Page 93 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Roman reads Pepper’s message. “She compared the samples from the hidden dock with the broader marsh collection. The dock sample is more concentrated. She also found an unidentified plant-based binding compound.”

Scarlet looks at him. “Binding how?”

“Something in the sample appears to help the material cling to vegetation instead of dispersing quickly. She needs more testing before she can identify it or say how it got there.”

I retrieve my field light from the table. “And the lower levels Pepper found elsewhere?”

“Separate collection points,” Roman says. “We don’t know whether they share a source.”

Scarlet’s breathing slows a fraction.

I open the hall-table drawer and take out the heavy flashlight I noticed yesterday. “You know the yard better than we do,” I say, handing it to her. “Stay between us. Watch the porch line and the water path. If you see movement, call it.”

Her eyebrows raise. “You’re giving me a job?”

“I’m using the person who knows the property.”

“That sounds suspiciously respectful.”

“I’m trying something new.”

Roman’s mouth curves. “Growth.”

Scarlet lifts the flashlight. “Don’t sound relieved. It makes me want to become difficult.”

“You were already committed,” he says.

The affection in his voice warms her scent despite the fear.

We move.

Scarlet follows, Roman close enough behind her to catch a slip without crowding her. The greenhouse waits at the edge of the yard, red paint gleaming wet beneath the field light.

Bondbreaker. The crude eyes beneath the word stare from the glass.

Rain gathers in Scarlet’s hair and darkens the hem of her skirt against her calves. Cedar and cardamom still cling to her beneath the earth and fear.

She looks thoroughly satisfied. She also looks ready to fight anyone who notices.

A gust moves through the cypress trees.

Scarlet’s beam cuts toward the water side. “Left.”

I pivot toward the old path, but nothing moves beyond the palmettos. Rain taps leaves. Swamp water shifts through roots. The darkness offers no shape I can separate from the trees.

Roman crouches near the marigold bed. “Wes.”

A bundle rests between the ruined stems. Marigold stalks and swamp grass have been woven together with white thread and a narrow strip of white ribbon. A folded paper sits beneath it, protected from the mud by a thin plastic sleeve.

Scarlet stops short. “That’s built like the protection kits at Dupree’s stand.”

Roman looks from the thread to the bundled plants. “Something people in town would recognize as ritual material.”

“And trust enough to carry home,” I say.

The arrangement is careful, too careful to match the paint.

Scarlet steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “This wasn’t here earlier.”