She’d never tasted anything so amazing in her life.
Chloe lifted another mouthful of soup to her lips, and she couldn’t quite suppress the soft groan of pure satisfaction that escaped her throat. Rich coconut milk, fragrant with galangal and lemongrass, tender pieces of chicken that practically melted on her tongue... “This is incredible. What is it?”
“Tom kha gai,” May said. Pretty, with dark hair, Chai’s wife was beautiful in the way that spoke of inner strength—practical ponytail, simple white blouse, and jeans that somehow looked elegant on her petite frame. She spoke perfect English, but then again, she had been born and raised in Cincinnati. “My grandmother’s recipe. The secret is roasting the galangal first.”
Seemed like the secret was returning to Thailand and settling into a life here, taking over her family’s ancestral home when her grandparents passed.
The traditional Thai house was all carved teakwood and graceful rooflines. Apron verandas embraced the structure on two levels with intricate wooden railings. Late-afternoon light filtered through banana leaves and flowering bougainvillea. Thesweet scent of jasmine mixed with lemongrass and the earthy richness of recent rain, while somewhere in the canopy above, a hornbill called its haunting song.
Chloe had never considered settling down, creating a real home, but if she did, she might want it to look like this. From the well-tended garden to the wooden deck in back. A trail of toy trucks was lined up on a stone path. And inside, rich teak floors gleamed under pools of lamplight while carved panels and handwoven mudmee silk art hung on the walls. The kitchen occupied one corner, modern appliances tucked among traditional rosewood cabinets. Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, stirring air that carried the lingering aromas of coconut and Thai spices.
Hard to believe she’d been tromping through the jungle for the last twenty-four hours.
“Papa! Papa!” Six-year-old Bee had claimed his father’s lap the moment they’d settled around the low wooden coffee table, chattering about his day at school.
Chai had sort of given her the heebies until that moment, when he transformed into a man who clearly adored his son.
Strange how death felt so distant when you were surrounded by this much life—the sound of a child’s laughter, the warmth of a family home, the simple pleasure of delicious food.
Maybe that was how people survived loss. By letting ordinary joys push back against the darkness, one small moment at a time.
“You both look exhausted,” May had said when they’d arrived, her warm brown eyes taking in their mud-stained clothes.
“Long day,” Skeet had said, which was possibly the understatement of the century.
The morning’s trek from their jungle shelter to the Thai border had been a blur of muddy trails, insect bites, and terroras they constantly watched for patrols. Then they’d crossed the border, and the long drive through mountain switchbacks had made Chloe’s stomach lurch with every turn.
Eight hours of travel. From horror to... Well, this simply felt like a different world.
“How bad was it?” May asked quietly as they sat at the table, her voice pitched low enough that Bee wouldn’t catch the undercurrent of concern.
Chai’s expression darkened. “Bad enough. The village...” He shook his head. “The national military doesn’t distinguish between civilians and combatants.”
Skeet set down his spoon. He had cleaned his face and hands but still wore his tactical clothing.
“Chloe was investigating a pattern of illness affecting children near the border. She got a lead on someone named Radic who’d been in the area, treating patients. Have you ever heard of him?”
May’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Dr. Radic... The name sounds familiar. I have a shift later today. I could ask around.”
“That would be incredibly helpful,” Chloe said.
“Of course. I’ll look through the records, maybe ask the other staff. If this Dr. Radic has been working in the area, someone will remember him.”
Chloe finished her soup, glanced at Skeet. He’d been quiet today. Gone was his sass, probably washed away by exhaustion. He wore lines on his face, red in his eyes. The man probably hadn’t slept all night—she’d woken this morning to him preparing MRE eggs over a fire. So, yeah, she should probably let him get on with his life.
She reached for a napkin, wiped her mouth, then, “I should go. I have notes to organize, calls to make.”
Skeet glanced at her. “Chloe?—”
“I know what you’re going to say.” She stood, gathering her small pack. “Be careful, don’t take risks, wait for more information. But people are dying while we wait.”
“People are also dying when journalists rush into situations without proper backup.”
She stared at him, her mouth opening.
He met her gaze, his green eyes hard on hers.
Oh.