Page 143 of Carrick
“I think he’s always been in trouble,” she whispered. “And this time… I think it’s deeper than either of us ever realized.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at me—really looked. “I don’t want to lose him. Not again.”
I held her gaze. Let the words land. And then she said what she’d been holding back.
“I need your help.”
The way she said it—quiet, almost steady—shouldn’t have hit so hard. But it did. Because this wasn’t Bellamy begging. This wasn’t desperation. It was something worse. It was resolve. She’d already made up her mind.
I rubbed my palms together, the friction grounding me for half a second before I forced myself to look her in the eye.
“You know what you’re asking.”
“I do.”
“If we go after him—really go after him—it’s not a rescue mission,” I said, watching her face carefully, needing her to hear all of it. “It’s not a quick grab-and-go. He’s in deep. He’swiththem. That means surveillance, strategy, risk. Every second we engage, we expose ourselves.”
“I know.”
“No, youthinkyou know.” My voice sharpened before I could stop it, frustration bleeding through the edge of my control. “You think you’re prepared to make that call, but the second we move, this whole thing goes tactical. No more safe house. No more middle ground. We’re in it, Bellamy. With targets on our backs and consequences we can’t walk back.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat into herself or look away. She just held her ground, eyes fixed on mine—those tired, storm-bright eyes that had seen too much and still refused to blink.
And then she said, simply, “So what? We do nothing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she snapped, her posture straightening as her spine locked into place. “You think I can just sit here and wait to find out if he’s dead? Watch him fall deeper into their pocket because it’s safer to not get involved? What if next time he’s the body in the river? What if the next footage you get is him with a gun in his mouth, playing fall guy for fucking Borovsky?”
Her voice cracked on the last sentence, a tremor sneaking in beneath her rage—but she didn’t back down. She didn’t soften or retreat. She met me head-on, emotion vibrating through every word, and goddamn, if that didn’t make me want to throw something.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
And that made it worse.
I dragged a hand through my hair and pushed up from the bed, too keyed up to sit still anymore. Pacing to the far side of the room, I tried to put space between us—space to think, to breathe, to not explode.
“You’re asking me to make a choice that blows this whole thing open,” I said, my voice low and rough. “To put you at risk, to put all of us at risk—for a guy who, as far as we can tell, already made his choice.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s honest.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
She stood too, not hesitating, not breaking eye contact. Her movements were fluid, deliberate, and when she crossed the room to face me, I could feel the heat of her conviction. She didn’t come to plead. She came to fight for what she believed.
“I know you saw what I saw in that footage,” she said. “I know you felt it. That look on his face—that wasn’t someone who wanted to be there. That was someone who didn’t have a way out.”
My jaw worked, clenched hard enough to ache. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”
“I’m making a call. One you’re afraid to.”
“That’s not true.”
She stepped closer, and I felt her presence like a current pulling me under.
“Then tell the others,” she said. “Tell them about the burner phone. Let’s stop pretending we’re not already halfway in.”
