Page 147 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

By sunrise, Scarlet’s temperature has fallen, and the repair yard warrant is signed. Neither fact makes me feel better. She sits in the back of our SUV wrapped in my black sweatshirt and Roman’s coat, her hair loose around her shoulders and her bare feet tucked beneath her. Her fever has left color high across her cheeks. Her scent is softer than it was during the night, but every inhale inside the vehicle carries green herbs, warm earth, and the sweet edge of a heat that has not finished with her.

Dr. Cole kept us on the secure line through the rest of the night. Scarlet’s recognition stayed stable after the second brief lapse, her temperature came down, and Cole cleared her to remain under close monitoring as long as we transferred her if either symptom returned.

Roman sits beside her with one hand resting beneath the coat at her waist.

I check the mirrors again.

The county road curves through scrub pine and cypress before disappearing behind us. Tom’s cruiser leads the convoy. Two marked units follow, along with the county evidence van. No motorcycle has appeared since we left the cottage, yet my attention keeps pulling to every side road, drainage cut, and break in the tree line.

Scarlet watches me from the back seat. “You have checked the same truck four times.”

Roman’s mouth curves. “Give him some grace. He spent the last hour trying to convince us he could run the entire operation from your bedroom instead.”

Scarlet reaches between the seats and curls her fingers around the back of my neck. The touch slows my breathing.

“I’m all right,” she says. “It’s passed for now, and there was no way I was staying behind.” Her voice lacks its usual armor. It’s a soft attempt to steady me while her own body remains unpredictable.

I cover her hand with mine. “You lost Roman’s scent twice.”

“And found him again.”

“You’re still feverish.”

“Less feverish.”

“The distinction doesn’t impress me.”

Her thumb strokes beneath my hairline. “I need to see where the route goes.”

I meet her eyes in the mirror. “I understand.”

It’s the only reason she is here.

Tom agreed to let her remain inside the secured mobile command zone while we search bay seven. Roman stays with her unless the area is cleared and Scarlet’s temperature remains stable. Deputies have blocked the front and rear entrances. The drainage road is under observation.

Every precaution remains inadequate. Every option has holes that threaten her safety. My alpha rumbles my displeasure from my chest.

The repair yard appears through the trees as a scatter of corrugated metal buildings surrounded by chain link fencing. Rust stains the lower walls. Stacks of tires lean beside stripped vehicle frames, and weeds push through cracks in the gravel lot.

A faded sign reads Cypress County Fleet and Tool.

Tom turns through the open gate. The owner waits near the office with both hands visible and an expression that suggests he regrets every month-to-month lease he has ever signed. Deputies spread through the yard before the rest of us park.

I leave the engine running for the air conditioner. Roman catches my wrist as I reach for the door. “Her temperature first.”

Scarlet gives him a wounded look.

“We need accurate medical monitoring, love.”

She accepts the thermometer and waits.

I watch the numbers climb, then settle.

“One hundred one point three,” Roman says.

Lower. Still too high.

Scarlet takes a long drink from the bottle in her lap. “Go search the bay.”