Off the Grid Read online

  She had. Brittany was reeling from shock, trying to control the sudden flood of converging emotions. She looked over at him, trying to think of what to say. “I’m sorry. Would you excuse me for a moment? I . . . I’m not feeling very well.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Is there anything I can do? Something I can get you?”

  He was so concerned and sweet, it made her feel even worse. But she shook her head and got up. “I’ll be back in a minute. If the food comes, please don’t wait for me.”

  “Of course I’m going to wait for you. Are you sure there isn’t anything I can—”

  “I’m sure,” she cut him off, and then hastily added, “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”

  She followed the signs to the restroom, surprised that her liquefactioned legs were keeping her upright and that she wasn’t swaying side to side, using the tables to steady her as she made her way across the candlelit restaurant.

  Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

  Her phone felt like a brick in her hand. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she’d read it too quickly. Maybe it was a joke. A horrible, cruel joke.

  But not trusting her emotions to stay contained, she waited until she was in the bathroom before checking her phone again. Her hand shook as she touched the screen.

  The blood drained from her face all over again. It can’t be. . . .

  But the message clearly said Brandon Blake and seemed to be from his personal e-mail account: snowman123. Was it possible he was still alive? She’d been so certain that something horrible had happened to him.

  She hit the message and read the words on the small screen. She really needed to get a better cell phone. But it wasn’t in her starving-reporter fund. The money her parents had left her had run out a long time ago.

  Brit, I can’t take the time to explain now, but you have to stop what you are doing. Your articles are causing me a lot of problems and putting both of us in danger. If you don’t stop writing them, I’m going to end up dead. I’m sorry for not writing you sooner. I know you’ve been worried. I’ll explain everything when I can, but please don’t try to contact me. It’s too dangerous right now, and both our lives may depend on it. Stay frosty, Brand.

  Brittany read the note over at least a half-dozen times. She didn’t know what to think. The “Brit” bothered her. He hadn’t called her by her childhood nickname in five years. As did the “Brand.” That was what his SEAL friends called him, but she’d always called him by his full name. And the note didn’t sound like him. It was—she didn’t know how to put it—too considerate? Too nice? Their exchanges since their big fallout had been much more stilted and formal.

  But the “stay frosty” gave her pause. That did sound like him. The warning to stay cool and not let down her guard was what he was known for and had given him the nickname of “Snowman” in the SEALs. But similar to addressing her as “Brit,” he hadn’t signed off on messages to her like that in a long time.

  She didn’t know what to think. She wanted to hope, but . . .

  Someone jiggled the handle of the single bathroom, reminding her of where she was. She couldn’t do this here. She needed to think, but not in a restaurant bathroom. Dropping her phone in her bag, she unlocked the door, gave an apologetic smile to the older woman whose expression suggested that Brittany had been in there longer than she realized, and returned to her date.

  “Is everything all right?” Mick asked, standing as she reached the table.

  Brittany didn’t sit down. She shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s not. I think it’s best if I go home.” He looked so crestfallen, she added hastily, “I’m really sorry about this.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “Just let me take care of the bill, and I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She tried to protest—both on his paying and on him missing his meal—but he insisted. He really was a nice guy, she realized, which made her feel even worse for her attitude earlier.

  “Thanks again,” she said, getting into her car. She didn’t bother saying “see you next time.” She knew there wasn’t going to be a next time. She’d blown this date big-time. It was too late to regret it. Story. Love life.

  “Are you sure you are all right to drive? Do you want me to follow you?”

  She shook her head. As great as he was being, she didn’t want some guy she’d just met from an app following her home. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He was standing there, holding the door, looking down at her intently. She felt her cheeks grow warm, not knowing what else to say. “I’m really sorry.”

  “Make it up to me,” he said. “Go out with me again.”

  Surprised, she hesitated. But only for an instant. How could she refuse? More important, why would she want to refuse? She nodded and gave him her number. He promised to call and shut the door.

  She left wondering if she would ever hear from him again, and despite the initial lack of spark, she kind of hoped she would. It wasn’t as if she had guys like Mick knocking her door down. She hadn’t been with someone who was that much of a total package since—

  She stopped the thought before it could form. Her lips pressed together in a hard line. If only she’d kept her mouth closed like that back then. She hadn’t really been with him at all. And John Donovan certainly hadn’t been interested in her—the interest had been painfully one-sided. But her brother’s friend had been every bit as good-looking as Mick. Maybe that was what explained her less-than-enthusiastic response to her date tonight. Once burned, twice shy.

  Putting aside thoughts of John Donovan, she focused on the mysterious e-mail. As much as she wanted it to be from her brother, something about it didn’t feel right. But she couldn’t put her finger on what.

  It wasn’t until she was back at the tiny hovel she called home and read through it again that she figured it out. Brandon hadn’t mentioned the missed anniversary of their parents’ death in the e-mail. It was the one connection they still had and the only thing that bound them together. It didn’t seem likely that he would forget to say something about it.

  And what about the satellite pictures she’d received from her new source, showing the explosion in Russia and the deployment orders of a team that she assumed was the didn’t-exist Team Nine to Norway, which was a perfect launching place for a mission? Why would this person come forward with information to substantiate her claims if it wasn’t true?

  The timing of Brandon’s e-mail was too convenient. It smelled like a cover-up. Brittany had been in the middle of government cover-ups more than once and knew the lengths they could go to shut someone up. Hacking into an e-mail account would be child’s play.

  Which gave her an idea. She picked up her phone and dialed.

  Mac—as in MacKenzie, her go-to person for anything technology related—picked up on the second ring. “What do you want this time? Spy cameras in your bedroom?”

  Brittany wrinkled her nose. “Very funny. You act as if no one has ever asked you to tap their own phone line.”

  “As a matter of fact”—snap, crackle, pop—“no one ever has.”

  Mac was the best, but a bad smoking habit in high school had turned into a bad chewing gum habit in college. She had been single-handedly keeping Wrigley’s Big Red gum in business ever since. Brittany supposed there were worse things than smelling like cinnamon. Smelling like smoke, for example. But Brittany put up with the constant gum smacking not just because Mac was a whiz with computers, but because they’d been friends since high school, when they’d both gone to the same all-girls Catholic school in Baltimore. Rebels needed to stick together.

  Brittany had spoken to Mac earlier and asked her to tap her home and office phone lines on the off chance her source decided to contact her by phone. “I need you to try to trace an e-mail for me.”

  “Who from?”

  “Brandon.” Brittany heard the stunned silence on t