Page 36 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Roman joins us a moment later. “Boots.”

“Work boots,” Wes says. “Heavy tread.”

The sinking feeling in my chest returns. Whoever came here knew where to look and when to come, which means they knew the gathering site existed and that the town wouldn’t be watching it.

“Could be unrelated,” Roman says.

“Could be,” Wes agrees.

None of us believe it.

I crouch near the water, careful of the mud. A torn ribbon has caught against one of the reeds nearby. The white satin has gone brown with swamp water. I hold it up slowly.

Roman frowns. “Festival ribbon?”

“Sweetheart challenge participants wear ribbons during the spring ceremonies. The official ones are pink.”

“But this one’s white,” Wes says.

“Yes.”

“Meaning?”

I stare at the ribbon while tugging at my memory, old stories and half-remembered warnings in my grandmother’s handwriting, scrawled into her journal. The connection surfaces, faint but familiar. My grandmother used white ribbon beside several entries about old release rites and failed bonds.

“I don’t know yet,” I say, which is true and also the safest version of what I suspect.

Wes studies my face for a long moment, watching me with the discernment of someone who has learned to read the difference between I don’t know and I’m not ready to say.

Roman rises beside us, his gaze tracking deeper into the trees. “We should document the site before local gossip turns it into a tourist attraction.”

“Too late,” I say. “This town would monetize a haunting if it sold enough lemonade.”

That finally gets a laugh out of Wes. It’s low and brief, a sound that seems to surprise him as much as it surprises me.

My whole body tunes into it, along with the inconvenient truth that his mouth has been on mine. Roman’s gaze shifts to my face, and he gives me an approving smile.

For the first time, the pull toward pack doesn’t feel like deprivation reaching for relief. It feels like want. That’s considerably more dangerous than the swamp.

Chapter 9

Wes Osprey

Scarlet claims the passenger seat like she signed ownership papers in invisible ink. She steals Roman’s coffee before we hit the main road and settles into the morning with a suspicious lack of guilt.

I notice with less annoyance than I would like. I also can’t get the feel of her in my arms out of my head.

“Most people…” Roman leans in from the back seat and murmurs, “just admit attraction instead of turning it into a surveillance operation.”

Scarlet drinks more of his coffee without looking at him. “I heard that.”

“You stole my drink,” he replies.

“You offered emotional bribery through caffeine. I accepted the terms.”

“I offered one sip,” he says around a laugh.

“You should have put that in writing.”