But now ... radio silence. Nothing.
He stopped typing—a letter trying to get a new investigation going, a shot in the dark, really—and focused on the small window.
No way.
He clicked, and the window expanded. He paused the video—a live feed from Mayor Kennedy's staff—and squinted at the background.
Holy shit.
The guy right there. Standing behind her.
He pressed play and let the video resume. A woman with copper hair faints, or collapses—he can't be sure which. The guy catches her, and the camera catches his face for a brief moment.
"Holy fucking shit," Klein breathed.
He'd know that face anywhere. Wyatt Fucking Dane. The guy who'd tanked his career.
Klein closed out the letter he was writing to his boss, put in a quick request for a week off, and was out the door in minutes.
If Wyatt Fucking Dane was in Charleston, that's where FBI Special Agent Trevor Klein needed to be.
So he could bury him once and for all.
18
SOPHIE
Iwoke slowly, like my body was surfacing from deep water.
For a few seconds I didn’t remember where I was. Just the soft weight of blankets, the faint scent of lavender and something baked, the hush of a house that felt lived in instead of quiet. Then it all came back in pieces. The bridge. Wyatt’s arms. The way he had carried me like I was fragile and unbreakable at the same time.
Wyatt.
My chest tightened—not with panic this time, but with something warm and insistent. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes, noticing how different I felt. Lighter. Clearer. Like the emotional storm had finally burned itself out and left space behind. Space that was suddenly very aware of the man in the next room. The man who had held my grief, my fear, my shame, and never once flinched.
I wanted him.
Not in a reckless way. In a quiet, steady way that felt terrifying because it wasn’t fueled by adrenaline or chaos. It was fueled by trust.
I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Mama P’s place was charming in a way that felt personal—old floral wallpaper, a small vanity with chipped paint, a mirror that had probably seen decades of people trying to collect themselves. I splashed cool water on my face, smoothed my hair, checked my reflection.
My eyes looked clearer. My skin still a little flushed from sleep. Vulnerable. Real.
Then I stood there, hands braced on the sink, heart thudding.
This could change things.
That thought didn’t scare me. It thrilled me.
When I stepped into the living room, Wyatt was on the sofa, phone in his hand, jaw tight like he’d been thinking about something heavy. He looked up instantly when he saw me, his whole posture shifting.
“You good?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “Better.”
He stood. Immediately. Like he’d been waiting for me to wake up.
