A quick access code and the gate lifted. They didn’t speak again until he shut the car off. He couldn’t bring himself to take his hands from the steering wheel. Here, in this tiny enclosed space, she was safe. He was right beside her and would be able to protect her. The moment they stepped outside though...
“Zeke,” Vivian whispered. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”
He had to tell her. To let her decide if she wanted to risk being around him. She deserved that much, if not more. Besides, she’d see the pictures soon enough.
“Let’s talk inside. Then you can decide what you want to do.”
Chapter 8
She didn’t like Zeke’s distractedness, even though he was, in many ways, more attentive than ever. He grabbed a bag from the back of his car and protected her with his body as they headed for the elevator. Inside, he kept her in a far corner, blocking her from the view of anyone waiting for the door to open. But menta
lly, he was far away from her.
He was wrestling with something and she wasn’t sure how to help him. If she could help him.
He unlocked the door of his apartment and gestured her inside. The heavy click of the tumblers moving into place behind them lifted an unanticipated weight from her spirit. He flicked on a light switch, illuminating the open expanse of a loft.
The lack of furniture and decorations caught her attention the most. There was a couch against one wall, bookcases beside it, and a coffee table in front of it. No TV, no gaming systems, nothing she expected in a bachelor pad.
An open kitchen was to her left, large windows giving a bird’s eye view of the surrounding area. A door led from the kitchen into what must have been the bathroom. Backed against another corner of the room was a large bed. A worn dresser stood near it with a stack of books on top.
“Let me get you some clothes,” Zeke offered, dropping his bag and his guns’ case near the kitchen’s island. “Feel free to look around.”
“Don’t think it’ll take me that long,” she teased.
He at least pretended to smile. As Zeke moved away and began digging through his dresser drawers, Vivian headed toward the bookcases. The shelves were loaded down with a mixture of genres and authors. Most of the books looked well worn. Some even had little scraps of paper sticking out of them to mark pages.
A few small pictures sat in plastic stands on the bookshelves. She was busy inspecting them when Zeke joined her.
“You weren’t just a soldier,” she said, pointing at one of the photographs.
“No.”
“What were you?” She peered closer. “Is that John? Why do you all look so serious?”
“Yeah, that’s John. He and I were on an international strike team in Syria. We were hunting high-level assets.”
“Terrorists, you mean?”
“Sometimes.”
She didn’t like the sound of that, nor did she like the coolness of his tone. That area of inquiry off-limits, she turned her attention to the other pictures. “Is this your family?”
Zeke gave a soft huff and tapped the picture of the strike team. “This is my family.” A quick tap of his finger on the other picture. “This is my father and mother.”
He’d inherited his father’s jaw, his shoulders, the slope of his nose. But the curve of his lips and his piercing eyes came solely from his mother. Vivian noted the awkwardness frozen in the image. Zeke’s father held his wife delicately with a stiff arm around the shoulder. She, in turn, may have given the camera a bright smile, but it looked strained, and her fingers were tight around a younger Zeke’s shoulders.
“Do you still see them?” Vivian asked, hoping she’d worded the inquiry right.
Zeke pursed his lips. “I see my father every few months.”
“And your mother?” Vivian pushed.
“I see her too.”
God, this was painful. “They’re still married?”
His shoulders stiffened and some emotion she couldn’t fully understand flitted across his face. “She’s dead.”