Page 148 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Her scent curls around me, inviting my every alpha instinct to remain beside her. I lean into the back seat and kiss her forehead.

“Doors locked. Windows closed. Roman stays with you.”

She presses her mouth to mine before I can withdraw. The kiss is warm and lingering, her fingers holding my collar while her body seeks my scent.

When she releases me, her pupils are wider. “Come back before the next wave,” she whispers.

“I will.”

The promise leaves no room for failure.

I step out and lock the vehicle from the outside. Roman can release it from within. A deputy takes position ten feet from the SUV, while another watches the tree line.

Tom meets me near the storage row. “Bay seven is the third door on the left. Owner says the renter paid cash for two months, then switched to the temporary festival account.”

“Surveillance?”

“Office camera covers the main drive. Rear row has a blind spot.”

“Convenient.”

“He claims the system predates his ownership.”

The lock on bay seven is new. County evidence photographs it before Tom cuts it free. Metal scrapes across concrete as the door rises. Heat trapped overnight spills into the morning. The unit smells of oil, old rubber, dried vegetation, and the faint chemical sweetness I’ve learned to recognize too quickly: GatorX carrier.

Tom catches it a moment later. “That smell.”

“Yes.”

The bay is narrow and organized. Shelving lines one wall. Motorcycle parts sit inside labeled bins. A folding table occupies the rear, beneath a portable work light.

At first glance, there is no Love Stone or archive pages. There isn’t equipment capable of producing GatorX either. This is a staging site.

The county technician photographs the entrance while I move along the marked path.

A white magnetic Magnolia Event Florals sign rests against a wall. Beside it sits a box of cheap stone charms identical to the one placed in Honey’s package. White ribbon fills a plastic tote. Dried marigolds, swamp lilies, and shredded packing paper have been separated into clear bags.

Tom looks over the collection. “Enough to build every package.”

“Instructions.” I point toward the table.

Printed property photographs lie beneath a clear acrylic sheet. Scarlet’s cottage. Honey’s house. Cypress Kiss Rentals. Each image has arrows marking delivery points and camera coverage. The photograph of Scarlet’s cottage includes a handwritten note. Kitchen sight line.

My alpha pushes forward so violently that cedar floods the bay.

Tom steps closer, reading over my shoulder. “Local knowledge.”

“Or surveillance provided by someone local.”

A county technician lifts a pale glove from the table with forceps. The leather is worn across the palm. Dark staining marks the inside near the wrist. “Possible biological material,” she says.

“Bag it.”

Tom looks toward the glove. “Matches the footage.”

“It supports Rusk as the courier.”

I force my attention back to the evidence. A Hollow Saints patch lies in a drawer beneath burner phones, route receipts, and several rolls of electrical tape. The patch is incomplete, its backing cut away. It could belong to Rusk, or it could have been planted to make the connection obvious.