Page 77 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“I lived here before you discovered cargo shorts.”

“Cruel history lesson.”

The boat is turned hard, into a narrower channel.

Scarlet’s shoulder hits mine. My hand goes automatically to her waist to steady her. Her palm lands against my chest while my fingers spread over the velvet covering her side. Heat moves between us.

The engine’s vibration travels through the bench and into the point where her thigh presses against mine. Her breath catches, and honey warms through her scent.

I look down at her. “You good?” My voice comes out rougher than I want it to.

Scarlet looks at the water ahead. “I’m always good.”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of the bench as she says it and I know it’s a lie she believes.

My thumb moves once along her waist before I make myself release her. She stays pressed against my side for another breath.

Then the channel straightens, and she sits back.

The route narrows further. Branches claw at the air above us while the engine’s roar bounces off the trees until the swamp seems full of mechanical thunder. I force my attention onto the work.

“We’re looking for signs of repeated access,” I tell her. “Disturbed banks. Residue along the waterline.”

She glances at me. “You’ve seen this before?”

“Not like this.”

“But close.”

“Close enough to know waste can leave a trail, even when the operation moves.”

Her fingers tighten around the bench’s edge.

Ollie slows the boat as we enter a shaded pocket, where cypress roots rise through the water like knuckled hands. The air cools beneath the trees, heavy with mud, algae, and flowers blooming somewhere beyond sight. Branches lace overhead until light reaches the water in broken amber pieces. The swamp presses close enough to feel like a tunnel. Scarlet’s breathing becomes too careful beside me.

“Scarlet?”

“I know this place.” The words sound farther away than she is.

Ollie eases the boat toward a half-sunken dock hidden beneath vines. “This isn’t on my tour map.”

“It wouldn’t be,” Scarlet says.

I scan the dock. Fresh scrapes mark the wood where a boat must have rubbed against the pilings. Reeds near the bank are cut low, clean rather than broken by weather. Then I see the water. A faint iridescent sheen gathers near the dock’s shadow, rainbow-thin over black.

“There.”

Scarlet turns too fast. Her green eyes lock on mine, bright and wrong. “You think I brought you here on purpose.”

The words cut through the engine noise.

Ollie looks back.

I turn toward her without touching. “No.”

“You asked how I knew the route.”

“I asked because you know the swamp.”