Jack.
She had to reach Jack.
She burst outside and scanned the street. The telephone pole stood empty.
Panic surged. Heat prickled under her skin.
Where did he go?
She turned in a tight circle, searching faces, cars, corners. She didn’t see him on the sidewalk.
Then she spotted him at the end of the alley beside her building, body angled toward the shop’s rear entrance. He stood still, shoulders set, gaze locked on the back door like he expected it to bite.
Annie sprinted toward him, lungs burning.
When she reached him, she followed his stare.
The back door held a fresh mark—new scratches gouged into the wood, deliberate and deep. Not random. Not from a stray nail or shifting hinge. A message.
Her stomach dropped.
They came back.
Jack didn’t look away from the door when he spoke. “They left something.”
Annie’s pulse slammed in her ears as the afternoon sun warmed her skin and did nothing to chase the cold out of her bones.
“They left us another message,” she whispered, and the words tasted like fear.
***
Jack leaned against the telephone pole between Annie’s shop and Red’s Diner, phone pressed to his ear, eyes fixed on the front windows of Annie’s Antiques. Officer Martinez’s update tightened something cold and heavy in his gut.
“Run that by me again,” Jack said quietly.
“We canvassed the blocks around the shop,” Martinez replied. “Found a witness who saw a dark sedan parked in the alley this morning. Tennessee plates, but they couldn’t get the numbers.”
Jack shifted his weight, scanning the street. “Any description of the driver?”
“No. But here’s what stands out. Mrs. Chen from the flower shop says she’s seen that same car several times over the last two weeks. Different times of day. Never stays long.”
Surveillance.
Someone had tracked Annie long before last night. Maybe even before the estate sale. This wasn’t a reaction. It was preparation.
“Start pulling Blackwood connections,” Jack said. “Anyone still local.”
Martinez exhaled. “That’s where it gets complicated. There are more ties than we thought.”
“Give me what you’ve got.”
“Simon Blackwood still owns the Ridge Road property. But there are cousins, in-laws, distant relatives. The Blackwood money filtered through half this town. Some legitimate. Some not.” Papers rustled. “The Hayworth’s on Elm—Sarah Hayworth’s maiden name was Blackwood. The Caldwell’s—Marcus Caldwell’s grandfather worked Blackwood operations during Prohibition. And there are rumors around the Mitchells. No confirmed family line, but questionable money.”
“Mitchell,” Jack repeated, writing it down. The name tugged at something he couldn’t place. “What kind of rumors?”
“Commercial real estate. Thomas Mitchell owns half of Main Street. Nobody can trace where his original capital came from.”
Jack added the note, jaw tight.
