I couldn’t stop my smile. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“He’ll be dressed and at that fence gap before the sun’s fully up.”
“I’m sure Jolly will already be there waiting for him.”
We stood in the doorway. The night air carried that thin September edge, and from inside, I could hear William talking quietly—to himself or to the ball, explaining how tomorrow was going to work.
Kayla reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were warm. Her grip was firm and unhesitating.
“Be safe.”
I’d heard those words a hundred times. From commanding officers, from teammates, from people who meant them in the general way you meant anything you said to someone walking into the dark. They’d never stayed with me past the door.
“I will.”
She held on for another second. Then let go.
My phone buzzed.
Jace. One line on the screen.
Reeves is moving. First phone active, heading east on Ridgeline.
I looked at Kayla. She’d seen me check the phone, seen whatever crossed my face.
“Go,” she said.
The work was waiting, the way it always waited—patient, demanding, ready to swallow however many hours I was willing to feed it.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn’t in a hurry to let it.
I turned and went.
Chapter 14
Ben
Donovan’s SUV had dark-tinted windows and a suspension that absorbed the mountain roads without complaint. We’d been following Shane Reeves for twenty-three minutes, two cars back, watching his taillights weave through the east side of Summit Falls like a man who knew exactly where he was going.
Reeves drove a silver Honda Civic, a few years old. The type of car a young cop on a small-town salary would drive and not think twice about. Nothing about it drew attention. Nothing about his driving did either—steady speed, proper signals, full stops. A police officer’s habits dying hard, even off duty.
The night helped keep us hidden. September in a ski town meant enough tourist traffic that two sets of headlights behind you didn’t register as unusual. The streets weren’t empty, but they weren’t crowded either—that middle groundwhere you could maintain distance without losing sight of your target.
Donovan drove with one hand on the wheel, his posture relaxed in a way that was entirely performance. His eyes never stopped moving. Mirrors, road, Reeves’s taillights, mirrors again.
“He’s turning,” Donovan said.
Reeves pulled into a small commercial strip on the east side—one of those single-building setups with a shared entrance and a row of businesses inside. A pizza place, a dry cleaner, a few other storefronts with signs I couldn’t make out from across the road. The parking lot held maybe ten cars, scattered under inadequate lighting.
Donovan pulled into the lot of a tire shop across the street and killed the headlights. Good angle. Clear sightline.
We watched Reeves park, get out, and disappear through the central entrance. No way to tell which business he was heading for once he was inside.
“Could be any of them,” Donovan said.
We waited. Five minutes later, Reeves came back out carrying a bag with handles. Impossible to tell what was in it. He held it carefully, the way you held something you didn’t want to drop. Got back in the Civic and pulled out of the lot.
Donovan and I looked at each other.
