Page 96 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Roman’s voice softens. “Whoever came here did it while we were on the property.”

Scarlet looks back at the bundle. Rain moves down her face. “Every time I let people close, this town gives me proof I shouldn’t.”

I step near enough that she can reach me without being crowded. “Don’t let whoever did this decide for you.”

Her eyes lift toward mine. For one second, her fear clears enough for me to see the omega who pulled Roman and me toward her and chose us both without apology. She reaches for my hand. Roman takes the other.

“All right,” she says. “You stay.”

The decision settles through my alpha like a permanent request.

Behind us, Roman’s phone chirps again.

A second camera. Water side. We turn toward the screen.

The feed shows rain, black trees, and a faint pair of reflective eyes low beside the swamp path, too indistinct to identify and too steady to ignore.

Chapter 22

Roman Osprey

Scarlet tightens her fingers around ours while the second camera feed flickers across my phone. Rain. Black trees. Two pale points low beside the water path. Then nothing.

The eyes vanish between palmettos and cypress knees before the camera catches enough detail to tell us whether we’re looking at a person, an animal, or the swamp making excellent use of bad lighting.

“Do we follow?” Scarlet asks. Her voice stays steady, but the rest of her is running on wrecked pride and fumes. Damp velvet clings to one shoulder. Her skirt is wet at the hem, bright fabric darkened where it brushes her boots. Her auburn hair hangs in tangled waves around her face, carrying rain and the soft disorder left by both our hands.

She is also standing with the carefulness of someone whose body has started sending invoices for the evening.

Wes’s thumb moves over her knuckles. “No.”

She turns toward him. “No?”

“Could be bait. Could be wildlife. Could be someone who knows exactly how little that camera sees from this angle.” He scans the water-side path and the tree line. “We preserve what’s here and go inside.”

Scarlet’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t pull her hand away.

She looks at the evidence and then toward the dark path. “Whoever came back wanted us looking in two directions.”

Wes and I cover the remaining damaged flower bed with a plastic evidence sheet, weighing the corners down with stones from the path. We don’t linger. The yard feels watched, and Scarlet is swaying in a way she would stab me for noting aloud.

Inside, warm lamplight gathers around us.

The house still carries what happened before the alarms. The quilt lies twisted near the couch arm. A pasta bowl waits half-finished on the coffee table. The record turns softly at the end of its side, the needle whispering through the same tired circle.

Our scents remain everywhere. The room feels lived-in now, not because we have earned the right to call it ours but because she chose to let us leave traces.

Scarlet kicks off her boots and winces when her wet skirt brushes her legs. “If either of you says rest, I’m walking into the swamp on principle.”

“You’re safe,” I say. “I was going to say dry socks.”

She gives me a suspicious look. “That was slick.”

“I’m beloved for my subtlety.”

“You’re tolerated for your face.”

“Still counts.”