I studied the information, running tactical assessments in my head.
Landon was looking good for this. Possessive ex-boyfriends rarely took rejection well, and the Valor Springs purchases put him in the area on the right dates. No proof yet, but my instincts said watch him close. The type who escalated when he didn't get what he wanted.
Financial desperation made people do stupid things. Three grand in cash withdrawals suggested Blythe Tanner was hiding something—or buying something. But would a rival coach escalate to physical threats? Felt more like professional jealousy than genuine danger. Still, desperate people were unpredictable.
Five years was a long time to hold a grudge over a pageant disqualification. But some people nursed resentment like it was oxygen. Tiffany Hammond's continued social media obsession with Presley suggested she hadn't moved on. Unemployed with unclear income meant time and possibly motivation. Worth monitoring.
I forwarded the email to Valor Springs PD. Knew they wouldn't do much without proof, but it was documented.
"Everything okay?"
I looked up. Presley stood there, concern in those striking green eyes of hers.
"Mae's preliminary intel came through. All three suspects are still in play." I gestured to her office. "Can we talk privately?"
She led me inside, closed the door. I showed her Mae's email.
"So we still don't know who it is."
"Not yet. But we're building a picture." I pocketed my phone. "You have more clients this afternoon?"
"Two more sessions before lunch. Then Addison at three-thirty."
"Right." I'd get these kids' names straight eventually. "I'll be here."
AT TWELVE-THIRTY, WEdeployed to The Grill for lunch.
The place was packed—every booth and table occupied, exactly as I'd hoped. The Grill had that authentic small-town diner feel—red vinyl booths, laminate tables, the smell of burgers and coffee heavy in the air. Around us, locals filled every seat, and I could already see heads turning, conversations pausing as people registered Presley and me together.
Maximum visibility for our cover story. The hostess was a friendly woman in her fifties who lit up when she saw Presley.
"Presley! Wonderful to see you, honey." Her gaze shifted to me, curiosity bright. "And who's this?"
"Rhodes Foster. My boyfriend." Presley's smile was warm and natural. If I didn't know better, I'd believe it myself.
"Nice to meet you, Rhodes. Let me get you two seated."
She led us to a center booth. Maximum visibility. I let my hand rest on the table palm-up. Presley's fingers laced through mine without hesitation. Heat shot up my arm, settled in my chest.
I could already see heads turning, conversations pausing. The woman two booths over had her phone out—probably texting half the town.
Perfect.
We ordered. Burgers, fries, sweet tea. While we waited for the food, Presley traced her thumb absently across my knuckles. The touch sent another wave of heat up my arm.
"Rhodes Foster?"
I looked up. A man in his sixties stood by our booth, weathered hands and a face that said he'd spent his life working outdoors. "Thought that was you. Hank Morrison. I've got a small spread south of town—saw you compete in team roping years back. Hell of a run."
"Appreciate that." I kept my voice easy, relaxed. "That was a good day."
"You still competing?"
"Not in years. Went into the Marines after that, then business consulting."
Hank's eyes went to where my hand held Presley's. "Well, looks like you're doing just fine for yourself. You take good care of our girl here."
"Planning on it."
