Page 97 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

Wes locks the door and checks the camera feed again. He hasn’t settled since the first alert. Protective instinct moves beneath every measured glance toward the windows and every deliberate refusal to pick Scarlet up before she asks.

I understand the urge. After tonight, my own instincts want to pull her beneath every quilt she owns, put Wes at her back, and make sure nothing touches her unless she reaches first.

I grab a towel from the laundry basket near the hall and toss it to her. “Hair first. Socks second. Then you can glare at evidence from a seated position.”

“I miss when you were charming.”

“No, you don’t.”

Scarlet wraps the towel around her hair with one hand while the other grips the back of the couch. Wes shifts forward. I give him a look. He stops, but only because she is still upright.

Wes comes to stand beside the evidence wall, rain still caught in his dark hair. “We need to test the bundle left here to see if there is overlap. For now, Pepper’s message lets us know the dock sample is more concentrated than her broader marsh collections. That still doesn’t establish a shared source, but maybe it will help us narrow in.”

Scarlet studies the sealed plant material on the table. “What about the flowers near the fountain?”

“Without a sample, we can’t compare,” I say.

Her brows furrow, and her expression falls. “Protection bundles.”

I glance at her. “What about them?”

“People are buying them because the Love Stone is gone.” She presses the towel against one side of her hair. “Earl sells harmless ones. Festival vendors sell prettier versions. They’re familiar, trusted, and people carry them straight into their homes. If the plant material can carry residue, the bundles need to be checked.”

The reasoning is sound.

Wes reaches for his notebook. “We should verify suppliers and test samples tomorrow.”

Scarlet gives a faint nod. She blinks slowly. Once. Twice. Her hand tightens on the couch until her knuckles pale.

“Little menace,” I say softly.

“I’m listening.”

“You’re about to fold.”

“I’m literally standing.”

“Technically.”

She opens her mouth. Whatever line she reaches for disappears before it arrives.

Wes crosses the space between them, careful and close without trapping her. “Can I carry you?”

Her green eyes lift toward him, glossy with exhaustion. “I can walk.”

“I know.”

“That’s a terrible argument.”

“It wasn’t an argument.”

She looks at him for another breath. Then at me. In her eyes is fatigue. She looks like an omega at war with herself.

She nods.

Wes lifts her with one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. Scarlet settles against his chest, her cheek turning into his cedar. One hand curls loosely in his shirt. I gather her phone, her glass of water, and the quilt from the couch.

Her bedroom sits at the end of the narrow hall upstairs. Water whispers over the old shingles. The room smells like dried rosemary, cotton, paper, and wildflowers. A small lamp glows beside stacked notebooks and another tarot deck that looks smug enough to have predicted the entire evening.