Page 125 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Micah closes his laptop. “I will send the remaining neighbor files as they arrive.”

“Good,” Tom says. “Original files only.”

Across the room, Callum draws Honey against his chest and kisses her hair. Micah joins them, his hand settling beside Callum’s at her waist. Their bond closes around Honey with years of practiced care.

Scarlet watches them. Then she reaches for Wes and me without releasing her friend, four hands joined around a woman who is beginning to understand that safety doesn’t have to come from one place.

Whoever is sending these packages wants fear to separate Scarlet from everyone she loves. Instead, she’s standing in Honey’s dining room connected in every direction. I can’t think of a better way to ruin their plan.

Chapter 29

Scarlet Sage

The cicadas are loud enough to make the cottage feel surrounded when Wes finally turns into the drive.

We left Honey’s house before noon, but the stop at the sheriff’s office swallowed the day. Pepper met us there to draw the blood Dr. Cole had requested, then made me wait through two samples, an exposure questionnaire, and an observation period while Tom collected our statements and transferred Honey’s evidence to the county courier.

Now the lowering sun flashes across the greenhouse panes between the palmettos, and the scarlet sage beside the porch glows red at the edges.

My home looks the same as it did this morning, but I feel different.

Roman’s fingers rest against the inside of my wrist. He has kept them there since we left the sheriff’s office. Wes checks the mirrors, fence line, and greenhouse path before shutting off the engine.

Neither of them speaks.

Roman’s hand stays loose at my wrist, waiting. The front door stands ahead of us, and the path is clear, but neither man moves to lead me inside.

“I’m going through my grandmother’s field boxes,” I say.

Wes turns in his seat. “Tonight?”

“The person sending those packages thinks I can find the missing attachment. I would rather learn whether they are right before another box appears on someone else’s porch.”

Roman releases my wrist only long enough to climb out. “Do you know where to start?”

“Yes.”

My grandmother kept her field boxes in the attic. She claimed the heat discouraged casual visitors, although locking the door might have accomplished the same goal with less risk to paper. After she died, I moved the most fragile journals into sealed containers and promised myself I would catalog everything else when grief became orderly. Grief has shown no interest in clerical work.

Wes comes around the SUV. “What do you need?”

The question loosens a tight place inside me. “Help with the heavier boxes. Clean gloves. No one decides a stack is trash because it contains three dead beetles and a receipt from 1987.”

Roman opens the back door for me. “That sounds less like an archive and more like a warning left for future generations.”

“It is a filing system designed by a woman who considered labels unnecessary when you have intuition.”

“I respect her process.”

“You would.”

Wes rests his hand at my waist. “Do you want us to check the attic first?”

I glance toward the narrow window beneath the roofline. The thought of climbing into a closed room filled with blind corners pulls unease over my skin. “Yes.”

“Give us ten minutes.”

Roman follows him inside, though he pauses long enough to kiss my temple first. “No heroic lifting while we’re upstairs.”