Page 80 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“Do gators smoke?” Wes asks.

I follow his gaze.

A thin curl of gray rises from behind a cluster of palmettos. Then an orange ember flares briefly through the leaves before another thread of smoke follows.

Wes’s arm remains around my waist. His thumb presses once through the fabric of my skirt, steady and deliberate. “Stay behind me.”

Under other circumstances, I would argue. Given that I’m still wet from grinding against his thigh, the command reaches parts of me that should be concentrating on survival. “That sounded like a decree,” I whisper.

“Field guidance.”

“Terrible disguise.”

His mouth curves for half a second before his focus returns to the bank.

Ollie hooks the boat against a cypress root while Wes steps onto the half-sunken dock. The wood groans beneath his weight but holds. He moves with his weapon low and his eyes scanning the trees, broad shoulders framed by moss and green shadow.

I climb after him before he can tell me not to.

His hand comes back without looking, and I take it. The uneasy fog from the swamp still shudders at the edge of my thoughts, but his grip keeps it from settling again.

A hidden dock sits crooked beneath years of vine growth. Fresh scrapes mark the pilings where the old wood has been rubbed pale. Near the bank, reeds have been cut low in a path wide enough to drag containers through.

Wes crouches near the water. “Recent activity.”

Ollie hops down behind us with less grace and more noise. “Whoever came through knew the east cut. You don’t stumble into this channel unless you’re lost, local, or up to crime.”

“Any chance of all three?”

“In this town? Plenty.”

Wes photographs the scrape marks, the water, and a muddy drag trail leading into the palmettos. I stay close enough that his shoulder brushes my knee when he shifts.

The white ribbon is easy to miss, caught beneath a warped board and stained nearly brown by swamp water.

I crouch and point. “There.”

Wes follows my line of sight. “Don’t touch it.”

“I understand evidence collection.”

His gaze flicks to mine.

Heat moves through me, ridiculous and badly timed.

“I know,” he says.

His simple confidence warms places that have no business participating in a crime scene.

He bags the ribbon with gloved hands.

Beyond the reeds, a cracked waterproof cooler lies half buried in mud. The inside is empty but cleaner than the exterior. Residue clings to the corners. A torn sterile packet sticks to the lid.

Wes studies it without touching the exposed edge. “Medical-grade packaging.”

“Does it match the GatorX material?” I ask.

“The packaging is consistent with prior GatorX processing kits, not proof on its own but enough to send to the lab.”