Page 158 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

It’s enough people for whoever it was to hide inside legitimate activity.

“Were the credentials tracked?” I ask.

“The exterior door records a group access code during festival preparation,” Wes says. “One person enters it, then everyone walks in together.”

“So no individual trail.”

“Correct.”

I study the time stamps. The archive copying request was created at 10:17. The museum transfer at 10:42. Rusk’s first code at 10:58. All three fall inside preservation work sessions.

“Whoever did this didn’t sneak into the building,” I say. “They worked while everyone else was there.”

Roman traces one entry with his finger. “And used the noise of ordinary preparation for cover.”

An alert appears in the corner of the screen. A news clip begins playing before Wes can close it.

The mayor stands beneath the festival arch downtown, surrounded by paper hearts and reporters. Behind him, vendors reopen booths while a banner declares Love Always Finds a Way. He praises the sheriff’s office, announces that the danger has passed, and promises the Love Stone will be recovered once Cal Rusk cooperates.

My name follows.

Local recluse Scarlet Sage helped federal investigators identify the suspect.

A photograph of my cottage fills the screen.

Wes closes the video. His cedar turns sharp enough to sting my nose. “They showed the house.”

“The footage was taken from the county road,” Roman says.

“They showed where she lives.”

I rest my hand on Wes’s forearm. The muscle beneath my palm remains rigid. “I’m safe.”

“They just told every curious person in town where to find you.”

“It’s Sweetheart Haven. They already knew.”

“Still unacceptable.” His alpha wants walls, locks, distance, and everyone who has ever looked at me too closely placed beyond reach.

I understand the urge. I also see how easily protection can cage the person inside it. “Stay with me,” I say.

His eyes find mine.

“I won’t let myself fade away again. The town made up its mind about me years ago, but I need to stop carrying that weight.”

Wes turns his hand beneath mine and laces our fingers together. “You won’t.”

Roman opens a message from Tom.

The note contains a photograph taken inside the evidence room at the sheriff’s office. An archival supply packet sits on a metal table, tagged and logged. Green backing paper rests beneath sheets of vellum, cut into narrow squares. The dimensions match the pale gap on my grandmother’s copied page.

Tom’s message follows: Recovered from Magnolia’s festival storage during a deputy inventory sweep. Only one order used this discontinued backing. Heritage Hall preservation committee. Twelve archival packets. Picked up rather than delivered.

“Did he find a pickup name?” I ask.

Roman opens the attached receipt. “The signature is unreadable. The vehicle field contains a partial license plate and the word motorcycle.”

Wes nods once. “Tom already flagged it for follow-up.”