Page 69 of Everest

Right now, I’m holding onto the only thing that matters.

And I’m never letting her go.

The following day, I lay in bed, feeling the soft warmth of London snuggled into my side. Her gentle breath creates a soothing rhythm, wrapping me in comfort. But the room feels unbearably quiet, making the silence press against me like a heavy blanket, amplifying my thoughts.

I glance at her peaceful face, the way her hair spills across the pillow, and I wish I could freeze this moment in time. Yetthe stillness weighs on me, and I can’t shake the feeling that something is off.

The weight of everything we just went through hasn’t settled. It hangs in the air, choking out the peace we should feel. I should feel relieved, but I still feel rage simmering beneath the surface of my skin because my brother is fighting for his life.

I got the text just after sunrise.

Riggs:Still critical. Doesn’t look good.

Nothing needs to be said out loud.

Catcher took bullets protecting my woman, and there’s nothing I can do for him but hold the woman he was willing to give the ultimate sacrifice for.

London stirs beside me, her arm draped across my chest, fingers dragging down the ink over my ribs. “You're thinking too loud,” she murmurs. “Is it C-Catcher?” Her voice cracks.

“Yeah, babe. He’s not doin’ good.” I press a kiss to her temple. “I’ll make coffee. Then we’ll meet the others at the hospital.” I climb out of bed and pull on a pair of sweats before glancing back at London, who’s stretching, the sheet falling, exposing her breasts.

“I’m going to shower.” She stands, wearing nothing but the sass she wore to bed. “Join me if you want me to suck the soul right out of ya.” She winks.

I grin despite the lingering knot in my chest. “You make one hell of an offer, babe.”

She hums, disappearing into the bathroom with that sway in her hips that should be illegal.

I step into the kitchen and fire up the coffeemaker. I’m still rolling the tension out of my shoulders when there’s a knock at the door.

I’m not expecting company, but every part of me tenses. I grab my weapon, flip the safety, keeping the barrel low and out of sight, and move to the door. “Who is it?” I bark.

“Detective Broussard,” the voice outside the door replies. “New Orleans PD. I’m investigating the incident at Jonny’s Liquor. I need to ask a few questions.”

I slide the chain into place and crack the door open just enough to get a look at the motherfucker. He’s a man in his mid-forties with a thick, short beard, a button-down shirt, and a badge clipped to his belt. There's nothing off about him at first glance.

“ID,” I demand.

He lifts his wallet and flips it open. It looks legit.

“Just a moment of your time,” he says.

I close the door and put my gun away, hiding it behind a small box of motorcycle parts. I unlatch the chain and open the door. “Make it quick.”

He steps in, his eyes scanning the area. “Nice place.”

“Ask your questions. I'm not guaranteeing I’ll answer them, though.” I cross my arms over my chest, waiting for him to speak.

“Kallum,” London sings, her voice light and airy as she strides into the room naked. The wooden floor creaks beneath her bare feet. Suddenly, she halts, her confident demeanor faltering as her eyes lock onto Detective Broussard. The mixture of confusion and surprise quickly tightens her brow. “Mr. Harrison?” she questions, her voice tinged with uncertainty now, a stark contrast to the playful melody she had sung moments before.

The air is charged.

The detective turns slowly toward London and laughs.

A shiver runs down my spine.

That laugh.

It’s familiar.

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