Page 159 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

My attention returns to the green backing. “My grandmother used that color to mark corrections.”

Roman looks at the map lying beside my plate. “Corrections to what?”

“Public records. Festival maps. Anything she believed had been copied wrong.”

I pull the map closer. The protection path is marked in red. The release path is brown. The missing vellum section would have sat directly over the place where the routes divide.

“She wasn’t hiding the release path,” I say. “She was correcting the town’s version of the map.”

Wes studies the cut marks. “And someone removed the correction.”

A knock sounds at the front door. Wes places himself between me and the entry before checking the camera.

Myrtle Vane is standing on the porch, holding a covered casserole dish. Her silver hair is pinned neatly beneath a straw hat, and she has a preservation committee badge on her blouse.

Wes doesn’t open the door.

Myrtle lifts the dish toward the camera. “I heard Scarlet has been unwell,” she calls. “The historical society wanted her to know we’re thinking of her.”

Roman and I exchange a look. The news didn’t mention my heat or illness.

Wes presses the speaker button. “Who told you she was unwell?”

Myrtle’s pleasant expression falters for less than a second. “Small town, Agent Osprey. News travels.” She sets the casserole on the porch table and turns toward the steps. “Hope you start feeling better, Scarlet.”

My phone rings with an unknown number. I answer while watching Myrtle walk toward a dark sedan, parked beyond the gate.

A distorted voice speaks through layers of static. “You found the wrong path.” The call ends.

Wes is already locking down the property while Roman traces the number.

Myrtle’s car disappears beneath the cypress trees.

I look at my grandmother’s map, where the ink thins and the paper goes too smooth, like a wound that healed wrong. I wonder how long she carried that scar alone before deciding silence was safer than the truth.

Chapter 38

Wes Osprey

The line goes dead while Scarlet is still holding the phone to her ear.

You found the wrong path.

I lock the front door, throw the dead bolt, and move through the cottage, checking every window. Roman calls Tom from the kitchen, giving him the number, the time, and the exact words while Scarlet stands beside the table in one of Roman’s shirts with a quilt wrapped around her shoulders.

She has gone pale beneath her freckles.

I reach the window overlooking the porch and check the camera feed. Myrtle’s sedan is already gone. The casserole remains beneath its white cloth cover, untouched on the porch.

“Wes,” Roman says behind me, his voice low.

I turn and see Scarlet’s knees fold. Before she reaches the floor, I’ve crossed the kitchen. Her body collapses against mine without resistance. She doesn’t catch herself or insist she can stand. Her head falls against my chest, her arms hanging loose beneath the quilt.

“Scarlet.”

Her eyes remain open, but they don’t focus. She has gone into full omega collapse. My fierce warrior’s body has finally given out. As I lift her, the quilt slips, exposing one bare thigh beneath Roman’s borrowed shirt. Her skin is cool where my hand supports her legs.

My alpha’s purr tears out of me. It’s too loud for the old house, too rough to be soothing at first. The sound comes from the part of me that has spent days watching her hurt, while she fights the world, and has reached the end of its tolerance.