Page 18 of Shadow

Dark hair. Gray-green eyes. Strong jaw hidden under too many weeks of beard growth—the kind that made him look harder, meaner, more like the corrupt agent he was pretending to be.

He didn’t recognize that face.

Asher opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed his razor.

He started with clippers, trimming the beard down to stubble. Dark hair fell into the sink.

Then shaving cream. The mentholated smell cut sharp and clean. Razor scraping against skin. Hot water rinsing away foam and hair.

Five minutes later, he stared at a clean-shaven face.

Still didn’t recognize it.

Maybe he never would.

Daphne Cross wanted coffee—double shot, black—two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, and a shower. Maybe not in that order.

What she had was thirty-six hours of highway grime coating her skin, a neck that felt like someone had replaced her vertebrae with rusted bolts, and exactly two hours and thirty-seven minutes before her nine a.m. meeting with the FBI. And more importantly, her so-called partner, Agent Asher Morrison.

She’d stopped in Idaho for a night’s sleep. Slowed her down, but at least she’d arrived alive. Still, her entire body buzzed, and it made walking into Millie’s Diner at 6:23 a.m. feel less like she might be in an episode of The Walking Dead.

The diner sat on the east edge of Renegade, the kind of place that had served the same menu since 1987 and made no apologies. Red vinyl booths lined the windows, their seats patched with duct tape. A black-and-white checkered floor was worn thin in the traffic patterns between counter and kitchen. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that shade of institutional yellow that made everyone look slightly ill.

And yet, the warmth hit her the second she stepped inside—humid with cooking grease and steam from the dishwasher running in back. Bacon sizzling on the flattop. Fresh coffee. Toast. Maple syrup.

Daphne’s stomach growled.

She slid onto a counter stool third from the end, positioning herself with her back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance. Through the order window, she could see the cook working the flattop, his spatula scraping against metal in rhythm.

“Morning, honey.” The waitress appeared before Daphne had even settled, coffeepot already tilting toward an empty mug. Sixty-something with gray hair pulled back in a loose bun. Her name tag said, appropriately, Millie. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee. Black. Double shot if you have espresso.”

“We have coffee that’ll wake the dead. That work?”

“Perfect.”

“Food?”

“Two eggs, over easy. Bacon. Toast.”

“You got it.” Millie set the thick ceramic mug—white, chipped rim—in front of Daphne. Steam rose in lazy curls. “You’re not from around here.”

Not a question.

“Just passing through.”

“Uh-huh.” Millie’s blue eyes said she didn’t believe that for a second. “Well, welcome to Renegade. Holler if you need anything.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, the order clipped to the wheel with a bell’s cheerful ding.

Daphne wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into her palms. Took a sip. Strong. Bitter. The kind that, yes, woke the dead.

Exactly what she needed.

She pulled out her phone and opened Morrison’s personnel file for what had to be the twentieth time since Caroline had sent it.

FBI Agent Asher Morrison. Thirty-two. Transferred to Renegade eighteen months ago from Denver. Clean record. Multiple commendations.