“That makes your HomeAssist clunker look ancient,” he says to Dax. “And you’re launching in ten days?”
“Yes. I…I’m worried Kyle’s escalating, but honestly…it’s more than that. If he goes public—not that he’d get much sympathy since he clearly breeched his NDA, the press could tank our launch. And if that happens…we could lose everything. We have a multi-million dollar marketing campaign ready to go and testimonies from some of the biggest names in business. Based on our preliminary in-home testing results, we have LOAs with all of the major insurance companies—”
“LOAs?” Dax asks.
“Letters of Agreement.” I look from Ford to Dax as they both cock their heads. “Contracts. The insurance companies will offer their customers discounts on their policies if they install Alfie devices in their homes. Our next phase of development will include a car unit that can monitor a customer’s driving and give them a discount on their insurance if they practice safe habits like always using their turn signals, and avoid actions like stopping short or exceeding the speed limit on residential streets.
Ford whistles. “Sounds a little…invasive.”
Setting my mug down with a little more force than necessary, I ease back in my chair. “How much of your life is accessible online, Mr. Lawton? If you had to guess. What could I find out with a little searching on the dark web?”
“I don’t know. My name, address, phone number, and birthday? My military commendations?”
“Try your social security number, high school GPA, a copy of your birth certificate, all the plane tickets you’ve ever purchased, parking violations, credit score, and the results of your latest blood work.”
Ford sputters, almost shooting coffee out his nose, and pulls a pressed, white handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing at his lips.
Dax chuckles. “Man. Wren’s going to have a field day when I tell her how much of a luddite you are.” He takes another sip of his coffee, then touches the saucer with his free hand before he sets the cup down. “I gave up on privacy a long time ago, Evianna. Not much choice in the matter.” A roughness edges his tone, but in the next breath, he shakes his head and almost smiles. “We can offer you protection. One of our junior guys positioned outside your house at night, Ford or Trevor to accompany you to and from the office. And we’ll look into this Kyle—what did you say his last name was?”
“Devlin.” The hard knot in the pit of my stomach eases slightly, though I hate the idea of having a babysitter. Even if Ford is kind of handsome. “How much is this going to run me? And…in these cases, how long do people usually need…protection?”
“We don’t come cheap,” Dax says. “A deposit of five thousand will cover you for approximately ten days. That includes the nightly protection from 8:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m., escorts to and from your office twice a day, and a thorough background check on Mr. Devlin.”
Ford rests his elbows on the table, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “And once we get a better sense of Devlin, we might be able to strongly suggest he leave you alone.”
“You mean…”
“Yes.” The weight of Dax’s reply hits me hard, and I stare at him, forgetting my manners. There’s something mesmerizing about him. His eyes are unbelievably pale—or maybe that’s just an odd effect from the tinted glasses—shiny, rough scars cover the tops of his cheeks, and a lock of black hair falls over his forehead. I want to brush it away.
“Evianna?”
Get a grip, Evianna. Stop staring.
“My apologies, Mr. Holloway—”
“Dax.”
My cheeks flame. Not only is Dax staring at me, but now Ford’s gaze hardens. Unsurprising since I’m ogling his boss. “I-I’m sorry, Dax. This isn’t…anything I ever thought I’d have to do. I’m a computer geek at heart. I like my quiet office, my quiet house, and until this past week, I thought I was safe both places.”
A sympathetic smile tugs at Dax’s lips. “You’ll be safe from now on. That we can promise you. Do you know what a burner phone is?”
Scoffing, I give him a look that could probably break glass.
“That’s a yes, then,” Ford says with a chuckle.
For a split second, confusion slides across Dax’s face, but one breath, and it’s gone. “Good. Get one. All communications with Second Sight should occur using that phone. Normally, we don’t go to those lengths, but since this Kyle is a programmer, and you say he’s highly skilled, extra precautions aren’t a bad idea. Ford will be your liaison with the rest of the team. How often you communicate, and the level of protection you want from him—whether he stays hidden or is out in the open, that sort of thing—is between the two of you. However, here’s my card should you need it.”
