Page 72 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Wes steps closer. “That recommendation has no legal force.”

Tom’s gaze shifts to him. “No.”

“Then be clear when you say it.”

The two men look at each other across my ruined marigolds, one carrying the weight of a frightened town and the other the look of an alpha protecting his omega. The protectiveness in it nearly brings me to my knees.

Tom looks away first. “It isn’t enforceable,” he says to me. “But businesses may refuse service during festival preparation if they believe your presence creates a disturbance.”

My laugh comes out too thin. “So no public exile, just community-supported starvation.”

Roman’s hand brushes mine. “No one is refusing you food,” he says adamantly.

The warmth beneath the words settles under my skin.

Tom shifts. “There’s more.” He reaches into his folder and removes an old photocopy in a plastic sleeve, yellowed at the edges and faded but readable.

I recognize my grandmother’s handwriting and my pulse turns heavy. “Where did you get that?”

“Old incident file. Bond collapse from 1998.” He holds it carefully. “It was attached to a witness statement.”

Wes moves to my other side.

The note shows a hand-drawn white ribbon beside two names I don’t recognize. Beneath them, my grandmother’s tight script reads Bond deterioration severe. Emotional translation within the bond is distorted and unreliable. Release gathering recommended. The world narrows to those sentences. She knew those words, or words close enough that reading them feels less like a discovery and more like finding a missing chapter in a book I thought I understood.

Wes reads over my shoulder. His cedar scent deepens, steady rather than sharp.

Tom lowers the page. “I’m not saying she did anything wrong.”

“No,” I say. “You’re only bringing me a file that makes my dead grandmother look like she was hiding the same problems we’re finding now.”

He winces.

Good. He deserves it.

A truck rattles up the driveway before he can answer.

Pepper Vines parks and climbs out, carrying a plastic tub against one hip. Her dark curls are piled on top of her head, and mud streaks one shin below her cut-off overalls.

Her dark-brown eyes sweep the greenhouse, the sheriff, the investigators, and me. “Oh, hell no.”

I point toward Tom. “Official meeting.”

She points at the greenhouse. “Felony.”

“Technically vandalism.”

“Emotionally, it’s a felony.”

Roman looks delighted despite the circumstances. “I like her.”

“She has that effect, until she starts explaining algae.”

Pepper drops the tub onto my porch table. “Speaking of algae, I brought results.”

Every bit of humor leaves the porch.

Wes sets down the screwdriver.