“Maybe.” But Fallon’s stomach had already gone tight, a deep pull low in her gut that said, no, this isn’t right.
She pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Buddy.”
He answered on the first ring. “You okay?”
“No one’s shot at me, so that’s a good thing,” she said, hoping the sarcasm landed well. “But a package came to the marina today by special courier with my name on it, no return address.”
“Don’t open it.” His voice was sharp, clipped, and low. That tone—controlled but edged—always set something in her chest off balance. “I’m with Dove. We’ll be there in ten.”
“Buddy—”
“Ten.” He hung up.
Baily leaned over the box. “That man doesn’t waste words now, does he?”
“Not often,” Fallon said. “He hordes them like Halloween candy, but when he gets going, he can’t stop.”
Baily leaned her hip against the desk. “You really like him, don’t you?”
Fallon hesitated for a moment. She was used to people knowing about her relationships. That didn’t mean she didn’t do her best to keep them private. But this was Baily. She’d been Fallon’s babysitter and then her friend. “He’s… mostly steady. I trust him. Which is probably why it scares the hell out of me.”
“He’s what—ten years older?”
“Give or take.”
“Older doesn’t mean broken.”
Fallon gave a humorless laugh. “No, but it means he’s lived through more wreckage. And I have a bad habit of running when things start to feel real.”
“Maybe this time you stay,” Baily said simply. “See what happens if you don’t bolt.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Fallon wanted to tell her she wasn’t running, but the truth was, she’d always run. From loss. From guilt. From anything that might make her remember how much it hurt to lose the people she loved.
Before Fallon could answer, the door opened.
Buddy stepped inside, all focused movement and quiet tension. Dove followed, gloved and already scanning.
“Show me,” Buddy said.
Fallon pointed to the counter. The box hummed with wrongness.
Dove leaned in, turning her head. “No ticking noise.”
“Still, take it slow.” Buddy inched closer.
Fallon wrapped her arms around her middle.
Dove slit the tape with a pocketknife. The blade made a sound that raised the hair on Fallon’s arms. She held her breath, pulse thrumming in her throat.
Inside—fabric. Blue, soft, folded with care.
Fallon’s knees weakened.
Dove reached in and gently pulled out a jacket. The lightweight navy material caught the light. The gold piping was new and across the back—her name stitched in bold white thread. REEVES.
It wasn’t the same jacket Tessa had borrowed the night she vanished—but it was identical.
Her voice came out in a whisper. “That’s a spirit school jacket. Just like the one Tessa borrowed the night she vanished.” Fallon couldn’t breathe. Her throat closed, her lungs refusing to expand. “My jacket was found on the side of the road by the marina parking lot,” she said. “How… why… I don’t understand.”