He pulls a black business card from his pocket, and as our fingers brush, a burst of warmth settles in my core, and I smile at him. His expression doesn’t change at all, and frustration edges my tone when I turn to Ford. “Thank you. I have to get back to the office for a meeting. When…uh, when do we start?”
Ford glances at his watch. “I’ll have Clive follow you back to your office and home tonight. I have a few things to clear off my schedule, and Trevor’s wrapping up another case this afternoon. Can you pick up a burner phone on the way back?”
“There’s a drug store on the corner.”
“Good. Text me the number when you get it. And try not to worry, Evianna.”
I laugh for the first time in what feels like a week. “That’s like telling a chocolate chip cookie not to taste good.” The release of tension in my shoulders is so palpable, it feels almost like something snaps inside me.
As I stand, the two men rise, and I hold out my hand to Dax, wondering what the hell is up with his stone-faced expression. His hand hovers three inches from mine. Some stupid power move? Jerk. But my mother didn’t raise me to be rude, so I grip his fingers tightly enough his brows shoot up, highlighting the odd scars on his cheeks and forehead.
“Is something wrong, Evianna?” he asks.
“Nothing. Good day, Mr. Holloway.” Turning, I smile, and Ford inclines his head as we shake hands. “It was lovely to meet you, Ford. I’ll text you with the burner phone number in an hour or so.”
5
Dax
Evianna’s subtle scent lingers in the conference room, though my fingers may never be the same. And I don’t understand why she said goodbye with such a hard edge to her voice.
As I head for the coffee machine—and my ill-advised third cup of the day—Ford’s footsteps creek on the hardwood floors. This building is ancient, like many in Boston, and being able to hear my team coming is one of the reasons I feel safest here.
“Clive’s following our new client back to her office,” he says as he pours himself a cup. “Want some?”
“Yeah. What do think about her…her case?”
“I wish we had Wren for this one,” he replies.
My phone vibrates at the same time as Ford’s. “New text message from Accounting. Subject: Evianna Archer,” the computerized female voice announces in my ear.
Removing my Bluetooth, I tuck the receiver into my pocket. “She pays on time. And I keep telling you. Wren’s not dead. She’s in Seattle. They have the internet there. Hell, she emailed me this morning asking when we’d have something for her. Pull her in so we can wrap this up quickly.”
“You don’t like our new client.” Ford follows me back to my office. “Why not?”
“She clearly doesn’t like me. That handshake was—” Ford starts laughing, and I arch a brow. “You didn’t think she was a little…confrontational at the end?”
With a final snort, Ford gets himself under control. “You’re wearing your glasses.”
“What’s that have to do with anything? I needed the camera in the damn things to read me her police report. And I’ve had a low level headache for three days. They help with the light sensitivity.”
“Look, I know you can’t see yourself, but your glasses hide a lot of the scarring.
And how pale your eyes really are. Evianna smiled at you a couple of times. You didn’t respond. And when you held out your hand at the end? She was waiting for you to take hers. She doesn’t know you’re blind.”
“And I came across as a total jerk?” Pulling off my glasses, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Tension bands around my forehead, and I blow out a slow breath. “Shit.”
I want to ask Ford what she looks like. Something about her voice called to me. Soft, feminine, but with a hint of steel running through it. But she’s a client, and even if she weren’t...I’m too broken to expose anyone to my scars.
“I’ll explain when I talk to her,” he says, turning around so his voice echoes into the hall. “Clive’s going to handle everything until I can line up Ronan or Vasquez for the night shift. She didn’t want close contact. Those two know how to be unobtrusive.”
“Don’t.” Sinking down into my chair, I tighten my fingers around the handle of my mug. “Don’t tell her anything about me. It’s not important, and I don’t want anyone’s pity. She doesn’t have to like me. She’s a client. One I probably won’t talk to again.”
