“We’re going to find?—”
“We don’t know if Randall’s people are searching for you through their facial recognition software.” She cut him off. “And any given two-year-old could see that the government agencies are getting fed up with your lack of results in finding me.”
“I don’t think two-year-olds can read, so…”
“You know what I mean, Lincoln. We’re running out of time.”
She wasn’t wrong. But stating that was just going to add more pressure, which would, in turn, just slow things down and cause more?—
His security system chimed.
The sound cut through the command center like a blade. Lincoln’s attention snapped to the gate camera, and what he saw made everything else fall away.
Callum Webb’s vehicle. Coming up his private drive.
The sheriff of Oak Creek. Here. Now. Without warning.
Morgan was staring at the monitor too. “Is that…?”
“Our town sheriff. Yes.”
“Please tell me he’s the bestie you never mentioned and that he stops by four or five times a week for coffee and so you guys can braid each other’s hair.”
“Yeah. Did I not mention that?”
Morgan seemed torn between being proud of him for telling a joke and terrified because law enforcement was about to knock on their door.
He cupped her cheeks. “There’s a safe room. Behind the bookshelf in my bedroom—press the third shelf bracket, and the panel slides open. Stay there until I come get you.”
She nodded, not even looking surprised, gathered the box of letters she’d kept within arm’s reach since Montana, and moved toward the stairs. Lincoln watched her on the security feed until she disappeared into his bedroom, until the bookshelf panel slid closed behind her.
Then he went to answer the door, finding Callum on the porch in civilian clothes—jeans, flannel, boots softened by years of wear. Off duty. This wasn’t official.
That made it worse.
“Linc.” Callum nodded at him. “Mind if I come in?”
Lincoln stepped aside. Refusal would only confirm whatever suspicions had brought the sheriff to his door, and right now, uncertainty was the only advantage Lincoln had.
Callum moved through the foyer with the familiarity of someone who’d been here before. They had history—not friendship exactly, but the kind of professional respect that came from years of quiet cooperation. Lincoln had fed him information on cases that couldn’t be solved through officialchannels. Callum had looked the other way when Lincoln’s methods strayed into gray areas.
That history was about to cost them both.
“I won’t take much of your time,” Callum said, stopping in the living room. He didn’t sit. Didn’t make himself comfortable. Just stood there, hands loose at his sides, watching Lincoln with the patient assessment of a man who’d spent decades reading people.
Lincoln waited. Let the silence stretch. In uncertain conversations, the first person to speak usually revealed more than they intended.
Callum didn’t seem inclined to fill the quiet either. He just watched, and Lincoln felt the weight of that gaze like pressure against his chest.
It was Callum who finally spoke. “You’ve done a lot for this town, Lincoln. Cases you’ve helped solve without wanting credit. Information you’ve passed along when official channels couldn’t get it done.” Callum paused. “And for me personally—the Kozak brothers’ situation. Sloane would be dead now if it weren’t for the information you provided.”
Lincoln remembered. He’d never asked for thanks, never expected it. That wasn’t why he’d helped.
Callum shifted his weight, a subtle movement that somehow made the room feel smaller. “Pretty much everyone in Oak Creek owes you for something, whether they know the details or not.”
The trap was closing. Lincoln could feel it—the careful construction of obligation, the foundation being laid for whatever came next.
“I had an interesting conversation with Sloane this morning,” Callum continued. “She saw the FBI bulletin on my desk. Said the woman looked familiar but couldn’t placeit at first. Then she remembered Joy mentioning you’d brought someone to the Eagle’s Nest a couple nights ago.”
