Page 31 of Deadly Force
And just like that, my doubt crumbles. Not completely, but enough.
Remorse floods in, along with a hefty dose of guilt. I walk across the tiny room to the chippednightstand and open the drawer. When my eyes settle on the contents, hope sparks in my chest.
Inside, tucked beneath a bent takeout menu, lies a thin, dog-eared Gideon Bible. With eager fingers, I tug it out and carry it like a prize to the sofa. Mateo’s expression softens. “Good idea.”
I return his smile and open to the book of Psalms—my go-to place when everything feels like it’s falling apart. I might be out of control, but God is still sovereign. He’s still on the throne. And while I’m totally clueless, He always knows exactly what’s coming next.
With Mateo standing sentry until Caleb returns, I immerse myself in the Word—something I haven’t done for far too long.
Caught in the richness and depth of Psalm 91, I miss Mateo’s subtle shift in posture. My eyes snap up, my body reacting as his goes rigid and he pulls out his weapon. “Get behind the couch,” he commands.
My body obeys before my brain does. I leap off the couch and fling myself behind the sofa. A knock sounds, soft, specific. Not frantic. Not casual. Just deliberate enough to make my pulse trip.
Mateo freezes, posture shifting as if a switch has flipped. His hand hovers near his weapon, eyes on the door, listening.
Then a voice filters through from the other side, low, calm, razor-sharp. “Echo-Delta. Confirma estado.”
I don’t fully understand the words, but I understand the tone. It’s Caleb. Controlled. Dangerous in the quietest way. All the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention.
Mateo doesn’t respond right away. He waits, a beat too long for comfort, and I realize it’s on purpose. A test. A check. Something unspoken passes in the silence between them.
Finally, Mateo calls back, his voice just as steady. “Todo claro. Procede.”
I barely breathe as Mateo crosses to unlock the door. When Caleb appears, cast in the sickly glow of the cheap lighting, he looks like he’s entering a war zone, not a motel.
And the tight line of his mouth tells me he’s going to be the bearer of bad news.
EIGHT
Caleb
My body goes through the motions—sweep the room, check the corners—the words I have to say already burning in my throat as I step inside.
I avoid Brooke's penetrating stare, delaying as long as I can, and dip my head at Mateo. "Good work," I say quietly, clapping him once on the shoulder. "You held it down."
He nods, shoulders rigid as he shoots a look toward Brooke. "She's got grit. Most people would be falling apart by now."
His respect for her makes what I'm about to do feel like an ambush.
"Check in with Hightower HQ," I tell him. "And go get a room. I'll need you again in the morning."
Another nod. Then he's gone, and suddenlythere's nowhere left to hide from what I have to tell her.
“What did the cops say?”
I rub my hand over my jaw. "You can give your statement in the morning."
She tilts her head, studying my face. "But?"
Yeah. She knows something's up. She might have grit, but this is going to hurt.
"I just spoke to Zack," I begin, then stop. The words stick in my throat.
Her brow furrows, confusion replacing suspicion. "Zack?"
I force the explanation out. "He's our police liaison. When we need intel from law enforcement, he gets it."
Confusion still lingers on her face. I steel myself for what comes next. "Eliza was found dead in her apartment two hours ago. It looks like she took her own life."
