She couldn’t open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not where her face would be visible to someone who might ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
She set the puppies gently aside and rose to her feet. The troublemaker redirected his attention to her vacated spot on the floor.
She thanked Max for letting her play with the puppies.
“Anytime . . .”
She forced a smile that she suspected didn’t reach her eyes, tucked the envelope against her side, and walked out of the kennel.
Then she headed for the house, and the stairs, and the privacy of her room.
Whatever was inside that envelope, she needed to face it alone.
Rowan closed the door behind her and stood with her back against it, the envelope in her hands.
Her room was quiet. Afternoon light stretched across the bed, warm and ordinary . . . and completely indifferent to what she was holding.
Her knees felt weak, and she wobbled. She sat on the edge of the bed and turned the envelope over. The handwriting on the front was neat and controlled—and generic.
Her thumbnail slid under the flap, and the contents slid out into her lap.
Inside was a single photograph. She picked it up.
The black-and-white image was a still frame pulled from security footage. The quality was degraded, washed out in some places and too sharp in others.
But she recognized the room immediately.
It was Vince’s production office.
And there she was.
On her knees on the floor, leaning over Thayer’s body. Her hand was pressed to his neck where she’d checked for a pulse. From this angle, at this quality, with no context, it looked like something else entirely.
It looked like exactly what Vince needed it to look like.
Like Rowan might have hurt him herself.
Rowan stared at the image, her thoughts racing.
Vince knew where she was.
He hadn’t sent this photo to the police. He hadn’t sent it to the press.
He’d sent it here—to her family’s address, to the place she’d run to, the place she’d believed she had some measure of safety.
He’d found her within days of her leaving California, and he wanted her to know it.
She’d told herself that coming here was the right move. That she needed time to think, to find solid ground before she decided what to do next. She’d told herself that distance would help.
What she hadn’t considered was that distance worked both ways—and that Vince, unlike her, had used his to get organized.
She stood and walked to the window again.
Wes was still below, moving along the far side of the kennel. Remington ranged a few feet ahead of him.
This had just gone to a different level. Rowan now understood that with a clarity she hadn’t had before.
Vince wasn’t waiting for her to make a move. He’d already made his—and he was making it from a position of considerably more strategic calculation than she was ready for.
