I glare. “I don’t look murder-adjacent.”
Brendon studies me for half a second and says, deadpan: “You kind of do.”
Wyatt nods solemnly. “He’s right.”
Brendon tosses his bag aside and pulls up a chair. “So what’s got you twisted up?”
Justin points his cue at me. “Woman trouble.”
“Tree climber,” Evan clarifies.
Brendon raises an eyebrow. “The hell does that mean?”
“Don’t encourage them,” I mutter.
But the guys are already talking over each other, recounting the tree incident, the brushfire, the muffins, the hike. Brendon absorbs it all with that quiet, steady attention that says he’ll fit in here just fine.
Justin nudges me. “You want to go another round?”
“No,” I say. “I’m calling it.”
Evan groans. “Already? We just got here.”
“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “I’m done.”
I don’t wait for further commentary. I step out into the cold, the night air biting sharp against my skin. It’s quieter out here. Still. Too still.
I head toward the truck, digging for my keys?—
When my radio crackles.
“Unit Three, locate status?”
Justin’s voice, but clipped. Tense.
I lift the radio. “Out front of the tavern.”
“Good,” he says. “Because you need to get to the station.”
My pulse kicks. “What happened?”
“You’ll want to see it for yourself,” Justin replies, and there’s a tone there—warm, knowing, impossible to misinterpret. “Hurry.”
I don’t think. I drive.
The station lights glow soft and gold as I pull in. I barely put the truck in park before climbing out and striding toward the bay.
The door opens before I reach it.
She steps out.
Emma.
My heart stops. Actually stops.
She’s standing under the overhead lights with her camera bag slung over one shoulder, hair mussed from travel, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes shining in a way that hits me so hard I forget how to breathe.
“Kendrick,” she whispers.
