His eyes snap to mine. “I haven’t spoken to Lucy yet today.”
“And yet you just looked at your phone and your expression changed.” I lean back, stretching my arm along the back of the couch behind Sloane. “She texted you.”
“It was a logistical message.”
“At barely nine in the morning?”
“She’s on East Coast time. She was already at work.” His tone gets defensive and clipped. “It was about the FBI coordination.”
“Uh huh.”
Sloane’s eyes dart between us. I can practically see her filing this away for the group chat later.
Aldar redirects with the subtlety of a charging bull. “Can we focus? The FBI contact wants a timeline for when the article will be ready for publication.”
“A few more days,” Sloane answers. “The draft is nearly complete. I’m waiting on one more piece of documentation from the Cayman banking records, and then I need to go through legal review with my editor.”
“Good. The sooner it’s out, the sooner Aldridge loses his reason to silence you.”
The word silence lands heavily in the room. Nobody responds to it.
Aldar leaves shortly after—off to check on the additional security cameras he ordered and pick up supplies from town. The house settles back into its quiet rhythm.
By late morning Sloane is deep in her article with that focused expression I’ve come to love—brow furrowed, lower lip caught between her teeth, fingers flying across the keyboard.
She’s been remarking a lot lately about how much she loves this town and specifically this neighborhood. Yesterday she stood at the window while I held her up and stared at the mountains and said, “I can’t believe places like this actually exist. Georgetown is all brick and humidity and traffic. This feels like a different planet.”
I filed that away, tucked it close alongside every other small sign that she might want to stay and make something permanent here. On the other hand, I’ve started to wonder if I could live in Georgetown with Sloane. Possibly. I refuse to be like her ex, making her do all the relocation work to keep their relationship intact. After this is all over, I will need to be flexible if I want to keep this amazing female in my life. If she wants to live in Truckee, that’s what we will do. If she wants to stay in Georgetown because that makes more sense…that’s what we will do.
My secret wish is that she will fall in love with this area so much she’ll want to move into that house I saw for sale recently, just two doors down from Dane and Laurie.
In fact, I might’ve gotten in contact with the real estate agent.
I’m in the kitchen making her a sandwich—turkey and swiss on sourdough, no crusts—when the doorbell rings.
Loki lets out an explosive bark, launches himself off the couch and skids across the hardwood toward the front door.
I freeze.
We’re not expecting anyone. Dane and Laurie always text before coming over. Garlen and Ellie are at work. Aldar has a key and never rings the bell. Deliveries go to a PO box in town—Aldar set that up specifically so nothing traces to this address.
My hand moves to the knife on the counter. Not because I’m planning to answer the door with a kitchen knife, but because my body has gone into a mode I don’t fully control. I move to the door and check the camera monitor Aldar installed last week. The porch is empty. No person visible. But I can see a padded manila envelope sitting on the welcome mat.
“What is it?” Sloane calls from the couch. “Who is there?”
I don’t answer. I open the door and scan the street in both directions. Nothing. The neighborhood is quiet and so is the tiny park across the street. Manicured lawns, parked cars, morning sun on the mountains. Whoever left this is already gone.
I pick up the envelope. It’s light with no return address or postage. This was hand-delivered. I bring it inside and lock the door behind me. I open the envelope at the kitchen counter, standing so my body blocks Sloane’s view.
Photos spill out.
Sloane in the passenger seat of Ellie’s car at the In-N-Out drive-thru. That was yesterday. Ellie had talked her into getting out of the house for a quick food run—just thirty minutes, just to feel normal. Sloane’s face is clearly visible through the window, her auburn hair unmistakable.
The second photo is of the front of this house shot from directly across the road. The third photo is of Sloane visible through the front window, sitting on the couch with her laptop on her knees. This was also taken from the street, through glass that I was standing fifteen feet away from.
My vision tunnels.
And at the bottom of the stack I find a single typed note on white paper.
