Page 152 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

The words reach him by degrees. His breathing slows. His hand moves from my hip to my stomach, then covers the place where the knot holds us together.

A phone rings inside the SUV.

Roman reaches through the front seats and answers on speaker.

Tom’s voice fills the vehicle. “We found Rusk.”

Wes’s body tightens over mine. “Where?”

“Motel off Route 46. Left hand has an old burn scar matching the biological residue inside the glove. He had a burner phone and the keys to bay seven.”

“Alive?” I ask.

Tom pauses when he hears me. “Yes. In custody.”

“Did he talk?”

“Enough to put him at the greenhouse and both package deliveries. Claims he was paid to follow written instructions and collect the camera. Says he never met the person directing him.”

Wes looks at Roman. The case appears to snap closed around the courier. Van rental. Glove. Burner phone. Storage key. Deliveries. Hidden camera.

“Send the interview recording,” Wes says. “Make sure no one announces an arrest yet.”

“The mayor’s office wants a statement before noon,” Tom says. “Rusk confessed, and the festival committee is pushing to reassure visitors that the threat has been contained.”

“He confessed to transport. We’ve still got drugs and a missing stone.”

“I agree, but the evidence will look conclusive to anyone who wants this finished.”

“Then make them wait.”

Tom exhales. “There’s another detail. Rusk collected his instructions from the preservation shed behind Heritage Hall. He was given a temporary access code with each job.”

“That shed is restricted during festival month,” I say. “Preservation volunteers, committee officers, archive staff, and approved vendors.”

“Rusk says he never saw who left the instruction envelopes,” Tom replies. “They were placed inside an old document-transfer box. Typed directions, cash, vehicle information. No names.”

Wes’s gaze sharpens. “Preserve the lock records and access logs.”

“Already requested. I’ll hold the public statement as long as I can.”

Roman ends the call.

Wes’s knot softens, and he withdraws carefully. He pulls my leggings back over my thighs before lifting me against his chest.

Roman drives. Wes rides in the back with me curled across his lap, one arm around my waist and his nose buried in my hair. The heat eases with each mile, leaving me heavy and tender. At home, they carry my nest downstairs to the living room, so I can remain near the case without climbing stairs. Roman brings cool water, clean towels, and soup. Wes checks every lock, window, and camera before returning to sit beside me.

I drink while he strokes my bare leg.

Tom sends the first portion of Rusk’s interview. Rusk admits he delivered the arrangements. He collected instructions from the restricted preservation shed behind Heritage Hall and says he never entered the archive, never chose the targets, and never knew why Honey’s house mattered.

I set the water aside. “He delivered it, but he didn’t do this alone.”

Wes’s hand stops on my leg. “No. He isn’t the only one to blame.”

I look at the photographs from bay seven, especially the note beneath the picture of my kitchen window. “Rusk knew where to put the packages because someone told him. He knew how to avoid the cameras because someone drew the route. He knows the road, the van, and the payments.” My heat-weary body sinks deeper between them. “But he doesn’t know me.”

Wes’s cedar sharpens.