But as I hit the highway, pushing the truck past ninety, duty calling me forward while my heart pulled me back, I couldn't stop thinking about the morning. About how happy Stephy had been. About the way she'd laughed, free and easy, like she'd finally remembered how. About the barn, her warmth, her joy.
I should have stayed one more minute. Should have kissed her one more time. Should have told her I loved her, even though she knew, even though I'd said it a hundred times in a hundred ways.
But I hadn't, and now the miles stretched between us like years, and all I could do was promise myself that when this was over, when the child was found and the case was closed, I'd rush back to her.
I'd take all the minutes. Every single one she'd give me.
The unease settled in my chest like a stone, heavy and wrong, but I pushed it down. Focused on the road. On the case. On the job that needed doing.
Still, her image stayed in my mind—laughing in the morning sun, her hair a mess, looking like everything I'd ever wanted and never thought I could have.
Chapter 17
Stephanie
I'd moved the last of my things from the guest cabin later that afternoon, carrying over the few clothes I'd accumulated and the notebook of songs that never left my side. It felt natural, this final shift from guest to...whatever I was now. Liam's girlfriend? His partner? The woman who shared his bed and his life and his morning coffee?
"This is where you belong anyway," he'd said, watching me hang my single dress in his closet next to his uniform. "Should've moved you in weeks ago."
Now, with him gone to find that missing little girl, the house felt too quiet but not empty. It felt like ours. Like home.
I spent the afternoon cleaning—not because it needed it, but because domestic tasks had become soothing. There was something healing about making a bed with someone else's sheets, about washing dishes from a shared meal, about the simple act of belonging somewhere.
The kitchen window was open, letting in the warm afternoon breeze that carried the scent of hay and horses. I hummed whileI worked, one of the new songs that had been building in my chest, about roots and wings and finding where you're meant to land.
My body still hummed from the morning, from Liam's hands and mouth and the way he'd pressed me against the barn wall. The memory made me grin as I dried the last plate. We were like teenagers, unable to keep our hands off each other, but it was more than just physical. It was the joy of being able to touch, to want, to take without fear.
Evening came soft and golden, the sun slanting through the windows and painting everything amber. I made myself tea—Louisa's special blend that she swore cured everything from headaches to heartbreak—and settled on the couch with my notebook.
The new song was almost finished, just needed a bridge to tie it together. Something about coming home to yourself, about?—
A floorboard creaked on the porch.
I smiled, setting down the notebook. "That was fast," I called out, assuming Liam had wrapped up the case quickly. Or maybe it was Ivy, who'd mentioned stopping by. "Did you find the little girl?"
No answer.
"Lee?" I stood, heading toward the front door. "Ivy?"
The cold hit me first—that primal chill that starts at the base of your spine and spreads like ice water through your veins. The same feeling I'd had that night in LA, right before?—
I turned.
He stood in the doorway, backlit by the porch light, and for a moment, my brain refused to process what I was seeing. It couldn't be him. He was in LA. He didn't know where I was. This wasn't possible.
But it was him. The same hungry eyes, the same thin frame vibrating with manic energy, the same face I'd seen in my nightmares for months.
"Hello, Stevie.” The voice slid out of the dark—soft, worshipful, cracked around the edges like broken glass.
For one disorienting second, my brain tried to tell me it was a dream.
Then I smelled him.
A sour, chemical rot. Sweat that had dried and soured again. The sharp bite of unwashed clothes and old cologne layered thick, like he’d tried and failed to cover the smell of obsession and decay.
Every instinct in me screamed run, and I tried—I got maybe three steps.
A fist tangled in my hair and yanked me backward so violently my vision went white. I screamed. Loud and long, hoping to God that someone would hear me and come running.
