“We’re actively looking for him,” Detective Harris continues. “He hasn’t been home. His roommate says he’s been acting strangely.”
My chest tightens. “Strangely how?”
“Agitated. Paranoid. Not sleeping much.”
I nod slowly, absorbing that. None of it makes me feel better.
“You should go home and get some rest,” Detective Yellowstone advises. “We’ll be in touch. This will take time, so if you don’t hear from us after a week, reach out.”
Aiden isn’t having it. “She’s not going anywhere without security.”
I turn toward him sharply. “Excuse me?”
“Someone tried to burn down your business,” he says, voice low and unyielding. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“I can take care of myself,” I snap.
“This isn’t about independence,” he replies. “It’s about keeping you and Mason safe.”
The crew is openly watching now. No one pretends otherwise. Garrett actually leans against a truck, arms crossed, grinning like this is better than cable. Asshole.
“You don’t get to swoop in and play hero after six years of nothing,” I say, heat rising fast.
“I’m not playing anything,” Aiden fires back. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The words hang between us, heavy and dangerous. And we both know we’re not really talking about the arson anymore.
Aiden’s jaw is tight, his posture rigid, like he’s physically holding himself back from saying more. I’m doing the same, my hands curled into fists at my sides.
This is exactly how bad decisions start.
Detective Harris clears his throat to cut in. “You said he made posts online. Do you still have access to those?”
“Yes,” I answer. “I can pull them up.” I do, scrolling through the bar’s social media pages to where Marcus tagged us. At the time, it had felt like bluster. Angry, vague language. Now every line reads differently, stripped of context and comfort.
People think they can screw you over and walk away.
Everyone gets what’s coming to them eventually.
No one takes what’s mine.
Memes about justice, revenge, bars, and that one Simpson’s meme that reads, “Kill it with fire!”
I swallow and turn the phone so the detectives can see. They study it carefully, nodding, taking notes.
Carlie finally appears then, breezing into the bay with the kind of confidence that suggests she knows exactly how to read a room and doesn’t care who’s watching. She crouches immediately in front of Mason, eyes lighting up. “There you are,” she says brightly. “I hear there’s a dog and a fire pole involved in today’s activities.”
Mason grins, instantly distracted. “And a helmet!”
She knocks her knuckles on it. “Ready, kiddo?”
I kneel in front of him, smoothing his hair back after removing the borrowed helmet. “You’re going to have a fun aunt afternoon, okay?”
“Can we get ice cream?” he asks.
“Obviously,” Carlie says.
I stand as she takes his hand, my chest tight as he chatters excitedly about Argyle and trucks and how he might be a dog walker when he grows up. As they head for the door, Carlie slows just long enough to lean in. “Talk to him,” she murmurs. “Really talk. You both deserve closure. Or a second chance.”
