Page 95 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

She purrs once, faint and strained.

I lower my mouth to her hair. “We’ve got you.”

Roman’s thumb moves once against her back.

Scarlet lets out a breath and stays where she is, only for a few seconds. Then she steps away on her own. “Bag the paper before I become emotionally reasonable.”

Roman smiles. “Terrible risk.”

The teasing puts a little color back in her face.

I seal the photocopy and ribbon separately. Roman photographs the bundle in place before bagging the plant material dry.

“Pepper needs to compare the plants and thread,” he says.

Scarlet looks toward the greenhouse. “Marigolds were my grandmother’s protection flower.”

That detail doesn’t solve anything, but it might lead us to an answer. I write it in my field notes exactly as she said it.

“Nothing else gets touched until daylight unless the rain threatens it,” I say.

Scarlet lifts one brow. “You’re leaving my murdered marigolds in evidence purgatory?”

“I’ll cover the bed.”

“With what? Your authority?”

“A tarp.”

Roman turns his cough into a laugh.

Scarlet wraps one arm around herself and looks toward the water path. “They came back after the cameras went up.”

“Yes.”

“They wanted me to find this.”

“They wanted it found,” I say. “We don’t know whether you were the only intended audience.” I look at the bundled plants again. “And if Pepper finds the same compound on this material, we’ll know the bundle itself can carry exposure. That still won’t tell us whether it’s the only drug delivery route.”

She turns toward me. “Does that difference matter?”

“It does.” The truth warms her scent one reluctant degree.

Roman checks Pepper’s next message. “She wants the bundle kept dry and separate from the dock samples.”

I nod and finish sealing the evidence.

Scarlet keeps looking toward the dark line of trees. The pleasure from earlier hasn’t vanished completely. It remains beneath the fear, in the way her body angles toward both of us without conscious calculation.

I look at the house, the porch light, the blinking camera beneath the eaves, and the water-side darkness beyond it. “You’re not staying here alone tonight.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Wes.”

“I’m not ordering you out of your house.”

“That’s a promising beginning.”

“Roman and I are staying. You choose where we sleep: couch, floor, porch, separate rooms, truck. You can change your mind at any point.”