He shifts back half a step, giving me space again, as if he knows I need to reclaim my professional ground.
His gaze softens in a way that should be illegal. “Anytime, honey.”
I head for the exit, Anton falling in behind me without comment.
The junkyard groans—metal shifting, wind scraping through hollow frames—like the place itself is uneasy.
I don’t look back. I don’t have to.
I know I’m safe.
So I don’t understand why, when the next breeze brushes the back of my neck, it feels like cold breath from somewhere that has eyes.
19
I’m parkedin a white velvet chair that looks like it costs more than my truck, holding a glass of champagne I’m not drinking. A tray of pastel cakes sit nearby and I eye them as if they might explode. I’m in a bridal shop where I am so clearly the wrong tool for the job.
But it’s the day Ava chooses her dress, and I have to say my chest tightened when she told me I was the only one she wanted with her here today. Anyone at Monarch Hills is better positioned to give her fashion advice than I am. But she said she wanted blunt honesty.
She’s the kind of family member you love so much, they always look pretty, so I’m not sure I havemuch to offer, but Ava getting out of captivity—even getting married one day—was something I always dreamed would happen for her.
And now it is.
So I made the hour-long trek to a bridal shop in the city, and now I’m surrounded by taffeta and lace.
I place my champagne down on the table beside me. Behind the closed fitting room door, Ava is wrestling herself into a wedding gown with more buttons than there are stars in the damn galaxy. I can hear her muttering, shuffling, the occasionalowthat tells me she pinched something she shouldn’t have.
I’ve never seen her in a dress. In captivity, she wore jeans and T-shirts and has always been a fan of hoodies—true hacker wear. We’ve hardly been out long enough for me to see how her style develops, but apart from purchasing a wider variety of Doc Martens, it seems like it hasn’t.
As I wait, my attention won’t settle. I pull out my compass, and this time, it’s more what Freya called it: a worry stone.
Freya told me she wouldn’t leave the station, but I still asked Gabriel and Lara to swing by her desk with lunch.
Once I have a feeling something is wrong, I can’t shake it until every detail is clear. That’s just me.
Part of me is still in Echo Valley. Part of me is tracking Freya. The rest is stuck on the red truck Ingram mentioned.
His explanation is simple enough. He stopped a guy in a red truck. Let him off with a warning. But now—months later—he decides the front-end damage on said truck was strange. So, he looks at Zoe’s car again and lands on a theory: that the truck might have clipped her. Maybe this guy knew her.
The theory itself isn’t the problem. I’ve considered before that Zoe could have been rear-ended into the quarry.
It’s the timing of the realization that doesn’t sit right.
When a case is fresh, everything matters. Every unfamiliar vehicle. Every new face in town. That’s when you notice details—when your brain is still wide open, pulling threads instead of trimming them.
But the red truck didn’t registerthen.
It registersnow.
Only after Freya is cleared to review his work.
Back then, the idea would have carried weight. Now it feels convenient.
And convenience is not how real leads show up.
“Stop brooding out there,” Ava calls from inside the fitting room. “I can feel it from in here. It’s like a cold front rolling under the door.”
“I’m not brooding,” I mutter.