“Whatever you want.” Ford’s phone buzzes, and he swears under his breath. “Gotta take this, then I’m heading out. Catch you tomorrow.”
I almost ask him to wait. I have to call Ryker back today, and I’m not ready. But I don’t know what to say to the man who carried my broken, bleeding, and blind body out of the worst hell on earth, then helped me kill the asshole who put us there.
There’s more darkness inside me than anyone knows, and I need to keep as much of it hidden as I can.
I’ve put off going home as long as I can. Well after six, the office is quiet. Even Trevor abandoned his dark cave and left. The guy hates daylight. As I step through the building’s front door, the sounds of Boston comfort me. My vision might be limited to a dull haze, shadows and muted colors moving around me without context, but I can still savor the fresh air, the hum of traffic on my left, the scent of the pizza place on the corner.
With my cane sweeping back and forth across the sidewalk, I set off at a brisk pace. Two blocks later, I turn right and head down East Dedham Street. It’s quieter here. Calmer. The magnolia trees bloom in mid-May, and while most people don’t notice their subtle scent, I do.
Another six blocks and I’m almost home. When I rented this place, I hired a sighted companion to help me learn the neighborhood. There’s a little Mom and Pop grocery store on the corner. A liquor store two shops down. My local bar between the two.
I know exactly how many steps it is from the corner to my building’s front door. The short set of stairs to the landing. The keypad at ten o’clock. Chest level. Eight-two-five-six-zero-three. The buzzer grates, sending my low-level headache ratcheting up a notch.
Four flights of stairs. Thirteen steps each. I run my free hand along the railing as I climb. A right turn, and I try not to disturb my neighbors with my cane’s scraping until I reach the third door on the left.
I stow my briefcase on its designated shelf, my shoes under the bench seat by the door, and my jacket on the hook. My routines are rigid. Never changing. If I set something down in an unfamiliar spot, I might never find it again. Or worse. I’ll trip over it and end up on my ass.
Dropping down on the couch I’ve never seen, I run my hands over the leather. If I don’t call Ry today, I’ll lose my fucking nerve. But what the hell am I going to say to him?
My head pounds, the migraine making me lightheaded. Resting my head against the back of the couch, I try a few deep breathing techniques, hoping I can avoid taking a pill until it’s time to go to bed.
Sleep has been an elusive bitch lately, and I doze off—only to wake to more pounding. This time at my door. “Coming,” I call. “Who is it?”
“Ford.”
Great.
He strides in, pauses, and says, “VoiceAssist: Lights on, sixty percent. It’s after eight, Dax.”
Shrugging, I head for the kitchen. The few people I let into my inner circle all know how to work around my blindness. How to turn on the lights in my apartment, how to describe a plate of food using clock time, when to touch me and when to leave me alone.
“Beer?” I ask with my hand on the fridge door.
“Sure.” There’s a strain to Ford’s tone I’m not used to. He’s one of the calmest guys I’ve ever met. Hell, the only time he’s lost his temper in the past couple of years? The other day when we fought about Ry.
“What’s wrong?” I pass him a bottle and head back to the couch.
He sinks down into the chair across from me with a quiet groan. “You’re scary, you know that?” A swig of beer, and he sighs. “I thought I was hiding it pretty well.”
“It’s in your voice. Spill.” With my arm draped over the back of the couch, I let the cold beer soothe my nerves. My phone is still on the cushion next to me, and I feel its presence. Like a physical weight that won’t go away until I call Ry.
“Joey’s missing.”
“Joey?” I wrack my brain, unable to think of anyone Ford and I know named Joey. “Sorry, but who is he?”
“She.” He rises and starts to pace, the angle of his voice changing with every few steps and his hazy form dizzying. “Josephine Taylor? The woman I was dating when I joined the marines?”
Bits and pieces of past conversations coalesce. “Don’t you mean the woman who dumped you when you joined the marines?”
“Well, sort of. I mean…no.” A pause, another hard swallow, and Ford clears his throat. “Her sister called me. No one’s heard from Joey in ten days. She was working for Doctors Without Borders in Turkmenistan, and the whole group’s just…gone.”
