Page 75 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

A pause. Then, delighted, he says, “Scarlet Sage?”

“The notorious.”

“Finally. I was starting to think the swamp would have to set itself on fire to get you on one of my boats.”

Wes looks at the phone as if it personally offended him.

Pepper smiles. “Can you meet us at Crane Water Tours in twenty?”

“For you? Fifteen.”

The call ends.

Wes looks at me, the ruined flowers, and the greenhouse. His gaze moves through the property like it’s still a crime scene he hasn’t finished securing. “Roman stays behind until I finish the security cameras.”

“You brought cameras?”

“I brought equipment.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the one you’re getting.”

Roman takes the marker from him. “I’ll stay, set the temporary cameras, and compare Pepper’s reports with the lab material. You take Scarlet and coordinate with Ollie.”

My body approves of the plan before my pride can argue. With Wes beside me and Roman holding down the house, my instincts settle.

Wes’s voice lowers. “You don’t have to do this today.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Scarlet.”

“The town is trying to turn me into the answer. Pepper found strange compounds in the swamp, and someone painted ‘Bondbreaker’ on my greenhouse. I need to do this. If there’s a route through that water, I know the old channels.”

He holds my gaze. Then he nods. It’s a gesture of respect.

Five minutes later, I climb into Wes’s truck with dirt beneath my nails, cedar and cardamom on my skin, and the cold weight of my grandmother’s handwriting folded inside my thoughts. Roman installs a camera on my porch as we pull away. It makes leaving home feel like part of it is coming with me, and the rest is staying behind to guard the door.

Chapter 18

Wes Osprey

Crane Water Tours operates out of a weathered dock at the end of a shell road.

The sign is hand-painted in bright-blue letters, sun-faded at the edges and framed by strings of plastic flamingos wearing tiny heart necklaces for festival season. Two airboats sit tied beneath a tin-roof shelter, their metal fans caged and gleaming behind wide flat decks.

The air smells like gasoline, river mud, old rope, and the fried shrimp basket somebody is eating in the office with zero respect for investigative urgency.

Scarlet steps out of my truck before I can open the door for her.

My alpha objects with a low growl before I can stop it.

She glances back over her shoulder. “Was that directed at me?”

“No.”

“Liar.” Her skirt catches in the swamp breeze, bright fabric brushing her calves. The velvet top from earlier clings closer in the humidity, outlining curves my hands already know.