Page 68

Theo opens the door only after checking the drive behind them. “Put the cases inside.”

Wes sets the cooler on the entry table. “Sample kits from Dr. Cole. We also brought temporary cameras. After Larkspur, Roman thought any property with connected water, old route evidence, and an active bond-distress case should have eyes on it until we know whether someone is revisiting these sites.”

Roman lifts one shoulder. “My paranoia is a public service.”

Theo’s gaze drops to the equipment. “I need cameras on the gate, the dock, and the east access.”

Wes looks toward the side of the house. “East access?”

“Old route marker is near that boundary,” Theo says.

The answer is true, but it leaves weight underneath it. His hand brushes my lower back, steady and warm, and I understand he isn’t ready to hand strangers the rest of his past before he has to.

Wes studies Theo for half a second, then nods. “Your property. Your call.”

Roman hands Theo a case. “If the feed points at a raccoon instead of the road, I reserve the right to mock you.”

Theo takes the case. “Acceptable.”

Progress, apparently, can sound like two large men negotiating surveillance equipment while holding pastries.

The sample collection is blessedly brief. Dr. Cole’s instructions are printed in neat columns. One blood spot each. Scent cloths. Saliva swabs. Existing water samples labeled and sealed.

Theo stands beside Ezra during the finger prick, his jaw hard.

“Look at you, not hovering,” Ezra says.

Theo exhales through his nose. “I’m fighting the urge.”

When my turn comes, Theo watches my face instead of the lancet.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

He nods.

“You look like you believe me while also planning vengeance on medical equipment.”

Ezra mutters, “That’s his resting alpha face.”

I laugh, and the needle pinch is over before I finish.

After the kits are sealed, Wes takes them to his cooler, and Theo goes outside with Roman to mount cameras. Through the kitchen window, I watch Theo climb a ladder beside the east corner of the house, shoulders broad beneath his dark shirt, rain misting over his hair. He looks back once.

I lift my mug.

He taps two fingers to his chest, then points toward me. My heart does something very unscientific.

Inside, Ezra and I spread the photos, Love Stone scan, brass tag, and route stone across the table. Darwin sits between us with three new frog stickers on his lid, promoted from bestie to research associate.

Ezra uses tracing paper over the printed images. His hand is steady when he draws, the artist in him taking over in clean lines and patient angles.

“The Love Stone symbol is heavier here,” he says. “Like the carver wanted the boundary noticed.”

“And the route stone line thins near the opening.” I lean close enough that his apple-and-linen scent brushes my cheek. “It’s more like a doorway into the wide open.”

“That feels more poetic than scientific.”

“Science is allowed to wear a cute hat.”