Page 2 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Sweetheart Haven survives on the belief that bonds formed here last. Lately, forever has become less reliable. The Bennett bond collapsed last winter. Before that, the Thompsons separated after almost twenty years. Two more fractures followed the spring equinox festival. Each one became a town emergency.

Myrtle lowers her voice. “Juneberry took a lot of heat after last year’s challenge.”

I look toward the museum windows. Festival banners sway outside in the morning air. “I know.”

“She cared about that pack.”

“I know.” My throat tightens before I can stop it.

Junie cared. Everyone knew it. The Sweetheart Challenge is supposed to introduce unattached omegas to compatible packs through a month of festival dates and ridiculous public courtship rituals. At the end, nobody has to choose anyone. Junie chose to bond her childhood sweethearts anyway while half the town watched like they were witnessing fate. Three months later, the bond failed before it fully settled.

People blamed stress, incompatibility, and fear. Nobody blamed me out loud but they didn’t forget that I’d warned her either.

Myrtle watches me. “You probably shouldn’t have said anything before the ceremony.”

My fingers press lightly against the ache beneath my breastbone. The ache in my chest has been with me so long, I mostly register it as background. It’s the low pull of my omega instincts, waiting for care I stopped expecting long ago.

“I didn’t realize honesty counted as a public service violation.”

Her eyes sharpen. “You know that isn’t what I mean.”

I know exactly what she means.

I wish I could explain that I don’t predict these things. Sometimes I simply know when what I’m looking at isn’t true. The proof usually comes later. The problem with being right too often is that people eventually stop treating it like coincidence and start assuming it’s a character flaw.

I straighten and place the final folder on the counter. “Anything else you need?”

Myrtle hesitates. “No.”

I nod once and leave before either of us makes the conversation worse.

Downtown Sweetheart Haven hums with festival preparation. Tourists drift between shops, carrying iced coffees and paper maps. Vendors arrange booths around the square. Someone tests speakers near the kissing stage beside the fountain, which feels unnecessary more than a week before the festival opens.

A group of teenage omegas rush past me in matching flower crowns, laughing with the easy lack of restraint that comes from knowing someone waits for them at the end of the day.

One notices me. The others glance over, and their conversation lowers as they cross the street.

My body feels the loss of their warmth before my mind can dismiss it. A faint hollowing opens beneath my sternum, old enough to be familiar.

It isn’t envy, exactly, but more of a habitual kind of grief. I’ve had it long enough that I mostly don’t notice it anymore. It’s the awareness that they can reach for affection without calculating whether the contact will end too quickly. They expect comfort because experience has taught them to. Other omegas complain when a packmate travels for a weekend, but I’ve trained my body to treat deprivation like weather. It’s unpredictable but survivable.

I keep walking, trying my best to ignore the way my skin crawls.

The fountain sits at the center of town, wrapped in fresh flowers and polished stone. The fountain’s oversized Love Stone replica is where tourists leave offerings during festival season.

Over time, the town layered new sweetheart traditions over older ones until nobody could tell which parts had always existed and which were invented by a tourism committee. That is the danger of stories. Eventually, folks stop caring whether they began as truth.

An uneasy sensation brushes across my skin, and I slow. Roses, budding peonies, and magnolia blossoms cover the fountain’s ledge. Tucked among them is an unusual flower that catches my eye.

I move closer before I fully realize I’m doing it. The lilies sit carefully arranged between the prettier flowers, like somebody wanted them to belong there, but swamp lilies are not the kind of offering made on an altar of love. Nobody uses swamp lilies during sweetheart season. The wrongness of them catches beneath my skin before I can explain why.

“Scarlet?”

I look up.

Mrs. Delaney stands nearby, balancing shopping bags against one hip. She owns the town’s ice-cream shop, is a chronic gossip, and is a surprisingly talented crocheter. Mrs. Delaney’s scarves are famous for staying warm long after they should and feeling a little too much like being held. Honey has bought me two over the years. Both disappeared within days of coming home with me.

“You all right, honey?”