Page 37 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

The truck hits a pothole leaving the swamp road, and Scarlet’s bare knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves. In that half second, the air in the cab charges like static before a storm. Her scent warms, honey rising through sage, and my alpha responds before I can force my attention back to the road.

Scarlet shifts toward the door as if she can outrun her own instincts if she leans far enough.

Roman watches the whole thing in the rearview mirror with the expression of a man observing dry grass and a controlled burn moving toward each other. His gaze catches mine in the mirror.

You want her, it says.

So do you, I answer without words.

“Anyway,” he says pleasantly. “Boot print casts are setting in the equipment case, ribbon is sealed, water samples are labeled, and the lilies are heading to the regional lab by noon.”

Scarlet stares out the windshield. “You people make evidence collection deeply unromantic.”

“Swamp mud can’t be romantic?” Roman asks.

“Swamp mud causes infections.”

Scarlet snorts a laugh. “Love always requires sacrifice.”

I rub a hand down my jaw. “How are either of you functioning this early?”

“Sugar,” Scarlet says.

Roman nods along with her.

“Delusional,” I mutter.

I roll the truck past the Sweetheart Haven welcome sign with its painted roses and aggressively optimistic cursive. Morning traffic crowds the square more heavily than yesterday. Festival booths line the sidewalks, while tourists drift between storefronts, carrying shopping bags and pink lemonade.

Then people notice who is sitting in my truck.

Conversations shorten. Heads turn. A woman arranging candles outside the gift shop pauses mid-display and watches Scarlet with narrowed eyes. Two teenage omegas whisper near the bakery patio. A man sweeping outside the bait shop stops moving entirely.

The town has already decided she’s guilty, and now, it seems, they’re deciding what that makes us.

Scarlet feels the attention. Her shoulders pull tighter beneath the oversized sweatshirt, the deep-purple fabric slipping loose enough at the collar that reveals scattered freckles across one shoulder blade when she turns to look. Her scent contracts, the warmth from the truck thinning beneath embarrassment and defensive anger.

My protective instincts flare. The harder question is what to do with them. Dragging her against my side would soothe my alpha and confirm every rumor that I’ve stopped investigating. Keeping my distance would leave her standing alone beneath the scrutiny of a town that has already chosen her as its answer. I choose the middle ground.

I slam the door harder than necessary and round to her side of the SUV to grab her door. I plant myself near enough that anyone watching has to look through me first.

Roman exits more carefully, balancing the equipment case against his hip. “Well,” he says lightly. “The locals seem to really embrace Southern hospitality.”

Scarlet snorts despite herself.

Good. It isn’t her fault the town has handed down a verdict before the facts.

The sheriff’s SUV sits outside Heritage Hall. Tom Bentley spots us before we reach the sidewalk, and his expression darkens. “Tell me you didn’t bring her to an active investigation site.”

Scarlet folds her arms. “Good morning to you too, Tommy.”

Tom ignores her. “Osprey.”

“We documented an area connected to physical evidence relevant to our case,” I say.

“With her?”

Roman closes the truck door. “You say that like she bites.”