Page 35 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
He giggles.
I ruffle his hair and stand. “You good?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Need anything else?”
“Nope.”
“You ever need someone to talk to, I’m your guy. Deal?”
“Deal,” he says, holding up a pinky.
I hook mine around his, and that little knot of tension behind my ribs loosens when he smiles. Because he’s okay, and I’ll make damn sure he stays that way. I leave Eli in the library with his book and his plushie and a little more light in his eyes than he had an hour ago.
He doesn’t say goodbye. He just waves without looking up, already lost in the story on his lap.
The hallway is quiet. Afternoon sun slants through the windows in long, clean lines across the floors. Somewhere, I can hear the low murmur of Jessica’s voice and the faint rhythmic hum of the laundry machines spinning.
I pass one of the side windows and glance out.
Bailey’s on the patio, standing by herself, arms crossed tight over her chest like she’s holding something in. She’s staring out at the view with that look she gets sometimes—like the world’s pressing in and she’s too proud to flinch.
I don’t go to her. Not yet. Not when I’m still carrying this much fury in my chest. It feels wrong to be near her when I’m angry. Not that I’d ever hurt her—God knows—but that she should never be exposed to this kind of greasy vitriol.
David. The photos. The kid. The nerves she won’t let settle because someone made her believe that peace is something she has toearninstead of something she deserves.
It all burns. But I won’t let that fire touch them. I won’t lethimtouch them. Not Eli. Not Maeve. Not Bailey.
I head back and sit in the ops room, lights low, monitors running quiet. I pull up the security feeds, double-check the gate logs, scan for any anomalies. I work my way through the routine like it’s a prayer. Not because I doubt Wesley did it already. But because I need to do it too.
This job was never about a paycheck.
The second Bailey looked at me with her whole heart cracked open, the contract was already signed. It’s personal. Whatever happens next—more blackmail, more press, more ghosts from David’s playbook—I’ll handle it.
Quietly. Thoroughly.
And if the kid ever forgets how strong he is, or if Bailey ever needs reminding she’s not in this alone, or if anyone else tries to tear this family down?
They’ll have to come through me first.
11
WESLEY
There’s always a trail.
People think erasing data is like waving a magic wand. They delete a few files, scrub a hard drive, use a VPN, and call themselves ghosts. But that’s not how it works. Digital footprints are stubborn.
You can delete a file, but the metadata lingers. You can reroute a signal, but the bounce logs still whisper the truth.
And today, I find one of David Oswalt’s secrets hiding in the packet stack of a burner phone payment trail routed through two dummy accounts and one sloppy freelance surveillance specialist who thought “private” meant untraceable.
What it means is that I have everything I need. I sit back in my chair in the ops room, a grin crawling across my face. Gotcha.
The blackmail photos? The ones of Bailey and the three of us? Paid for by a shell account connected to a shell company connected to a real person with a very real deposit from a very familiar corporate credit card.
David’s. The bastard didn’t take the photos himself. But he paid someone who did. And that’s all I need.
