Page 35 of Deadly Force
He huffs what might pass for a laugh then waves us out.
Though she seems to know her way around, I guide her toward the exit. Our footsteps echo on the polished floor as a few officers at distant desks glance up, their faces bland. One offers Brooke a small, sympathetic smile. Another murmurs, “Stay out of trouble, Brooke.”
She exhales a tired breath, her smile faint but real, along with a flicker of truth disguised as humor. “As if that’s even possible,” she says.
Brooke
My legs are stuck to the seat, damp with sweat I hadn’t noticed in the cool of the police station. I can’t feel anything but the static in my limbs, like my body’s trying to shake off what my mind won’t accept.
Up front, Caleb drives with one hand resting loose on the wheel. His jaw’s tight. Eyes fixed ahead, but I can feel the tension rolling off him, coiled and waiting.
Mateo rides beside me in the back, silent, shoulders squared, gaze flicking to the side mirror every few seconds.
But I’m the only one in this vehicle whose nerves are showing.
My thoughts won't settle. Eliza's face surfaces in my mind. I blink hard, swallowing the sudden sting of guilt. I can't cry again. Crying won’t achieve anything. And I can’t fall to pieces again. Not in front of Mateo.
I shift in my seat, my eyes drifting to Caleb's reflection in the rearview mirror.
He's a man of faith. Of strength, valor, courage. Everything I've been taught to admire, to respect. That’s what’s most puzzling of all.
He works for a company he won’t talk about. A company that seems to have unlimited resources and zero interest in transparency.
No website. No listed office. No press releases. Just a name—Hightower—and a trail of locked doors and half-answers.
And yet, here he is. Assigned to me.
And now I’m considering withholding information. Circumventing the law and going with Hightower instead.
As Caleb eases the car into a parking space, my hand finds the door handle, but I don't move. I just sit there, suspended between roles—witness, investigator, liability, asset. Journalist, woman, potential victim.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, awoman who's starting to need more from the man behind the wheel than just protection.
"Brooke?" Caleb's voice is low. Careful.
I don't move. I'm staring at nothing, lost in the storm inside my own head.
He glances at Mateo, then jerks his chin toward the motel. "Do me a solid—go pack up our room." He hands over the key. Mateo nods and disappears without a word, granting us privacy I'm not sure I want.
Caleb turns back to me, steady and still. Waiting. Always waiting. "You okay?"
How can I answer that? How do I explain the weight pressing down on me? The war inside me? The way everything I thought I knew about myself is shifting like sand?
"Maybe we should let the cops handle this?"
Tension coils in the silence, thick and lingering. Caleb doesn't flinch. Doesn't rush to fill the space with empty reassurances.
"Pray about it," he says finally, his voice calm, unwavering. "If it doesn't sit right, we’ll drop it."
I blink at him. That wasn't the answer I expected. I was bracing for strategy. Logic. Arguments about necessity and pragmatism. Not conviction. Not faith.
Is this how Hightower operates? How Caleb operates? Not chasing headlines. Not chasing ego. But led by something higher. By God. Not personal gain, gut instinct, or emotion.
"Just like that?" My voice cracks. "You’d walk away?"
"I'm here to protect you, Brooke,” he says, his gaze steady. "If you want Hightower’s help with Eliza, you’re going to have to trust me."
The message is clear. I need to lay it all out—no walls, no deflection, no holding back.
