“Blaze is on his way.”His voice sounded distant to his own ears.“They found Tina.”
He didn’t have to say the rest.She could see it in his face, in the set of his shoulders, in the way he couldn’t quite meet her eyes.
“Oh, Zeke.”She took his hand.“I’m so sorry.”
And just like that, the anger between them didn’t matter.The hurt and betrayal and broken trust—it was all still there, but underneath it was something stronger.Something that had survived three years apart and a week of lies.
She was here.She was holding his hand.And when Blaze arrived with the details of Tina Wolfe’s death, she didn’t let go.
ChapterEight
Blaze arrived ten minutes later,snow dusting his sheriff’s jacket, his face carrying the weight of bad news delivered too many times.He spotted them by the fireplace and made his way over, nodding to various O’Haras as he passed.
Mac appeared at his elbow with coffee before he’d even sat down.“On the house,” she said quietly, reading the room with the O’Hara instinct for knowing when something was wrong.
“Thanks, Mac.”He waited until she’d gone before sitting across from them, his hands wrapped around the mug like he needed the warmth.“Couple of fishermen found her body about two hours ago.She’d been in the water a few days, but the cold preserved enough that the coroner could ID her from prints.”
Zeke’s jaw was tight.“Cause of death?”
“Single gunshot wound to the head.Execution style.”Blaze’s voice was professional, but his eyes held sympathy.“But they sent a message first.Her tongue was cut out, hands severed.Brand on her inner thigh—Vaqueros signature for informants.”
Mia’s hand tightened on Zeke’s under the table.She’d seen crime-scene photos before, knew what men like the Vaqueros were capable of when they wanted to make an example.Tina Wolfe had died badly because she’d wanted a chance at a different life.
“Where?”Zeke asked.
“In the river near the north bridge, about fifteen miles from where we tracked that cell tower ping.Best guess is they held her in one of those Sawtooth cabins, tortured her for information, then dumped the body thinking the current would carry it farther downstream.”Blaze took a drink of coffee.“She fought, Zeke.Coroner found defensive wounds, signs of struggle.She didn’t give up easy.”
“She was twenty-six years old.”Zeke’s voice was rough.“She wanted to go to cosmetology school.Said she was good at doing hair, wanted to open her own salon somewhere far away from Idaho and motorcycles and everything that reminded her of the life she’d been trapped in.”
“I’m sorry,” Blaze said simply.“I know that doesn’t mean much, but I am.”
Zeke nodded, not trusting himself to speak.Mia could see him retreating into that place cops went when the job took too much—that cold, professional distance that let you function when everything inside was screaming.
“The music box,” Blaze continued.“We need to retrieve it.If Tina died protecting that information, we owe it to her to make sure it counts for something.”
“It’s at my apartment,” Mia said.“In my bedroom closet, top shelf, behind the sweaters in the safe.”
Both men looked at her.
“What?You think I was going to leave it sitting out after bikers destroyed my shop looking for it?”She shook her head.“I’m not stupid.I knew it was important—I just didn’t know why.”
“I’ll send a deputy to retrieve it,” Blaze said.
“No.”Mia stood, fishing her keys from her pocket.“I’ll get it.It’s my apartment, my hiding spot.Besides, I’d like to see what a woman died for.”
“Mia—” Zeke started.
“Don’t.”She cut him off, but not unkindly.“I’m part of this whether I wanted to be or not.I deserve to see it through.It’s just across the street.It won’t take long.”
They left the restaurant and headed toward Heavenly Delights and around to the back side of the building where the stairs to her apartment were.
Inside her apartment, Mia went straight to her bedroom while Zeke and Blaze waited in the living room.She emerged a moment later with the music box, still wrapped in the tissue paper she’d used when she’d bought it from Tina.
It was beautiful—hand-carved wood with inlaid mother-of-pearl, delicate filigree work that spoke of craftsmanship from another era.The kind of thing that should hold love letters and precious memories, not the formula for a drug that could devastate communities.
“How does it open?”Mia asked.
Zeke took it from her, his fingers finding the subtle catch along the bottom edge.A false bottom released with a soft click, revealing a small compartment.Inside was a folded piece of paper, the edges yellowed, the ink faded but still legible.
