Page 40 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Scarlet’s gaze drops to the muddy residue inside the empty case. Recognition shifts across her face as she considers the same limited possibility the rest of us are considering. “What if,” she says slowly, “whoever opened the case tracked in swamp water?”

The room goes quiet enough that the ceiling fans are audible overhead.

She continues, eyes still on the residue. “The person or whatever they were wearing had recent contact with wetland mud. It doesn’t prove they came from the gathering site, but what if they did?” She looks up then, directly at me. “Maybe they knew enough about the stone to want it for more than the festival.”

Roman’s pencil is already moving.

Tom looks like he wants to object but can’t find the angle.

I hold Scarlet’s gaze, and the case shifts again beneath my feet.

“That raises a lot of questions. It doesn’t answer any,” I say. The residue gives us a physical lead. Nothing more yet. But one thing seems likely. Whoever is moving through this town understands more than the locals want to admit. The person who removed the Love Stone knew enough to defeat the display and took wetland material into a controlled museum case. Whether that connects to the lilies, the gathering path, or GatorX remains unproven.

For now, the evidence has finally given us a direction that doesn’t begin and end with Scarlet Sage.

Chapter 10

Roman Osprey

The swamp turns thick and breathless before the rain arrives. Humidity presses against Scarlet’s old house in waves, while clouds gather low over the trees beyond her property.

Wes left twenty minutes ago to meet Tom and Myrtle back at Heritage Hall regarding the disabled camera system and the updated theft timeline. Judging by the tension in his shoulders before he walked out the door, he would’ve preferred wrestling an alligator barehanded to leaving Scarlet and me here to finish logging the evidence without him.

Personally, I find that flattering.

Scarlet stands barefoot at the kitchen counter, flipping through one of her grandmother’s notebooks while I transfer photographs from the swamp site onto my tablet. Her hair remains damp from the shower she took after we returned from town, her dark-auburn waves curling down her back beneath a cropped white tank top and sleep shorts embroidered with tiny strawberries.

The shorts are deeply at odds with her haunted-swamp-witch reputation, and I enjoy them immensely.

“You’re smiling at me again,” she says without looking up.

“I’m a man of many faces.”

“I bet.” She lets a smile slip. “Judging by your charm, I imagine many questionable choices.”

“That too.”

Thunder rumbles softly outside.

The kitchen smells like rain, coffee grounds, and the jasmine candle Scarlet lit an hour ago, before pretending she didn’t care whether the house felt welcoming. My gaze drifts toward the stacks of notebooks spread across the table. She has dozens of them. Some are bound neatly in leather, while others are held together with rubber bands and water-warped paper. Botanical sketches fill the margins beside maps of the swamp and handwritten notes about local bonds.

Scarlet catches me looking. “You’re thinking I need a hobby.”

“I’m thinking you organize emotional catastrophes with deceptively cheerful penmanship and detailed illustrations.”

“It’s hereditary.” She closes the notebook in her hands and leans back against the counter, studying me over the rim of her glass. “You joke when you’re uncomfortable,” she says.

“That’s coming from a woman who threatened the sheriff while being interrogated.”

“He deserved it.”

“He probably did.”

Rain taps softly against the windows.

Scarlet watches it for a moment before speaking again. “Your family big on emotional repression too?”

It’s said as a casual joke, but there’s truth in it. She’s careful in her curiosity, wrapping it in enough humor to pull back if the answer turns out to be the wrong kind of honesty.