She leaned forward, resting her forehead against my chest. “What if I can’t stay, Dungar? What if all this,” she gestured vaguely toward the case files, “is connected to me, and staying puts everyone in danger?”
I lifted her chin with one finger, meeting her gaze. “Then we face it together. I’m not letting you run anymore, Riley James.”
She curled her finger for me to bring my face near and gave me a tentative but hopeful kiss. When she pulled back, her eyes held enough heat to make my heart stutter.
“I should check the mail records,” she said, though she made no move to leave my embrace. “See if there are other shipments here from Sillavar Research.”
“Good idea.” I reluctantly stepped back, letting her slide off the desk.
While she accessed the digital mail logs on her computer, I returned to organizing our evidence board. Each photo, statement, and timeline entry had its place in the larger picture we were assembling.
“Dungar.” Riley’s voice cut through my concentration. “I found something.”
I moved to stand behind her, reading over her shoulder. She nudged her chin toward an invoice record for a delivery a week ago: “Specialized specimen containment unit with biometric monitoring capabilities” addressed to Sillavar Research, care of Lonesome Creek Post Office, Box 437.
“Who rents Box 437?” I asked, already reaching for the post office registry we kept onfile.
Riley beat me to it, flipping through the pages until she found the entry. Her finger stopped midway down the page, and she looked up at me with concern in her eyes.
“Box 437 is registered to Franklin Prescott.” Her frown deepened. “Who’s that?”
“I have no idea, but we’re going to find out.”
Chapter 17
Riley
“Franklin Prescott.” I tapped my pen on my desk, the rhythm matching the hum of the computer fan as I scrolled through yet another useless search result. “Why does this name lead absolutely nowhere?”
Dungar stood behind me, leaning over my shoulder to study the screen. His scent, pine and leather with something uniquely him, wrapped around me.
“Nothing in the employee records?” His breath tickled my ear, sending a pleasant shiver across my skin.
“Nope.” I gestured at the personnel files we’d pulled for everyone associated with Lonesome Creek Ranch. “I’ve checked full-time staff, part-time employees, contractors, even the vendors who supply the gift shop. No Franklin Prescott anywhere.”
“And online?”
I snorted. “Too many Franklin Prescotts to count. Lawyers, doctors, retired teachers, college students.” I clicked through a few more search results. “Wait, here’ssomething. A Franklin Prescott in Silver Ridge, about thirty miles east of here.”
“Retired gynecologist.”
I doubted it was anything, but I bookmarked the page and stood, my back brushing against Dungar’s chest. He didn’t step away, and for a moment we remained like that, close enough that I could feel his heartbeat against my shoulder blade.
“I should interview some of the tourists who’ve taken luminook tours recently,” I said, reluctantly creating space between us.
Dungar nodded, moving back to his desk where he’d been organizing evidence photos. “Good idea. I’ll see if I can find out anything about Franklin from Aunt Inla, who sorts our mail.”
I gathered my notebook and pen, pausing at the door to watch him work. His hands moved with surprising delicacy as he scrolled through his computer, taking careful notes on a piece of paper lying parallel to his mousepad. Where others might have seen obsession, I saw dedication, the careful attention to detail that made him exceptional at his job and, increasingly, essential to my sense of safety.
“I’ll be back soon,” I said.
He looked up, his dark eyes softening. “Be careful, breela.”
The orc endearment warmed me from the inside out. “Always.”
The afternoon sun beat down on Main Street as I made my way through clusters of tourists toward theluminook viewing area. A tour had just finished, and a group of people were filtering out from the path leading to the pens and the demonstration area, many still snapping photos of the glowing creatures.
I approached a father with the teenage daughter I’d seen the first day I arrived. They wore matching Lonesome Creek t-shirts, the daughter sporting braided hair adorned with luminook-inspired clips that winked pale pink.
