Mercer’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, well. When you have criminal houseguests, you get criminal visitors.”
Something hot and unpleasant sparked in Luke’s gut.
Houseguest. Someone else in her house. Someone who brought danger to her door.
“Someone’s staying with her?” he asked.
Sullivan shrugged. “He’s been there a few days, apparently.”
Jealousy flared—sharp, irrational, immediate. But the flare barely had time to breathe before it was crushed under something heavier. Protectiveness.
Luke’s mind was already moving. Maple Street. Sightlines. Entry points. Escape routes.
“Did you canvass the block?” he asked.
Mercer laughed. “Bennett, you’re not even assigned to this.”
“I know,” Luke snapped—then forced himself to rein it back in. “I just need to know.”
Mercer studied him for a long second. “Why?”
Luke opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Becauseshe matteredwasn’t an answer he could give. BecauseI should have been theredefinitely wasn’t.
Mercer tilted his head, studying him. "You know," he said slowly, "for a guy who doesn't care, you sure ask a lot of questions about Grace Hart."
Luke kept his expression neutral. "I told you. Maple Street's on my route."
"Uh-huh." Mercer exchanged a look with Sullivan. "She's pretty, I'll give her that."
"Drop it," Luke said.
Mercer smiled, not unkindly but not kindly either. "Just saying. Wouldn't be the first cop to get tangled up with a woman on his patch. Nothing to be ashamed of." A beat. "Assuming it's the right woman."
"Drop it," Luke said again. His voice came out flat. Final.
Mercer scoffed. “The Harts bring it on themselves. I just wish they wouldn’t bring it into our town.”
Luke’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Did you put out a BOLO at least?”
“Dark sedan.” Sullivan said. “Tinted windows. No plates noted.”
Luke didn’t respond. He couldn’t trust himself to.
She’d been scared.
And she hadn’t called him.
He was coming anyway.
Luke tookthe porch steps two at a time and banged on the door.
Silence.
He knocked again, louder, flat palm against wood.
