Page 41 of Flint’s Strike

A little after five, Nate pushes to his feet, slides his assortment of highlighters carefully back into the box, and yawns. “Well, it’s been fun. But I’m going home before I turn into a pumpkin. Same time tomorrow?”

“God, no.” Parker leans over, her voice low and sultry. “Nate got here at six thirty this morning. Don’t agree or he’ll start texting you at five.”

“I’m blocking his number now. What is it?”

Her laugh warms my entire body. Nate staggers back as if I’ve wounded him, but in the next breath, winks at us. “Be good, kids. Don’t get into any trouble tonight. Or do. But don’t tell me about it.”

Did he just…?

The bright red spots on Parker’s cheeks confirm it. Yes. Yes, he did.

Scooting her chair a few inches further away, she shakes her head softly. “He’s a damn good Ranger and a solid partner. But there are times his overprotective big brother energy gets a little out of control. There’s a reason I called him Lieutenant Last Nerve for a solid month before we got promoted.”

“And what did he call you?”

She hesitates. “Lieutenant Loose Cannon.” Before I can ask why, she holds up a hand. “Nate didn’t choose the nickname. I…sort of punched my former chief in the face when he burst into AJ’s house and started screaming at Grace less than a week after she’d reappeared.”

“Holy shit. And you kept your star?” With every new thing I learn about Parker, I want more. More conversation. More of her laughter. More of those small, almost secret smiles she sends me when she thinks Nate isn’t watching.

“Have dinner with me.” The words escape before I think them through. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. But…tomorrow? Thursday? Saturday?”

She regards me with a hint of suspicion. “Not Friday?”

Now it’s my turn to be embarrassed. “I’m part of a knitting circle at Purl on Pine. Haven’t missed a Friday night in almost six years. I’m afraid they’ll send out a search party. Or call the National Guard.”

Parker’s about to reply when the door to the conference room opens and Chief Stone pokes his head in. “Parker? Do you have a minute? Grace and I stopped in on our way to the Punchbowl because she wanted to check on you.”

Pushing slowly to her feet, she tests her left leg before putting her full weight on it. Stone narrows his eyes at her, clearly concerned, and offers her his arm. “I’m good,” she says, then turns back to me. “Eliot, don’t leave.”

She’s out the door before I can answer.

Chapter Fifteen

Parker

AJ leads me to the break room where Grace is already sitting at one of the small round tables, then makes himself scarce.

Belle trots over, sniffs my thigh, and whines softly. “I’m okay, sweetie.”

“Are you?” Grace asks. “Five stitches isn’t nothing. You fell through a floor.”

“AJ’s a tattletale.” I ease myself down into the chair across from her. “And I’ve had worse. Recently, even.” I hold up my hands. Grace doesn’t say anything, leaving the silence long enough I scramble to fill it. “You know we’re investigating those arsons in the suburbs. The subfloor in one of the offices was compromised, and no one marked it as a hazard. I should have been more careful.”

“And…?”

Only Grace could figure out I’m holding back. We’ve known one another for just a few months, but in that time, she’s become my closest friend. I love Emi and Isabel. The four of us have girls’ night almost every Wednesday. But Grace is the only one I’ve talked to about my time in the Box. And the only one who knows I tried—and quit—therapy to deal with the aftermath.

I dig the nails of my left hand into my palm until one of my damaged nerves sends a spark of pain racing up my arm. I need the sensation to keep me grounded. “The door slammed shut, the lock was warped, all I had was a flashlight and my multitool, and the fire alarm kept going off so loudly all I could hear was that sound.”

Tears prick at my eyes. Grace reaches across the table, taking my hand in both of hers. “You’re home. You’re safe. You’re loved.”

I take a couple of ragged breaths until the memory of the loud, deep, constant drone from the speakers Prophet had placed in the Box fades away. “I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you and AJ last night.”

“Nate spent an hour pacing the kitchen,” she says, finally releasing my hand. “Until Belle backed him into a corner and sat on his feet.”

We both laugh at the image of the eighty-pound dog pinning Nate—who never stops moving for more than five minutes—against the cabinets.

“I would’ve paid to see that.”