Page 169 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“One more.”

His hazel eyes warm as I take another swallow.

Across the folding table, Tom points at a printed floor plan. Old Cypress Refrigeration began as produce storage before the festival leased it for equipment overflow. Mercer Transport holds the current access agreement. No one has answered the business number, and Sullivan Mercer’s registered address is empty.

A deputy found no vehicles behind the annex. The power is running, but the loading-bay cameras stopped recording shortly after the fire at Heritage Hall. The outside analyst is still working through payments, registrations, and Rusk’s phone records.

We have a destination, but like everything over the last few days, it just raises more questions.

Wes lowers his face to my hair and draws a careful breath.

“Cedar,” I tell him.

His hand settles over the center of my vest.

Roman leans closer from behind.

“Cardamom. Cinnamon. Roman.”

“Good omega,” Wes murmus.

The praise sinks through me, warm and settling.

Roman kisses my temple. “Stay in the clean zone, love. The entry team records everything.”

“I understand.” I catch one of each of their hands. “Come back to me too.”

Wes’s expression softens. The hard focus he wears for the case gives way to the alpha who held me while I cried until there was nothing left to hide. “Always, sweetheart.”

Roman squeezes my fingers. “You couldn’t lose us if you tried.”

The annex sits beyond the final festival marker on the southern service road. It’s half a mile north of where the public protection path ends, and painted sweetheart signs turn tourists back toward downtown shops. Past that point, the road narrows beneath cypress branches and disappears into wet green shadow.

From the marsh, the building rises on a cracked concrete foundation. Rust streaks its white metal siding. Two refrigerated trailers sit behind a chain-link fence, their cooling units silent in the afternoon heat.

Tom’s deputies announce the warrant before cutting the gate lock.

The first team enters in protective coveralls, gloves, respirators, and body cameras. Wes goes with them as far as the loading bay, after the air monitor clears the entrance. Roman and I remain beneath a shade canopy beside the command table, where Tom has mounted a tablet large enough for all three of us to see the live feed.

Wes’s camera moves through a narrow front office.

Empty desk. Open filing cabinet. A calendar left on last month.

Then the loading bay. Concrete walls. Rusted shelving. A closed interior door marked Cold Storage.

The video shifts as Wes turns back toward the entrance. “I’m at the clean line,” he says over the radio. “Bring Scarlet to the exterior viewing station.”

Roman’s hand remains at my back as we move closer to the tablet.

Wes returns a moment later and takes his place on my other side. He curls one gloved finger around the edge of my vest.

The air sampler inside the loading bay beeps.

A technician checks the reading. “Unknown volatile compound beyond the interior door,” she says. “Entry team only. Everyone else stays outside.”

Wes’s cedar turns sharp beneath the faint plastic scent of his respirator.

“I’m staying here,” I tell him.