Page 8 of Deadly Force
Head full of sleep and body heavy, I throw back the covers, yawning and stretching as I grab my phone off my nightstand. Morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting long shadows across the cluttered dresser and the pile of clothes I'd abandoned on the chair before I climbed exhausted into bed. My fingers fumble across the smooth screen, searching for any sign of hope.
Nothing.
It's official. My contact has gone to ground, and with her, the biggest story of my career has just slipped through my fingers.
My already foul mood darkens further when I open my door and spot signs the bathroom's been used.
Caleb.
The wooden floor creaks under my irritated stepsas I shuffle toward the bathroom, my reflection catching briefly in the hallway mirror.
With a grunt, I slam the door harder than necessary and go about my ablutions with a level of attitude I know I'll have to repent of later.
I was so sure God wanted me on this story. Maybe I was wrong?
I scrub my face, brush my teeth, and exit, already rehearsing how to politely ask Caleb to scram.
But as I enter the kitchen, I stop short, frozen by the sight of a massive man—shirt fitted, sidearm holstered—flipping pancakes.
He’s humming “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
The corner of my mouth tugs up despite myself. I watch as he expertly flips and stacks the pancakes, then covers them in foil to keep warm.
Apparently, he’s noticed me. Without looking up, still adjusting the temperature on the pan, he says, “Figured since I’m cramping your style, least I could do is make your pancakes.”
I drop into the nearest chair and rest my chin in my hands. “Well, thanks. Did you sleep okay?”
His mouth pulls down. “Like a baby. Except for the Strawberry Shortcake sheets and whatever they were doused in.”
A snort of laughter escapes, dislodging my annoyance. “I forgot those were still on the bed. I had a friend and her daughter stay over. We found thesheets at a thrift store. I added some essential oils to make them extra girly.”
He shakes his head. “I noticed.”
So that’s why he was up at the crack of dawn showering. Scrubbing off lavender and sugar cookie.
As he finishes the last pancake, I get up and pull out the coffee supplies.
“Have you seen the footage yet?”
He glances over his shoulder. “I have. Thought we’d eat first, then I’ll walk you through it.”
“Can’t you just tell me? I have to be at work in an hour.”
He doesn’t answer right away—too busy flipping the final pancake. When he does, it’s not what I want to hear.
“I think you should call in sick.”
I choke out a laugh and pour two mugs of coffee. “No way. I have work to do.”
His jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He sets the pancake plate on the table.
“Let’s eat. Then we’ll talk.”
I retake my seat, glancing toward the window. My nosy neighbors are going to have a field day if they spot him. If this gets back to my parents...
He gestures for me to serve myself first. I drizzle syrup as he sips his coffee.
“Do you do this often?” I ask.
