Page 60 of Tides of Change
“Just don’t do it again,” I said roughly. The deputy in me pushed through the raw emotions swirling inside.
I felt his lips curve into a faint smile against my neck. “Yes, sir,” he teased.
I held him a moment longer and silently vowed that no matter what it took, I would end this. For him.
So he could return to New York—leaving Noah heartbroken and confused—and taking a piece of me with him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Garrett
When we reached Ethan’s door hours later, exhaustion dragged at every part of me—body, mind, and soul. The weight of the chase, the near-miss, and the mounting tension settled like a lead ball in my chest. Ethan’s shoulders sagged as he unlocked his door, his silence heavy with unspoken thoughts.
The shrill ring of my phone shattered the quiet. I snatched it from my pocket and answered with a clipped, “Whitlock.”
“Deputy Sheriff Banks, South County sheriff’s office,” came the professional voice on the other end. “Finch abandoned his car in a residential neighborhood. No sign of him, no witnesses.”
My stomach sank. “Fudge,” I muttered under my breath and pinched the bridge of my nose. “He probably stole another car that hasn’t been reported yet.”
“That’d be my guess,” Banks agreed. “I’d advise you to keep an eye out. I’ll update you if we get anything.”
I thanked him for the courtesy call and stabbedEnd, the tension in my body coiling tighter. A long, heavy sigh escaped me as I tucked the phone away.
“What?” Ethan’s voice cut through the silence, edged with concern.
I relayed the information and watched as his expression shifted from worry to something darker—fear, maybe, or frustration. Or both. “No telling what Finch will do now that he’s cornered. He could disappear entirely, try to hide. Or he might become bolder, even more dangerous.” I clenched my fist around the phone, the need to protect Ethan burning in my chest. “Pack an overnight bag.”
Ethan’s brows pulled together, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Why?”
“Because you’re staying with me. Or I’m staying with you.”
His jaw tightened. “But I’ve got a security system?—”
“It’s not good enough.” I cut him off, my voice firm. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”
For a moment, it looked like he might argue, his mouth opening as if to protest. But then his shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. “Come on in while I pack.”
We stepped into his house, the quiet stillness almost eerie. The soft chime of the security system reassured me, but it wasn’t enough to ease the knot of anxiety in my chest. While Ethan moved through the house, packing a duffel bag and grabbing his laptop, I kept my eyes on the windows, the door, the shadows shifting in the corners.
At my place, the comforting normalcy of hanging our jackets and toeing off our shoes anchored me briefly, though the tension lingered beneath the surface. My stomach growled and broke the silence with almost comical timing.
“Chili okay for dinner?” I tried to keep things light. Normal.
“What can I do to help?” Ethan followed me into the small kitchen.
“I’ve got it.” I pulled ingredients from the fridge. The simple rhythm of preparing dinner was a balm to my frayed nerves. We chatted as I worked, Ethan sharing his favorite New York haunts—Central Park, a hole-in-the-wall pizza place in Brooklyn, theCloisters. I countered with stories of fishing trips and whale-watching tours, but we danced around the elephant in the room. We wouldn’t be going to those places together after he left.
After dinner, Ethan settled at the kitchen table with his laptop, diving back into his writing while I relaxed with the third Jake Slate novel. The quiet domesticity of it all—the soft tapping of his keyboard, the turning of pages, the hum of the heater—wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I wanted more evenings like this.
I was immersed in a heart-pounding action scene when Ethan swore, long and colorful enough to make me glance up sharply.
“What’s wrong?” My voice came out tense, my senses instantly on alert.
He rubbed his temple, his laptop still open in front of him. “Another email. From EyeSeeYou.” His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “It reads,This isn’t over. You stole my voice, so I’ll take yours.”
“What the heck does that mean?” I muttered, even though I was already trying to piece it together. “You stole his voice…?”
Ethan didn’t look at me. His fingers hovered uselessly over the mouse. “He used to write,” he said finally. “Not professionally, but in that writers’ group I told you about. He shared a few stories. A lot of rambling ideas. Nothing polished.”
