Page 71 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

It sounds like the matter is closed. The annoying part is that he is right. The fact that he will simply take care of it without turning the act into a debt stitches warmth into my chest.

Roman pulls out his phone and photographs the greenhouse, the trampled marigolds, and the prints near the grass line. Every few seconds, his gaze returns to me.

I hate that he’s checking. I hate more that it helps.

Wes disappears onto the porch with his field kit.

Roman finishes photographing the paint and comes to me. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes.”

He steps behind me and wraps both arms around my waist, resting his chin near my temple. He holds space for me, with no attempt to fix my anger or make my grief smaller. I lean back into him. His scent settles around me, and I purr before I can stop it.

Wes looks over from the porch. Our eyes meet.

He crosses the yard, stops in front of me, and brushes his knuckles across my cheek. “Inside or out here?” he asks.

“Out here,” I say. “Until you finish documenting it.”

He nods.

Roman keeps holding me while Wes returns to the porch.

I stand in the yard with cedar still on my mouth and Roman’s arms around me. Someone has violated my home, gone inside my greenhouse, and left the ugliest name this town has ever given me across the glass. Through all of it, I keep reaching for Wes and Roman. I’m running out of ways to pretend that choice means nothing.

Chapter 17

Scarlet Sage

By the time Sheriff Bentley arrives thirty minutes later, the adrenaline has thinned enough for the damage to look less shocking. Wes has replaced the greenhouse latch with one from his field kit, tested every first-floor window, and moved my cracked clay planter from the porch steps to block the side path. Roman has collected the evidence and coaxed me into drinking water with the gentle persistence of a man who understands I will bite if he calls it care.

I stand by Roman on the porch while Tom climbs out of his cruiser, looking like regret learned to wear a badge.

His gaze moves over the greenhouse, the crushed marigolds, then me. “Scarlet.”

“Tom.”

He removes his hat. “I’m sorry.”

That catches me off guard. “For what?”

His expression tightens, and Roman goes alert beside me. Wes, standing near the greenhouse with a screwdriver in one hand, turns slowly.

Tom looks like he would rather walk barefoot through gator territory than explain. “The council met this morning after the bakery incident.”

“The bakery incident,” I say. “Funny. I remember it as an omega bond distortion event.”

“I know what you saw.”

“No, Tom. You know what people are saying I saw.”

He exhales. “They’re recommending you avoid festival events until the investigation concludes.”

My throat goes dry. A recommendation is Sweetheart Haven’s favorite way of making cruelty sound polite. “They want me out of town.”

“They want panic contained.”

The words sting.