Page 39 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Tom answers before Myrtle can. “Three calls. Pack disputes. Panic episodes. One omega collapse.”

Scarlet’s face loses color.

“Scarlet,” Roman says carefully, “when you said the instability was getting worse…”

“I didn’t realize how fast.”

A tourist couple passes nearby, carrying sweetheart brochures and matching pink drinks. The woman laughs at something her mate says. The sound is ordinary and completely wrong against the tension gathering through the square.

Scarlet wobbles.

“You need to sit down?” I ask.

Her head turns toward me. “Did you just ask if I’m feeling faint?”

“You look pale.”

“I’m from Florida. We all look damp and vaguely close to passing out.”

Roman nearly chokes. Even Tom’s mouth moves toward something that isn’t a frown.

Scarlet notices all of us watching her and looks offended by the existence of concern, which would be more convincing if she weren’t gripping the museum railing with both hands.

Roman moves toward her, stoppings within reach instead of touching her. “Half a sandwich and caffeine at dawn isn’t enough,” he says. “You know that.”

“I had cake yesterday.”

“That is actively making your case worse,” Roman says.

Scarlet’s mouth opens with a reply ready, then her body sways.

Roman catches her elbow when she tips toward him. Her hand closes around his forearm. The depleted note in her scent eases at once.

My alpha wants to cross the remaining space and place my hand at her waist. The investigator in me knows five people are watching, and Tom already thinks proximity has compromised my judgment.

Scarlet looks at me over Roman’s shoulder. Her eyes lower to my hand, then return to my face. The look lingers long enough that I take the chance and offer my palm. She stares at it, then she places her hand in mine. Her fingers are cold. I close my hand around hers, firm enough to ground her.

Myrtle points toward the museum doors. “Do you see that?”

Everyone turns.

A beam of sunlight makes dark water stains barely visible inside the base of the empty display pedestal. The faint muddy streaks are easy to miss.

I release Scarlet only when she loosens her grip first. The loss of contact registers through my whole arm. I move toward the display case with Tom following close, and Roman keeps one hand near Scarlet’s elbow as they join us. He sets the equipment case down beside the pedestal while Scarlet stays near the entrance, watching.

Up close, the residue carries a faint metallic edge beneath the museum cleaner. It smells like swamp water, but scent alone won’t tell us whether it came from the gathering site, another wetland area, or a contaminated boot.

Roman crouches. “This wasn’t in the original report.”

Tom grimaces. “It looked like dirt.”

“It is dirt,” Scarlet says from behind us. “The question is how it got inside a climate-controlled case that nobody but museum staff should be able to open.”

I glance back toward her.

She stands framed by morning light coming through the museum doors, her auburn hair loose and her sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, while half the town watches her through the windows with expressions already arranged for a conviction.

Logic tells me to maintain distance until the evidence settles, but my body has already started tracking where she stands in every room we share. That instinct is gaining ground, but I can’t let it take over the case.