Page 56 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“You’d miss me.”

Unfortunately true.

Wes returns a minute later. “Lab confirmed overlap between the residue compounds and GatorX processing agents.”

Everything inside me sharpens. “Confirmed?”

“Partial confirmation,” he says. “The compounds occur naturally in the swamp ecosystem, so we can’t isolate whether the springs are connected to production or just environmental.”

“So we learned almost nothing,” I mutter.

“We learned enough,” Wes says.

“We still can’t prove whether the springs are the source or a contamination.”

“No,” Wes admits. “But now we know the overlap is real.”

A heavy silence settles over the roadside stand. Even Earl looks unsettled.

Pepper crosses her arms slowly. “You think somebody’s making the drug here?”

“I think,” I say carefully, “someone is using older sweetheart rites for a reason. The why is less clear.”

Nobody argues.

Earl points toward the marsh road. “You heading toward the old springs?”

I blink. “How’d you know?”

“You ask about old rite materials and start talking about lilies, I can guess.” He narrows his eyes. “Be careful out there. Folks have been visiting after dark again.”

Roman’s expression sharpens. “Tourists?”

Earl shakes his head slowly. “Tourists don’t know enough to be quiet.”

The old springs sit beyond the newer sweetheart paths, where tourists photograph carved heart signs and painted docks. The swamp presses closer to the waterline here, and the boardwalk narrows into weathered planks aged by storms. Cypress roots twist through black water beneath us.

The air feels denser here, layered with old stories the town polished smooth. It’s like the ground remembers more than the town built on top of it does. My sight catches on the place the same way it catches on a story that has been told too neatly.

I step carefully across the old wooden walkway, toward the original ritual stones. Wes stays close behind me whenever the boards shift underfoot. His awareness settles along my back with a patient consistency that brings a layer of warmth to my skin.

Roman watches the two of us with interest. The man is intolerably observant.

“People used to leave offerings here before the town commercialized the ceremonies,” I explain, keeping my voice low. “Flowers. River stones. Chalk markings.”

“Binding bond rituals?” Roman asks.

“Originally.” I brush my fingers lightly over one weathered carving. “Later, there were release rites too.”

Wes looks toward me. “To weaken bonds?”

“To survive them.”

“What do you mean?”

“When a bond became dangerous or someone needed to leave, the old rites gave them another option besides simply enduring it. Breaking a bond can destabilize the body, and modern surgical cutting carries its own risks. The release rites were supposed to make letting go of a bond survivable.”

A breeze moves across the water, and nobody speaks for a moment.