They swept through the hall. Bedroom—clear. Bathroom—clear. The silence thickened with every step.
In the kitchen, the clock over the fridge ticked far too loud. The blower for the AC had kicked off five minutes ago. The air had already turned damp with the kind of humidity that made her skin feel slick even without sweat.
Buddy’s flashlight from his cell cut across the counters, caught a glint in the window. He paused, listening.
Outside, something shifted—quick, sharp, then gone.
Fallon’s throat went dry. “Front door,” she whispered.
Buddy nodded once. They moved as one like they’d done this a dozen times together.
He eased the lock open, slow and quiet, gun raised. The door swung with a soft creak.
The night spilled in—wet, warm, and wrong. The air carried swamp and mud and the faint tang of leftover fried catch of the day from the pub down the street.
Buddy stepped out first, scanning the shadows beyond the porch. The cicadas hadn’t come back. Even the frogs had gone still. The only sound was the slight rustle of the palm leaves dangling in the breeze.
Fallon followed, her weapon steady.
That’s when she saw it—white, too bright under the light of the moon.
An envelope. Centered perfectly on the table next to her rocking chair, her name was written clean across the front. FALLON REEVES.
Her stomach flipped. “Buddy.”
He followed her gaze, then froze.
“Don’t touch it,” he said. His voice was the kind of low she’d learned to listen to—the one that meant danger had a face, even if they couldn’t see it yet. “And don’t move. Not until I’ve had a chance to look around.” He crouched, examining the wood floor of the porch, his gaze scanning every inch.
Her eyes slid past the porch to his truck parked in the drive. The sight knocked the air out of her lungs.
The windshield was spiderwebbed, the side windows punched clean through. Glass glinted across the gravel like ice under the streetlamp.
“Jesus,” she whispered.
“What?” Buddy stood and glanced over his shoulder. “Shit.” He was down the steps in a flash. “Stay there.”
“Like hell?—”
He turned and glared. “Please.”
That one word stopped her cold.
He moved with the controlled precision of someone who’d cleared too many dark scenes. He bent to one knee, phone to his ear. He rattled off her address first, then said, “Vandalized truck, personalized note left on the porch. No signs of entrance to the house. All doors locked and secure. No other evidence. Send a unit.”
He tucked his cell in his pocket and glanced toward the road, every line of him wound tight. “They’re gone. But not long gone.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
He pointed to the truck. “If they were still here, and this was more than a message, we wouldn’t be vertical anymore.” He tiptoed back to the porch, dodging broken glass. “Do you have gloves and a letter opener?”
“Gloves and a pocket knife.”
“Get them,” he commanded.
“Shouldn’t we wait for?—”
“Just do it.” He held her gaze, and not just any gaze. It was a stare she’d seen before—four years ago—during the Ring Finger case. The look was focused. Determined. And it demanded people listen.
