Nash writes something down, his jaw tight.
“But he found me here anyway. He’s always known I was here, and he’s the one that set the fire at my family’s townhouse.”
Beck curses under his breath. Hayes’s shadow moves across the wall, a storm passing too close.
Nash exhales through his nose and glances at the dead phone on the table. “You have messages?”
I nod. “Photos, too.” I tremble. “He sent me pictures of everything.”
Hayes doesn’t let me move. He’s already plugging my phone into a charger, setting it gently on the coffee table. The screen lights up, mocking me with its calm little logo while my whole life burns behind it.
“Passcode?” Nash asks.
I give it. He scrolls, and then I watch his face go hard as granite. His eyes sharpen with every swipe.
“Jesus Christ,” Beck mutters from the kitchen.
Ford doesn’t say a word, but the muscles in his jaw jump, ready to snap.
Nash looks at me again. “These are all fromhim? This Dylan guy?” All I can do is nod. His pen scratches against paper. “I’ll need to take this as evidence. I also want a photo of him. Do you have a clearer one?”
My stomach flips. “Not on here. I deleted everything when I moved.”
Nash’s brows crease. “Can you get one?”
I swallow, nod, and take the phone to pull up my messages, fingers trembling so hard I almost drop the damn thing.
Sal. Thank God for Sal.
I tap her name and type:
Lo: Emergency. Need a photo of Dylan. Please tell me you have one.
I hit send and stare at the screen, willing her to reply faster. My knee bounces. Hayes’s hand brushes mine on the couch, warm and steady. A silent anchor.
The typing dots appear.
Then vanish.
Then appear again.
And then…ping.
One photo. Him. Dylan. Grinning like the devil himself wearing a boy-next-door mask on his fucking face. My stomach heaves just looking at him.
I turn the phone toward Nash. “That’s him.”
The sheriff leans forward, eyes narrowing as he studies the picture. And then his entire face changes. His head snaps up, eyes wide, sharp with something that looks a lot likeoh, shit.
“When was this taken?”
“Couple years ago.” My words trip over each other. “Why? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer me. Just exhales hard and mutters, “Son of a…” He straightens, jaw locking, grinding down fury. “I just arrested that man this afternoon.”
The room goes dead silent. I swear I hear the blood in my ears.
“What?” Beck is the first to find his voice. It cracks loud as a whip.