“Shit. Turkmenistan’s a war zone, Ford. If she got caught up in a local gang war, she’s not missing. She’s in a shallow grave somewhere.”
I cringe as soon as the words leave my lips. Get it together, you insensitive prick.
“Don’t you think I know that?”
Throwing up my hands, I try for apologetic, but given my track record lately… “Sorry. Is the CIA involved? Any demands for ransom?”
“The CIA won’t investigate. Something about not wanting to upset the fragile peace in the region. Total bullshit. And Doctors Without Borders doesn’t even know where the group was before they went missing. Their last known location was somewhere outside of Sayat, but they were packing up and preparing to head south. Once they found a good spot to camp, they were supposed to check in.”
The leather chair squeaks quietly as Ford sits back down, and his voice is muffled, like he’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “I can’t just leave her out there, Dax. I owe her that much.”
“You don’t owe her anything. She couldn’t handle dating a marine on active duty and she bailed.”
“No. She didn’t. Not exactly.” Ford makes a low, frustrated sound in his throat. “She stayed with me for almost a year. We wrote letters, even talked on the phone a couple of times. But…then my squad got three days leave. Back home in San Diego. And I didn’t call her.”
Arching a brow, I huff out a breath. “So, let me guess. You were out with the guys, drinking until you were shit-faced, wearing your whites to impress the ladies, and she just happens to walk into the bar with her girlfriends to find you with a pretty little thing on your lap.”
“I wasn’t shit-faced. That came later,” he says quietly. “Never touched another woman. Never even looked. All my mates were trying to hook up with anything that moved. Me? I just sat at the bar. Nursing a beer. For three fucking hours.”
“Why?” I can hear the sadness in his voice, and while I’m still confused—and a little mad at him—he’s one of my only friends. I can’t…not listen. Even if all I can think about is Lucy. Her tears, sliding hot and fast over my hands as I cupped her cheeks the day I came home. How strange it felt to lie in bed next to her at night, wearing a t-shirt and pajamas to hide my scars. The day she left, telling me she couldn’t stay with a man who hated himself
.
Another sigh, and the angle of his voice changes again, almost bouncing off the ceiling. “It was Desert Storm, Dax. We were dropped in country after only six weeks of basic. The day before we got the news they were rotating us home…I killed six hostiles. After watching a target take out a public market. Kids. Babies. Innocents. Joey didn’t deserve thirty-six hours of me crying and asking her why.”
“And did you tell her that?”
“Nope. I fucked up. Wrote her letters trying to explain, but she returned every damn one of them. Unopened. Eventually…I stopped writing.”
A long swig of stout doesn’t wash away the bitter taste of my own memories, but it gives me a chance to form a reply not colored by my own bullshit. “What are you going to do?”
“I have a contact in Uzbekistan—Nomar—who’s trying to slip unnoticed into Turkmenistan. If so, he’ll check out their last known location, retrace the route they were supposed to have taken. He’ll contact me tomorrow.”
“And then?” I don’t have to ask. Ford’s going after her. I just need to know when he’s leaving.
“If there’s a chance she’s alive…I’m going to find her.” His bottle of beer makes a hard thunk on the coffee table. “But that means I need you to find someone else to take over the Archer case. Or…at least run point on it with me until I hear back from Nomar.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, then press the cold bottle of beer to my temple. The pounding in my head intensifies, and if I’m not careful, I’ll be flat on my back with a migraine in half an hour. “There isn’t anyone else. Ella’s tied up on that embezzlement case. Trevor can handle the basic surveillance on days, and Vasquez at night with Ronan as backup, but Clive messaged me right before I left the office. His mom’s about to have open-heart surgery.”
“Fuck.”
This time it’s my turn to sigh. “First thing in the morning, read me in with what you have so far. If you need to leave, I’ll run point with Wren until Clive returns.”
Second Sight: An Away From Keyboard Romantic Suspense Standalone Page 5