“And somewhere in there,” she said, “we call the realtor Diaz’s assistant recommended and start looking at houses.”
He looked at her, at the way she said houses like a thing she believed in now. “You sure you want to tie yourself to a mortgage with a guy whose idea of a good time is running spreadsheets on part shipments?” he asked.
“I just had sex with you on a boat,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think I’m pretty in.”
He felt the grin spread across his face, unstoppable. “Fair,” he said.
They reached an intersection; the light changed. Across the street, a dark sedan paused at the stop sign, then turned the other way, disappearing into the flow of traffic. Hank’s muscles tightened for a second, then eased when he saw the local dealership plate frame.
Bree noticed; her fingers tightened briefly in his. He squeezed back.
“Awareness,” she murmured.
“Not paranoia,” he finished.
They crossed together, stepping into the bright patch of afternoon that lay over Main Street. Copper Moon bustled around them: imperfect, messy, alive.
The threat was out there; they both knew it. A network of people who would rather stay in the shadows. A supplier with a grudge. A sedan with a plate that pinged in three states.
But they were not alone.
They had Diaz and her sharp eyes, the mayor and her stubborn pride, Jason and his honest tape measure, Colby and his spreadsheets, and Brian with his unshakeable loyalty. They had a warehouse that was about to become a shop and a studio, a future painted in light and grease and color.
And they had each other.
Hank squeezed Bree’s hand and felt her squeeze back, their steps falling into an easy rhythm as they walked toward whatever came next, side by side.
Chapter 21
Bree traced the rim of her coffee cup, watching the steam curl and vanish in the bright light of Harbor Station.
Morning rush had tapered off; a few tables were still occupied by fishermen in faded ball caps and a pair of tourists poring over a paper map like it was a treasure. The big front windows framed the harbor, boats bobbing gently. Behind the counter, the barista worked the espresso machine like an instrument she knew by heart.
Diaz sat across from Bree and Hank, sleeves pushed up, badge clipped to her belt, a notebook open beside her untouched muffin.
“So,” Diaz said, tapping her pen against the margin. “We got confirmation from the state last night. Your sedan friend’s shell company is on their list. They’re running it under organized crime, interstate trafficking, all the fun labels.”
Bree’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Trafficking in what exactly?” she asked.
“Parts, money, people,” Diaz said. “These guys don’t specialize. The plate that pinged here matched sightings near two other tracks. The pattern’s strong enough that the feds are sniffing around. Which means they’ll move slower, but they’ll move big when they do.”
Hank’s jaw flexed. “What does that change for us?”
“On paper?” Diaz said. “Nothing. You still go to work, you still buy your building, you still take your girl out on dates instead of camping in stairwells. Practically? You keep doing what you’re doing. You’re careful. You notice things. You call me when something tastes off.”
Bree swallowed. “Are we targets?” she asked. “I mean, specifically.”
Diaz held her gaze for a long beat. “You’re visible,” she said. “You embarrassed someone who doesn’t like being embarrassed. That makes you interesting. But you’re also useful. The more you see, the more you can feed us. And you’re not alone out there. That’s important.”
Useful. The word settled oddly in Bree’s chest; not heavy, exactly, but solid.
“What about the locals?” Hank asked. “People around the track, the businesses on Bay Street. Should we be warning anybody?”
“I’m working with the mayor on that,” Diaz said. “We’re drafting a bulletin that doesn’t cause a full-scale panic. ‘Hey, watch out for guys selling miracle horsepower out of the back of vans’ kind of thing. We’ll roll it out through the Chamber, the track, social media.”
Bree nodded slowly. “Is it ridiculous that I’m more nervous about meeting with the mayor this afternoon than I am about your federal friends?” she asked.
“Zoning boards have crushed more dreams than the FBI,” Diaz said dryly. “Your priorities are fine.”
