I stood close to him but didn't touch him.
"Your father's badge found its way to Lars Reeves' son, the man who perished after a clash with you. It washed up on the beach at precisely the right time. Now, his son returned it to you on the courthouse steps after we exposed the program that caused your path to cross with Lars in the first place." I shook my head. "If I wrote that in a history paper, my colleagues would reject it as far too contrived."
The corner of Michael's mouth twisted up into a slight grin. "But it happened anyway."
"That's history. Sometimes, it's full of coincidences we can't explain."
We silently watched the ferry lights blink across the bay.
I raised a question. "How long do you think it will take before this feels real?"
Michael considered my query.
"I don't know if it ever will. In all my years as a first responder, nothing in my training ever covered something like this."
His fingers closed around the badge and carefully pocketed it.
"What will you do with it now?"
"Keep it close."
Rain continued to fall, gentle but persistent, darkening the shoulders of his jacket and beading in his eyelashes. I reached for his free hand, our fingers interlacing with easy familiarity.
I leaned my head against Michael's shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—no longer the hotel soap from Tahiti or the antiseptic smell of federal detention, but something essentially Michael. Solid. Present. Real.
Chapter twenty-five
Michael
Theapartmentdoorclosedbehind us with a soft click. Alex stood motionless in the narrow entryway, his silhouette backlit by the muted glow of Seattle's skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows. Neither of us spoke. Words were unnecessary.
The borrowed refuge belonged to Jack Brenner, my former training officer who'd retired to Arizona the previous year but kept his waterfront apartment for summer visits. Hours before our release, he sent me a text message.
Jack:Emergency key's yours if you need it. No questions asked.
The sparse furnishings and emptied shelves made the space feel minimalist, but we needed the quiet most. After days of tactical briefings, interrogations, and the persistent hum of fluorescent lights in holding cells, the gentle percussion of waves against the shoreline below soothed my soul.
Alex moved first, carefully setting his duffel bag on the hardwood floor. He knelt to untie his boots, each movement measured and precise. It was a stunningly ordinary and domestic gesture.
I mirrored his actions, lowering my bag and removing my boots, lining them up neatly beside his. My socks revealed a hole in the big toe. I chuckled nervously at my sudden self-consciousness.
Reaching out, I wrapped an arm around Alex's waist. "Are you hungry? There should be some basics in the kitchen. Jack said he had someone stock it yesterday."
Alex straightened and began to unbutton his shirt. "No. I'm just tired. Bone tired."
I understood the distinction. There was physical exhaustion, and then there was the weariness that sank into your marrow, coming from surviving something you never anticipated.
The balcony door was partially open, letting in warm, late spring air. The rhythm of the waves was like a steady heartbeat.
Alex crossed to a window and pressed his palms against the glass. "We're really here, aren't we? Standing in this room, watching this water..."
"We are." I wanted to add something profound and worthy of our improbable journey, but eloquence eluded me.
He turned to face me. "No alarms. No perimeter checks. No drones overhead."
"No," I agreed, despite my fingers still itching to secure locks and establish defensive positions. They were old habits that would die slowly.
I reached for Alex's shirt as he released the last button. He stared into my eyes. "No one's watching us anymore."
