Page 69 of The Wild Card
“Credit score?”
“Excellent.”
Another hum. She tilts her head, and something shifts in her expression—softer now, but somehow more dangerous. “What are your intentions with my daughter?”
The question lands like a grenade. Damn, straight for the jugular.
I open my mouth and close it again. There’s no clean answer to that one, and something in Linda Marshall’s gaze tells me she knows it.
“To, uh…” I clear my throat and try again. “To treat her well, ma’am.”
The silence stretches on for what feels like seventeen years.
Linda’s gaze bores into me, as if she can see every half-truth, every technicality, and every feeling I haven’t yet figured out how to name.
Then her face breaks into a grin, and she pulls me into a hug before I can react—a full-body, arms-wrapped-tight-hug.
I freeze. Complete system shutdown. My arms hang at my sides like broken appendages.
“Oh, I like him.” She’s talking to Emmie over my shoulder while still squeezing me. “He called me ma’am six times.” Linda releases me, patting my cheek as if I’m twelve years old. “You passed. Dinner’s almost ready. Robert’s in the living room pretending to watch the game but really waiting to interrogate you. Gavin’s around here somewhere, probably sharpening knives.”
She disappears back into the kitchen, and I stand there, shell-shocked.
“She’s kidding about the knives,” Emmie whispers.
“Is she?”
“Mostly.” She bites her lip, trying not to laugh. “You did good. Very formal. Very… ma’am.”
“I panicked.”
“I noticed.” She takes my hand, squeezing it. “Come on. My dad’s way less intense. He’ll just ask about hockey and stare at you judgmentally.”
“Great.”
“Welcome to the Marshalls.”
The living room is small but comfortable—worn couch, recliners, and a TV mounted above a fireplace cluttered with photos. A man in his fifties looks up from a hockey game, reading glasses perched on his nose.
“Dad, this is Crew. Crew, this is my dad, Robert.”
He stands, and I clock the assessment immediately. Former military, maybe. Or law enforcement. He’s got that look—sizing me up, checking my posture, my handshake, the way I hold myself.
“Sir.” I shake his hand firmly.
“FBI, right? Emmie mentioned.”
“Yes, sir. Tactical unit out of Dallas.”
His eyebrows lift. “Tactical. That’s the door-kicking stuff?”
“Among other things.”
“He’s being modest,” Emmie says. “He does all kinds of dangerous things he won’t tell me about.”
Robert’s mouth twitches. “Smart man. Have a seat, Crew. You watch hockey?”
“When I can.”
