That’s the last rationalization I make to myself before I’m on the back of Davis’s motorcycle, speeding away from Beck’s house without a security detail in the early dawn light.
As much as one can speed when there are switchbacks every few hundred yards anyway.
We reach his trailer in about fifteen minutes. There’s yellow crime scene tape all around the cabin, but no deputies sitting here watching the property. Nothing around the camper either.
He grabs shovels and the metal detector from inside, and we head toward the bushy area that I was looking at from the satellite imagery.
And then we both freeze.
There’s a car approaching.
“Get back in the trailer,” he says.
I look at him.
Just look at him.
And Davis Remington—the man I used to think was completely expressionless—stares back at me with his entire face twitching like he doesn’t know if he wants to smile or scowl at me for refusing to follow his orders.
It’s honestly the most beautiful sight in the entire world.
Like he’s no longer hiding anything from me.
Logically, I know he has to be, but emotionally—there’s something incredibly special about him letting meseehim.
He looks past me toward the car, and his shoulders relax, but his cheek twitches.
I glance at it too and instantly understand why.
Giselle has followed us.
She parks, climbs out, and glares at both of us.
“Hi, Giselle.” I finger-wave at her. “Isn’t it a pretty day? I love your coat. It’s very…black.”
“You’re lucky I know he’s a bad influence,” she grumbles. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Treasure hunting,” Davis answers for us.
She sighs and rubs her eyes. “Get to it then. I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Do you like cookies?” I ask her.
“No.”
Welp, so much for that idea for a Christmas present.
She’d probably appreciate a new stun gun and some body armor more. I’ll have to ask Davis’s opinion on what would be best for her.
And I suspect he has one.
He nudges me, and soon we’re standing in a bunch of stabby, leafless bushes, staring at a mostly obscured wooden cover to what I assumed was an extra outhouse while he passes me a pair of work gloves.
Once we’ve cleared away the grass that’s grown over the edges and dusted off a few years’ worth of fallen leaves, we discover the cover has a lock on it.
And not a modern lock.
This one looks more like the kind of lock a pirate would’ve used.
