Page 52 of Only the Hunter

He licks his bottom lip and presses his lips together. Thoughtful. “You know, you once asked a question that I’ve carried with me a long time.”

“Oh? Do share.”

“We were discussing a military scandal. A woman, actually. Raped. She claimed. It was in the paper for a hot minute, then disappeared. I said there must not’ve been anything to the case.”

“It drives me crazy when people don’t believe women.”

“Right. And I agree with you.” He waits until our eyes lock and he nods once, some kind of affirmation. “You said, you’re assuming the government wants justice. What if it just wants quiet?”

“Scary thought, right?” I mean, that’s basically why I’m here, researching a case I’ve been told to leave.

“It is.”

“But why have you been thinking about that? We had that conversation what…a dozen years ago? Fifteen?”

“Because I’m not convinced the government shared the truth.”

“Your father was CIA. They might not be able to.”

“True.”

“That’s why you’re looking to join the NSA? You want to conduct your own investigation?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

The only sounds are the muted hum of the city outside, distant traffic along the lake, and the soft murmur of voices somewhere down the hall.

“Partly,” he says finally. “But mostly because I’m tired of being told what I’m allowed to see.”

Something in his tone has shifted. He’s not defensive or guarded. He’s just stating the plain truth.

“I grew up believing the system worked,” he continues. “That if you put good people in charge, the truth eventually surfaced.” He huffs a quiet breath. “Turns out the truth is usually buried by people who are very good at shoveling dirt.”

I study him in the low light, the way his jaw tightens, the way his thumb drags once over his knuckle—like he’s grounding himself.

“That’s exhausting,” I say softly.

His gaze lifts to mine and holds.

“It is.”

Neither of us looks away.

My stomach flutters—undisciplined as it is.

At some point, without meaning to, I’ve shifted closer. Or maybe he has. Our knees nearly touch now, the space between us is charged and warm, the air heavier than it was a moment ago.

“I never told anyone this,” he says, quieter still. “But after my dad died, I kept waiting for someone to explain it. To make it make sense. They never did.”

My chest aches for his loss.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it—not as an apology—as truth.

His eyes flick to my mouth. Just once. Just long enough for my pulse to stutter.

“You don’t have to be,” he says. “You’re one of the few people who ever asked the right questions.”

I swallow.