Page 74 of Jack

“Fine. Whatever.”

He directed his words to Conrad. “You’re coming back tonight, after the game?”

“Maybe.” Conrad raised a finger to the waitress, who came back around with Jack’s credit card and the check. “It’ll be late, though.”

Jack signed the receipt, then shoved the customer copy into his pocket. Slid out of the booth.

Harper followed him out to the car. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll dodge. But not for long. Keep me posted if you get any information.”

“Will do.” West nudged into his head.“Maybe what you need is a partner, though. A Watson to your Sherlock.”

Stop.

But as they walked out to the car, under the fading light of the late-afternoon sun, he knew one thing. . .

He’d been lying to himself, and his heart, for years.

He’d never gotten over Harper Malone.

* * *

A domestic terrorist didn’t deserve a twelve-thousand-square-foot mansion on the shores of his own private lake, filled with stone fireplaces, leather furniture, and the delicious smell of tomahawk steaks grilling on the massive outdoor grill.

Then again, she wasn’t in charge of fate, and it certainly didn’t listen to her.

Emberly crept out of a closet in a second-floor bedroom, where she’d managed to slip in after Nim’s clever plan had played out.

Emberly had had to do a smidgen more homework—starting with locating the catering company, their location, and the rental vans they’d use for the event, and then posing as a driver.

That got her through the gate. Carrying a tray of thick seasoned steaks got her into the kitchen, and the memorized layout of the house landed her upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms.

Nim had connected her to the security feed, and she spent most of the next three hours watching on her phone as the guests arrived—the Kingston boys, all four of them, swaggering in like they owned the place. Stein came in wearing a pair of black jeans, a form-fitting shirt. No limp, so that was interesting.

But her research suggested he’d actually requalified for operational duty, so maybe she’d overreacted to the whole left-for-dead thing.

Oaken’s SAR crew arrived not long after. She’d done her research on them too. A search and rescue team out of Alaska, and sure, they hadthe last frontierwritten all over them. Led by a big guy named Moose—the name felt accurate—who came in with his brother Axel, grinning and slapping Shep Watson on the shoulder as they entered.

So that was Shep. She’d heard stories.Huh.

And with them arrived Oaken Fox and his band. Oaken wore a little less swagger, but he had a quiet confidence about him that suggested he wasn’t intimidated by the military and SAR types around him.

The party also included a couple of Brontë’s cousins—one from Alaska, a dark-haired guy, cool in his aviators, and a local named Ranger. Nim had clued her in on Ranger, and he looked like the former SEAL he’d been, although maybe leaner.

Music played through the house, and the caterers had started the smoker hours earlier, popping in the ribs. She could almost smell the hickory from here. That and the steaks and a tray of homemade brats suggested a man’s party.

Not a piece of chocolate to be seen.

She’d spotted Stone, of course. No feeds to his office, but one in the hallway, and he’d come out of the upstairs roost a couple hours ago. The office sat in a separate wing, in a massive third-floor room with picture windows that offered a 360-degree view of the lake and surrounding forest. According to the blueprints, the roost was accessed by a private set of stairs that connected to the rest of the house via a long balcony landing that overlooked the main floor, the arching two-story picture windows, and the lake.

She’d have to cross the open balcony, then access the room with the thumbprint lock, which might have been tricky had she not lifted the thumbprint and reapplied it to the thumb of a latex glove.

She’d wait until dark—which wasn’t hard, given the early sunset. And according to the screen on her phone, the lake already waxed deep orange across the snowy face.

Meanwhile, the guests congregated on the lower floor, where they played pool. A few had gathered in the hot tub, a few more hanging out in the sauna while the chefs doctored the ribs and prepared the steaks.

Now felt right.

She slid out of the closet, wearing the suit of the local security team. She’d even found a patch and had it made to look like the private firm Stone employed.