Page 33 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Wes watches the exchange with the same unreadable expression he’s worn since he arrived in town, but there’s a rough edge underneath it this morning. Fatigue, maybe. Or the irritation of someone who woke up early with more questions than answers. Beneath that sits the focused satisfaction of an alpha watching his omega accept food from his pack mate. The thought appears without permission, and I remind myself I’m not his omega. My scent warms anyway.

“Tell me about the lilies,” Wes says. “They grow around town?”

I lean against the porch railing. Cypress trees sway beyond the yard, their roots disappearing into black water and long grass silvered by dawn.

“They don’t grow near the square naturally. Not anymore.”

Roman shifts. “Meaning?”

“Swamp lilies need standing marsh water and shade coverage. The town drained most of the old growth areas when they expanded the festival district.” I unwrap the sandwich and take a meaningful bite. No one needs to know I skipped dinner entirely after getting caught up reviewing my notes.

The salty ham and spicy-pepper jelly stacked between thick honey cornbread make the early morning bearable. Honey is trying to keep me alive through baked goods. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m grateful. After another bite, I manage to focus on the trouble standing on my porch.

“Tourists buy decorative sweetheart lilies now. Cultivated hybrids. Pretty, no history, and totally harmless.”

“But the flowers at the fountain were real,” Wes says.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

His gaze settles harder for a moment, evaluating confidence against performance.

I take another bite before his indecision about my intelligence can continue to annoy me. Unfortunately, it works too well. There’s an involuntary easing in my chest that I’ve no intention of discussing aloud. My instincts register the food the way they’ve been registering everything these two men bring within ten feet of me: as an offering of courting.

Roman notices, because he seems to notice everything. That’s handy professionally and inconsiderate personally. “Honey says food fixes most emotional crises,” he says with a warm smile.

“That philosophy explains a lot about the South.”

“It’s working though.” His fingers brush mine when he passes me a napkin.

The contact is light enough to be accidental. My body treats the touch like nourishment.

Wes unfolds his arms. “So if someone needed fresh swamp lilies yesterday, where would they go?”

“Old sweetheart gathering paths.” I wipe honey from my thumb with the napkin. “The original ceremonies happened closer to the marsh edges, before the tourist areas expanded. Packs used to collect flowers and sweetheart stones directly from the water. Now they buy matching T-shirts and take pictures beside the fountain.”

Roman snorts into his coffee.

Wes stays focused on me. “Can you show us where?”

I hesitate, and not because I don’t want to. Some of the older sites have been worse on me lately. The wrongness presses against my sight more strongly at the older places, familiar but still too shapeless to name. I don’t enjoy explaining that to anyone, let alone two investigators who are still deciding whether I’m a witness, the crazy swamp lady, or a suspect.

“It’s early,” I say instead.

“It’s five forty-eight.”

“Swamp creatures are still eating breakfast.”

Roman gestures toward Wes. “One of them is already on your porch.”

Wes doesn’t blink. “Get your boots.”

The command slides down my spine with far more effect than it deserves.

The old gathering path starts half a mile behind the springs. Most tourists never see it. The newer sweetheart trail loops visitors toward the gift shops and observation docks rather than the deeper marsh, which suits the town’s purposes nicely. It means fewer people asking what the original landscape looked like before the festival committee got to it.