Page 47

JUNIPER

The warehouse looks abandoned — not recently abandoned, but the kind forgotten for years. Broken windows line the upper floor, rust stains the metal siding, and tall weeds push through cracks in the pavement. I analyze the address written on the investigation notes, then at the building, then back at the address.

"This can't be right."

Brock studies the warehouse. "The address matches." That somehow makes it worse. The transportation company connected to the complaints, the financial records, and the missing evidence should not lead here. Yet it does.

"Stay here," Brock says, already moving.

"No."

"Juniper. This isn't a debate."

I fold my arms. "You keep saying that."

"Because it isn't." He points toward me. "Stay put." Then he starts toward the warehouse, and I wait until he's halfway there before following. Naturally.

The side entrance hangs partially open. Dust covers the floor inside, the warehouse smells old and neglected, and sunlight filters through broken windows overhead. Brock disappears around a row of shelves and I move more slowly, because the place feels wrong — not dangerous, just wrong, like somebody left in a hurry.

My attention catches on something near the far wall. Paper — several pieces of it. A torn map hangs loosely from a nail, most of it missing, only fragments remaining. Road markings, partial notes, pieces of locations. My pulse quickens as I reach toward it.

Almost touching it when a low growl sounds behind me. Every muscle in my body locks.

I turn slowly. A figure stands several feet away — dark clothing, covered face, the same disguise we've encountered before. For one frozen second neither of us make a move. Suddenly the stranger lunges, a hand slams into my shoulder, and pain explodes through my back as I crash into the wall. The force knocks the air from my lungs, the torn map tears free and flutters to the floor, and the stranger bolts immediately.

"Brock!"

Heavy footsteps thunder through the warehouse. The stranger vanishes around a corner and Brock appears from the opposite direction, his gaze landing on me, and everything else ceases to matter. "Juniper." His hands settle on my shoulders — checking, inspecting, making sure I'm standing. "What happened?"

I point toward the aisle. Brock is already moving. The chase lasts less than a minute before he returns alone, and his expression says everything. "No scent," he says, before I can ask. "Again."

A chill works its way down my spine. The witnesses, the surveillance, the attacks — no trail, no scent, no trace. "They're masking themselves." Brock nods once, and the frustration on his face mirrors mine exactly.

His attention shifts back to my shoulder. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine." The lie sounds weak even to me, and the look he gives me makes clear exactly what he thinks of it.

The drive is quiet. My shoulder aches and Brock's grip tightens on the steering wheel every time he glances my way — angry, not at me, but at the situation, at the person who pushed me, at the fact that we're still chasing shadows. Eventually trees replace buildings and open land replaces streets, and I sit up straighter. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe." I don't argue. Not this time. The confrontation stripped away whatever fight I had left.

The safehouse sits on the outskirts of town — small, quiet, hidden, the sort of place nobody would notice. Brock unlocks the door and lets me inside first. The interior is simple: a couch, a kitchen, a bedroom. Nothing fancy, everything practical. He closes the door and the silence returns, and I suddenly become aware of how uncomfortable I feel — dust, sweat, pain. The warehouse left its mark.

Brock's gaze drops to my shoulder. Then he removes his coat. "Here."

. "What?"

"Take it." I gaze at the coat, then at him, then back at the coat. The gesture feels strangely intimate. Still, I take it. The fabric is warm from his body, and the realization does nothing helpful for my pulse.

"I'm going to clean up," I say quietly.

"I'll be here." Something about the answer holds me more in place.

A few minutes later I pull Brock's coat on over bare shoulders. The heavy fabric slides down, the sleeves swallow my hands, the hem falls past my knees. It smells like him — warm, familiar, dangerously comforting — and I stare at my reflection for a moment before looking away.

I step out of the bathroom to find him standing there, waiting for me.

“What a gentleman,” I remark, using a smile to brush off the fierce intensity of his gaze.