…then took my hand.
Warm. Strong. Protective.
He squeezed gently.
“I’m not leaving you,” he said.
And for the first time since this nightmare started—
I believed him.
16
Nora
By the time the Sheriff arrived, Wolf was already pacing the living room like a caged storm.
Sheriff Tate—broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, and perpetually unimpressed—stepped inside with the weary gait of a man who has dealt with both criminals and adult children for twenty years.
“Wyatt Maddox,” he grumbled. “Why am I getting calls before seven a.m. about you chasing shadows and finding porch surprises?”
Trigger perked up. “Because this shadow is real, Sheriff. REAL. And he left a token like some—some—serial killer pigeon.”
Saint corrected him. “Pigeon?”
Trigger shrugged. “I panicked.”
Sheriff Tate held out his hand. “Show me.”
Wolf placed the coin in his palm without a word.
Tate’s expression changed instantly.
The casual irritation drained from his face, replaced by something sharper. More alert.
“Well, hell,” he muttered.
Wolf’s jaw tightened. “You recognize it.”
Tate nodded once. “Seen one like it before. Years back.”
He turned the coin over. “Not common. Not friendly. Whoever left this isn’t messing around.”
My stomach dipped. “What does it mean?”
Tate glanced at Wolf before answering, like the explanation belonged more to him.
Wolf’s voice was low. Controlled. “It’s a warning.”
Tate added, “Or an invitation.”
Trigger squeaked. “I don’t like invitations unless they involve food.”
Wolf ignored him. His eyes stayed on the Sheriff. “You think it’s connected to the old cases?”
“Could be,” Tate said. “Could be something new. But either way…”
He looked at me.
