the urge to wrap her arms around herself, instead watching the guys’ dynamics. The way they communicated without words. Military training, obviously. But there was something else—a rawness to their grief over Marcus Sullivan that felt genuine.

Every instinct screamed that she should be processing the scene of Tom’s murder. Collecting evidence. Doing her job. Instead, she’d fled with the suspects. She needed to start thinking three steps ahead. How to verify their story, their whereabouts when Marcus was killed.

Ronan moved quietly around the small kitchen space. He’d found an ancient first aid kit, setting it on the counter near her with deliberate casualness. His eyes flickered to her scraped palms, the cut on her forearm she hadn’t even noticed getting. That didn’t track with a cold-blooded killer, her mind noted. Unless it was calculated to gain her trust.

“Time for explanations,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite chattering teeth.

A beat, then Ronan spoke. “You should clean those cuts. Harbor water’s nasty.”

Axel was already wrapping himself in what looked like an old moving blanket. He tossed another toward her. The casual kindness almost undid her. These men might have murdered her partner. And Sullivan. She couldn’t afford to see them as human. Not until she knew for sure.

The blanket remained untouched beside her. She needed to stay sharp, stay objective. Get access to the evidence being collected at the scene. Contact her office.

How had she forgotten that?

She reached in her pocket for her phone. Gone. But she’d had it on the dock, hadn’t she? She couldn’t recall.

Unless ... She crossed to her wet clothes and patted them down. Nothing.

“Have either of you seen my phone?” she asked.

“It’s probably at the bottom of the marina,” Axel said.

“Or one of you took it.”

“That’s not how we roll,” Axel chided. “At all.”

Ronan didn’t say a word, the tightening of his jaw the only sign that he’d heard her. Finally, he shrugged, turning back to the coffeemaker. “Sugar’s there, if you want it. Might help with the shock.”

She almost laughed. Trust a potential killer to diagnose shock before she’d admitted it to herself. But her hands reached for the first aid kit anyway. One problem at a time. Clean the cuts. Warm up. Then figure out how she’d ended up here—and whether these men were killers or allies.

As for her phone, Axel was probably right. She couldn’t recall securing it anywhere before they hit the water.

“I’ve read both your files,” she said once she finished, wrapping her hands around the coffee mug again for warmth. “SEAL Team Eight. Retired two years ago.” She watched Ronan’s face. “Three for you, given your General Discharge.”

He met her eyes steadily. “Yup.”

When he didn’t elaborate, his friend broke the tension by rattling through kitchen cabinets. “Anyone else starving? There’s ... ah ... expired protein bars and some questionable peanut butter.”

“Marcus tried contacting us last week,” Ronan said. He couldn’t seem to stay still, moving from window to door, checking sight lines, running through what Maya recognized as tactical assessment patterns. A man used to action, not sittingin safe houses. “Said he needed help. Wouldn’t explain over the phone.”

“And you just came running?” She kept her tone skeptical.

“He was our friend.” Simple. Direct. Ronan paused his prowling to lean against the counter, fingers drumming against the worn Formica. “You read our files. Marcus’s, too. You probably have way more current info than we do. Tell us what you know,” he ordered, then caught himself. Softened his tone. “Please.”

Maya weighed her options, then decided there was nothing to be gained by hiding what she knew. They’d figure most of it out anyway. “Tom and I got orders to pick Marcus up last night. Base security found security footage of him entering the base and accessing restricted files after hours twenty-four hours previously. Including personnel files. Mine and Benson’s.”

Ronan and Axel exchanged looks.

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