She didn’t turn her head and instead, let her gaze slide, catching the angle of the plate as the sun hit it. She could only get a partial—7KD—and filed it the way her brain filed routes through mangroves or the way the sky went yellow-green before a storm was rolling two hours earlier than forecasted.
The car paused at the stop sign, as if it wanted to be seen. Then it eased on and—once she’d clocked it—accelerated just a hair too fast. She squinted, trying to read the rest of the plate, but between something possibly covering it and the glare of the sun, she couldn’t see it well enough to catch the letters or numbers.
Tourists, she told herself. Contractors. Someone lost between breakfast and the highway.
Her shoulders stayed tight until Buddy’s she reached steps.
He opened the back door before she could knock. Barefoot. Hair damp, combed, perfectly. T-shirt clinging in all the ways the heat would claim credit for if it could write copy.
“Morning,” he said, voice steady, eyes already reading her.
She lifted the tray. “Payment for services rendered. Black for me, one with oat milk for you because we don’t need you complaining about your stomach. And muffins. I have no food, so this is breakfast.”
“Works for me.” He took the carrier, fingers brushing hers—warm. “Thanks for bringing this. Come in.”
His place smelled like soap mixed with dust. Boxes lined one wall like they were waiting for orders. A corkboard leaned against the table, empty for now. The fan hummed overhead, pushing the same warm air in soft circles.
“You unpacking or just staging an intervention for your own clutter?” Fallon asked, setting the muffins down.
“Trying to see if staying feels like something I remember how to do.” He handed her the coffee.
“Consider it a bribe.” She pulled out a chair and sat. “I might need your brain.”
“You do,” he said, sitting next to her. He was so close she swore she could feel his pulse. “But go ahead and pretend you don’t.”
That pulled a smile she hadn’t planned. It slipped away when slid her hand into her back pocket.
She took out her phone, opened the text, and turned it so he could see. She didn’t bother with a preamble.
His jaw drew tight. “I see you didn’t reply.”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” He held the phone in his hands while outside, a heron complained—harsh, indignant. “Can you forward it to me? And then you might want to send it on to Keaton and Dawson.”
“Planned on it, but why do you want it?”
He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back. He leaned forward, snagging his coffee and took a large gulp.
When he got like this, he was thinking about something profound. Thinking about something related to a case.
Only, he wasn’t a fed anymore.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“That case I was working on—the one I closed right before I left the FBI—the guy I put behind bars taunted me with a line just like that.” He turned and held her gaze. “It’s not an uncommon phrase. I’ve seen other criminals, killers, drug dealers, you name it, use it. Hell, I’ve heard doctors say it. But this doesn’t feel random. Nor does that girl you saved, and it’s had me on high alert ever since.”
Her heart rate sped up. She swallowed her breath, and it tasted like death. Her chest tightened, like someone had laced her into a corset and was tightening the threads to the point it was crushing her.
“What else happened that you’re not telling me?”
“There was a car,” she managed. “Dark muscle car. Dodge Charger, I think. Tints. Slow roll past the cabins. Partial plate—7, K, D. I couldn’t get to my phone without being obvious or baptizing the street in coffee.”
“Don’t love that,” he said gently. He pulled a legal pad from the table’s edge and wrote 7KD with a blocky neatness that made her think of evidence lockers and stupid, awful rooms with fluorescent lights. “Direction?”
“Paused, then turned toward the main road heading out of town.” She gestured vaguely toward the window.
“People telegraph more than they think.” His pen tapped once. “There’s more to that phrase and that case.” He didn’t look away from her.
