Chapter 13: The Undercover Pact

Their son’s light went out just after ten. The house settled into the quiet that only came once he was asleep—the low hum of the air conditioner, the distant wash of waves, the soft click of the dishwasher finishing its cycle. Mace stood at the kitchen island with a bottle of water, still in the same black polo he’d worn all day. Emily came downstairs in a loose T-shirt and sleep shorts, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower she’d taken after dinner.

She didn’t sit. She leaned against the counter opposite him, arms folded under her chest.

“He stopped by the house this afternoon,” she said. “While you were at the warehouse. Said he was an old friend from Chicago checking on how we’d settled in. Brought the kid a soda. Smiled the whole time.”

Mace set the bottle down. “Carter.”

“He didn’t threaten. Not out loud. He just talked about how small the world is, how easy it is for old paperwork to surface if someone knows where to look. He asked how the boy liked eighth grade. Then he left.” She met his eyes. “He knows the address. He knows the car. He knows the clinic.”

They stood in the dim kitchen light for a long moment. Mace rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I told him no. On the street. I told him we were done.”

“And if he decides we’re not?” Emily’s voice stayed low. “One call to the right number in Chicago and someone starts asking questions. Questions that end with our son finding out who we used to be. Or worse.” She exhaled. “He wants us back in. Off the books. Inner-city crew out of Moncrief. He says the money’s real and the cover stays clean as long as we play it right.”