I recount every detail—three masked men, the suppressed shots, the targeted theft, my attempt to intervene. I show him the text. His expression tightens.
Paramedics arrive and guide me to a folding chair. The younger one cleans the graze with gentle hands, the antiseptic sting sharp against raw skin.
“This is superficial, but keep it dry and elevated tonight,” he says while wrapping fresh gauze. “You’re lucky it was only a graze.”
I thank him, but my mind stays fixed on the investigation unfolding around us. Officers cordon off the exhibit, photograph the shattered case, and collect shell casings. Detective Reed returns after speaking with the guards.
“We’re treating this as a targeted professional theft with credible threats attached. We’ll have patrols on your street tonight. I’ll follow up on any leads from the security footage once the power company confirms the outage details.”
He asks about anyone who might hold a grudge, recent inquiries about the centerpiece, and anything unusual in the days leading up to the event. I mention the out-of-town collectors. He notes everything, then nods toward the waiting officers.
“We’ll need your full written statement tomorrow, but for now, get somewhere safe.”
Only when the immediate frenzy begins to settle do I step away far enough to make the call I know I need to make. My fingers tremble as I scroll to Cal Hayes in my contacts. He answers on the second ring, voice calm and steady.
“Hayes.”
I explain everything in clear, measured sentences: the blackout, the stolen painting, the graze on my arm, the death threat still glowing on my phone. Cal listens without interruption, then offers the reassurance I desperately need.
“I’m sending my best man, Jax Harlan, to your cottage within the hour.”
The name settles over me with a strange mix of comfort and anticipation. I thank him and end the call.
I thank Detective Reed one final time and accept a direct escort home. The emerald dress clings uncomfortably now,stained with blood and spilled champagne, but I hold my head high as I walk toward the parking area lit up with police lights.
The moon hangs low over the marshes, silver light glinting on restless water. Tidehaven looks deceptively peaceful. Streets lined with pastel cottages, live oaks draped in moss, the lighthouse standing sentinel in the distance.
Yet for me, the night has changed me forever. The thieves are still out there. The painting is gone. A death threat sits heavily in my messages. Police and security have done what they could in these first critical hours, but I know deep down this is far from over.
I slide into my car, start the engine, and pull onto the coastal road with one hand on the wheel and the other pressed lightly to the fresh bandage. I hope this Jax Harlan is as good as Cal says. I have a feeling things are going to get worse before they get better.
Chapter Two - Reaper
Sweat pours down my bare chest as I drive another brutal combination into the heavy bag. The rhythmic thud of leather against my knuckles fills the tactical gym at the Boathouse. It’s well past midnight, and the old cannery is quiet except for the low hum of overhead lights and the steady burn in my shoulders.
My phone sits silent on the bench. I’ve already pushed through two hours, trying to outrun the restlessness that always hits after dark.
The side door bangs open. Cal strides in, still dressed in the same clothes from earlier. His face is tight.
“Reaper.”
I catch the bag with both hands and steady it, breathing hard. “What happened?”
“A call came in ten minutes ago. Isabella Monroe. She’s the curator who put together the art preview on the pier tonight. A professional crew hit the place during the event. Three masked men cut the lights and stole a high-value Gullah painting. It’sinsured for seven figures. One of them grazed her arm with a stray shot. She fought back, tripping one with a display pedestal. Police are processing the scene now.”
My stomach tightens. “Is she okay?”
“Shaken but holding it together. Gave a clear statement. The real problem is the text she received right after the lights came back on.” Cal’s jaw flexes. “‘Return what’s ours or the next bullet finds your heart.’”
The words land heavy in the humid air. I rip the Velcro on my gloves with my teeth and yank them off. “She called you?”
“I’ve met her in town, and the gallery has us as an emergency contact. She’s smart and knows this is bigger than local PD can handle quickly. They’re treating it as a targeted theft, but forensics will take days. She needs protection tonight.”
I toss the gloves onto the bench. The familiar weight of responsibility settles on my shoulders. “You want me on her?”
“You’re the best I’ve got for close protection.”
Cal watches me closely. “Hold the line.”
