Izzy was curled on the couch with a mug of tea. She glanced up. “Everything okay? You look pale.”
Darcy hesitated, then sat opposite, pulling a blanket around her shoulders. “Burke was here. He says… someone’s out there. Watching.”
Izzy’s eyes widened. “Watching? Caitlin…”
Darcy flinched at her real name. She hadn’t heard it much lately, and it always hit differently—like stepping back into a life she wasn’t sure she still fit.
“He wouldn’t give me details,” she admitted, voice low. “But I can’t shake it. What if he’s finally found me?”
Izzy reached across the table, gripping her hand. “Caitlin, listen. I don’t think this is him. You’ve got the sheriff on edge, a whole town full of rumors, and you’ve been through hell—you’re jumpy, and who wouldn’t be? Honestly, I really think Evan’s just a guy with a camera. Maybe a little pushy, but not dangerous.”
Darcy tried to smile, but it faltered. “I hope you’re right.” Her eyes flicked to Rosie, alert at the door, ears pricked.God, please let her be right.
Later, as Burke made his rounds, the night carried the faint scent of charcoal and cooling embers. He texted Scout one word:Quilt.
Scout’s reply came quickly:Lucy.
Burke allowed himself a tight nod. That code had been theirs for years—short, simple, consistent.Quiltmeant check the house.Lucymeant all clear. He slipped the phone into his pocket, the weight of responsibility settling heavier than ever.
Whoever was out there, he’d find them—and this time, he wouldn’t wait for them to make the first move.
Chapter 37
Lure
Scout
Scout settled into his personal Jeep Wrangler a few houses down from Darcy’s cottage on Oak Street. He hadn’t brought the cruiser—too obvious. Tonight was surveillance.
Burke’s face came to mind—the happiness he carried when he was around Darcy, and the shadow of worry that had settled once they realized someone was watching her. Scout intended to put an end to that worry, and soon.
Night pressed in on Oak Street. Porch lights glowed at Darcy’s, while the corner streetlight flickered, throwing a sickly strobe across the backyard. So far, it had been quiet—ordinary neighborhood traffic: a pizza delivery for the Wilsons, a jogger cutting home, then stillness as the houses buttoned up for the night.
Scout took a slow sip from his dented thermos, the bitter coffee anchoring him. He flipped open his battered notebook with a thumb; paper was steady, real—never glitched, never crashed, never crumpled under courtroom cross-examination.
Out his window, a gray cat glided along the fence, tail curving through the air like a question mark. He’d seen Burke rattledbefore, but never like this—the kind of worry that came from caring too much.
The slam of a distant screen door jolted his focus, followed by the drone of a dryer buzzer bleeding into the summer hush. It was all about reading the neighborhood—once you did, you caught the slightest ripple of change.
He marked the time when Mrs. Wilson’s porch light clicked on and off twice—a goofy little neighborhood-watch signal she swore was subtle and everyone on Oak pretended not to notice. Bless her heart. People like the Wilsons kept this street stitched tight.
Then Scout noticed it. A silver Toyota Tacoma rolled past, heading for the end of the block before turning left. Two minutes later, it crept back by, slower. Shielded by his Wrangler’s dark tint, Scout studied it carefully. The truck parked five cars down from Darcy’s backyard. No plate visible, just the gleam of silver under the streetlight before it vanished into shadow.
A prickle ran across the back of Scout’s neck. The tag light was out; he couldn’t read the plate. Could be nothing—but his gut said different. The Tacoma’s engine idled low and rough, the kind of sound that crawled under your ribs. Smoke curled from a cracked window—cigarette, or nerves. The driver sat there for more than two hours. Waiting. Watching.
Scout forced himself to stay put. He wanted to approach, but if this was the guy, he needed to know where he went and who he was.
Inside Darcy’s house, the lights finally blinked off—she must be turning in for the night. Out front, Deputy Sara Parker’s cruiser rolled by on her routine check, headlights sweeping the cottage.
The Tacoma shifted into gear, easing away from the curb. Scout grabbed his radio and keyed his mic.
“Sara, where are you?”
“Just pulled back out onto Main,” Parker answered. “Why?”
“A silver Toyota Tacoma just left from behind Darcy’s house. Slide in behind him on Maple. Don’t spook him. See where he goes.”
“10-4,” Sara replied, her voice steady. “On it.”
