Page 73 of Silent Watch
"That's the deal."
"Deal."
She dialed.Caleb listened as she talked to Diana—the same voice she'd used in interviews, steady and clear, with no trace of the woman who'd had a knife at her throat two hours ago.She was good at this.Better than good.She was the best journalist he'd ever worked with, and he'd worked with many.
The call lasted eleven minutes.When she hung up, she set the phone on the counter and looked at him.
"She's holding.But she wants the full package within the week, and she wants a sit-down with you before it goes to legal."
"I can do that."
"Good."Harper pressed her fingers to the butterfly bandage, checking it.Then she walked to the couch, sat down, and pulled his flannel shirt from the back cushion.She put it on over her torn blouse without asking.
"I need to sleep," she said."But I don't want to be in that bedroom with the door closed.Not tonight."
Caleb brought her a pillow and the blanket from the bed.She stretched out on the couch and closed her eyes, and within minutes her breathing evened out—the sudden, total surrender of someone who'd been running on adrenaline and had finally let it go.
He sat in the chair across from her and watched the surveillance feeds cycle through their rotations.The road was empty.Inlet Drive was dark.The night pressed against the windows, and the only sound was Harper's breathing, slow and steady in the quiet house.
His forearm throbbed where the glass had cut him.He'd forgotten to bandage it.He did so now, one-handed, keeping his eyes on the monitors.
At some point before dawn, Harper shifted in her sleep, and her hand slipped off the couch.It hung in the space between them, fingers relaxed, palm up.
Caleb didn't take it.But he moved his chair closer, and he stayed.
Chapter 20
Harper woke to the sound of Caleb making coffee.
She knew it was him before she opened her eyes—the careful way he moved in the kitchen, opening cabinets with a quiet precision that came from years of living in spaces he didn't want to disturb.She lay on the couch with his flannel shirt pulled to her chin and listened to the small domestic sounds of another person six feet away, making her something warm to drink because she'd been beaten and nearly killed and had slept on his couch in her torn clothes.
Her face ached.She catalogued the damage without moving: the forehead cut throbbing under its bandage, the split lip tight and swollen, the bruise on her cheek pulsing with her heartbeat.Her twisted arm was stiff from shoulder to wrist.
She opened her eyes.
The cottage was filled with early light, gray and soft through the drawn blinds.Caleb stood at the counter with his back to her, pouring coffee into two mugs.The gauze on his forearm was spotted with blood—he'd bled through it in the night.His shoulders were tight beneath his shirt, and he moved with the careful economy of a man who hadn't slept.
"How long was I out?"she asked.
He turned.His eyes moved over her face, reading the damage in the morning light.Whatever he saw made his jaw work once, but his voice was even.
"About four hours.It's just after six."
He brought her the coffee.She sat up and took it, wrapping both hands around the mug.The warmth seeped into her fingers, and she drank without tasting it.
"Anything on the feeds?"
"No movement since we got back.Ronan checked in at five.He's running the plates on the car those two arrived in—dark sedan, same model as the one from the security footage at Sarge's."
"Same people."
"Same operation.Different night, different approach."He sat in the chair across from her—the same chair he'd been in when she fell asleep."The brake lines were a warning.This was an extraction.They wanted the files, and they wanted you gone."
"They didn't get either one."
"No."He looked at her over his coffee."They didn't."
They drank in silence for a while.Outside, a bird called from the tree line—two sharp notes, then a trill.The surveillance monitors cycled on the counter, showing empty roads and still water.
