Compared to Jason West’s Denver mansion in Cherry Creek, the place wasn’t even as big as the garage.
Evan smirked, snapping photos of the cottage, the Sheriff’s cruiser in the drive, and—his prize—the moment Caitlin and Burke walked down the gravel lane, Rosie trotting between them. Burke brushed her arm now and then. Caitlin was radiant, laughing, cheeks flushed.
He zoomed in. Perfect.
Then Rosie locked in place—ears pricked, hackles up, a growl rolling through her chest.
Burke stopped instantly, hand steady on her back. “What is it, girl?”
The shepherd’s eyes locked on the trees.
Evan’s stomach dropped.
“Watch,” Burke commanded.
Branches whipped Evan’s face as he stumbled backward, breath sharp with cold. Rosie’s growl rolled through the trees, jaws snapping behind him. The earth slid underfoot, his heartbeat pounding like thunder.
He ducked behind a stump, snapped off a branch to mask his scent, and bolted downslope. He barely made it to his truck before Rosie’s bark split the air like a siren.
Burke held her back, palm firm on her shoulders, eyes narrowing into the woods. He couldn’t see the man, but he knew. Someone was out there—watching.
“This isn’t a break-in anymore. This is surveillance.”
Rosie circled tight, nose to the wind. Burke swore whoever was stalking Caitlin wouldn’t get close again.
At theHotel Sylva, Evan dumped his gear on the table—body cam, long lens, SD cards, a notebook stained with coffee rings. From his pocket, he slid Izzy’s necklace—the delicate chain catching the lamplight—and set it beside the camera. A trophy. A reminder.
He scrolled through the day’s haul:Cottage 01. Cruiser 02. Rosie Watch 03.
He parted the curtain, Main Street glowing like a string of pearls below. Small towns always revealed themselves if you listened long enough.
He logged notes: who she’s with (sheriff), where she goes (museum, cottage, Oak Street), what she carries (tote, dog).
The dog changed things. But dogs slept. He didn’t.
His phone buzzed.Paul.
Paul:Upload complete? Client’s chewing nails.
Evan:Files clean. Plenty more coming.
Paul
Paul Everett, Jason’s private investigator, smirked as he sorted through the files from his hotel laptop. He forwarded most to Jason but slid the sheriff shots into a separate folder. Not yet. Why show all your cards when a slow drip paid better?
Jason’s call came quick, voice jagged with rage. “She’s living in that shack?”
Paul lit a cigarette. “Small place. Quiet. Museum job. Nothing flashy.” He took another drag, calm as ever. “She looks happy.”
That word detonated inside Jason.
Happy? Without me?
He barked a short, humorless laugh. “Happy? In that backwoods hellhole? You think anyone could be happy in some no-name town in North Carolina? Please. Are you insane, too?” His voice sharpened, venom slicing every word. “She is my wife. She will be the mother of my children. She has my name, my power—everything people envy. And I want her home. I’ve paid you a lot of money to make that happen. Now get the job done. Are we clear?”
Paul exhaled smoke, biting back a smile. This was the kind of client he loved—so arrogant he’d bleed cash to prove a point. Rage made men blind. And profitable.
On the other end, Jason paced his glass-walled kitchen, fury vibrating through his chest.
