Page 109 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“Swamp lily. Then marigold. Keep the pale blossom separate.”

The woman continues filming. Scarlet continues directing the collection.

By the time we return to the truck, mud streaks the hem of her green skirt. She rubs at it absently while Roman labels the final bag.

“Relief still bothers me,” she says.

I start the engine. “Why?”

“Because protection promises safety. Relief promises an escape from pain.” Her gaze meets mine in the mirror.

“Relief is consistent with language used in prior GatorX advertising,” I say.

We have more trails to track and yet no answers.

Chapter 25

Roman Osprey

Cypress Kiss Rentals sits three streets from the square, close enough for tourists to hear festival music and far enough from the swamp to pretend the water doesn’t own this town.

The cottages are painted in pastels, each door dressed with a heart-shaped wreath and a little plaque naming its cottage after one of Sweetheart Haven’s famous romances. The one Tom sends us to is called Alpha’s Promise, because this town has yet to meet a tender legend it didn’t want to monetize.

Scarlet reads the plaque, then looks toward the cottage windows, where the curtains have been pulled tight against the afternoon glare. She looks worn down by the last twenty-four hours, yet the softness in her expression is no longer buried beneath mockery.

Wes and I check the camera feed from Scarlet’s property before he pockets his phone. The greenhouse view is clear. The porch sensor is active. Whoever threatened her hasn’t disappeared simply because the case moved into town, and none of us have forgotten it. His hand settles at the small of Scarlet’s back.

A bond medic opens the door. “BESTF?”

Wes nods. “Wes Osprey. Roman Osprey and Scarlet Sage.”

Recognition crosses the medic’s face when he looks at Scarlet, followed by the cautious pause people in this town rarely manage to hide. Her fingers tighten around mine. She lifts her chin but doesn’t retreat behind a cutting remark.

Inside, the cottage smells of lavender cleaner, cold coffee, flowers, and the bitter edge of fear sweat. Festival blooms sit in a pink mason jar on the table. A sweetheart welcome basket rests half-unpacked near the kitchenette, tissue paper spilling over the counter beside a discarded flyer. Wes sees it when I do. His gaze shifts from the flyer to a dried bundle lying on the table, then toward the bedroom door.

Across the room, a beta sits on the edge of the couch with his hands open on his knees, trying to make himself look harmless. He’s sandy-haired, perhaps thirty, with shadows beneath his eyes and a shirt wrinkled from a night without sleep. The alpha stands near the bedroom door, broad shoulders curved beneath a blue polo, every protective instinct in him focused on the omega beyond it.

Tom waits beside the window with his hat in his hands. “Grant and Ellis Pruitt. Their omega is Maribel. They came down from Savannah for the early festival ceremonies.”

Grant looks at Scarlet first. “Are you the woman from the bakery?”

Wes shifts closer, though he leaves Scarlet room to answer.

“Yes,” she says, her voice gentle.

Grant’s eyes shine. “Then tell me how to make her hear me.”

Scarlet’s face opens with compassion. This is why we need her here. Her knowledge of the swamp and the town’s rituals helps, but Maribel needs the omega who understands how fear can twist care until it sounds like a threat.

“What is she hearing?” Scarlet asks.

Ellis rubs both of his hands over his face. “That I’m not me.”

The bedroom door opens a few inches. Maribel stands there wrapped in a white hotel robe with pink hearts embroidered at the cuffs. Her dark curls are flattened on one side, and exhaustion has dulled the warmth of her brown skin. She looks across the room, finds Ellis, and crumples around the sight of him. “You came back wrong,” she whispers.

Ellis makes a broken sound.

Grant takes one step toward her, then stops before he crowds the doorway. “Baby, he’s Ellis.”