Winter dragged his shirt back into place like the cut didn’t exist. “You think he’ll circle back?”
“If he does, we’ll be waiting,” Memphis said.
“I doubt he’ll be back,” Sage murmured, shifting his gaze to the photos.
“Maybe she’s the key,” Law murmured, looking at the woman in the photo.
Movement picked up again, the room resetting into purpose.
Law stayed where he was for a beat longer, just enough to let Sage feel him there beside him—offering what comfort he could by his sheer presence.
Solid. Unmoving. Something Sage could lean on without being asked to.
Two days later…
Sage stepped out of the jet-black Range Rover Autobiography and paused.
The door shut with a quiet, expensive click—blacked-out glass, nothing flashy but money all the same.
The heat hit first—dry, sharp, bouncing off pale stone and manicured gravel like the whole neighborhood had been designed to reflect sunlight instead of absorb it. His gaze moved across the street in a slow sweep.
Wide streets. No clutter. Lawns cut precisely. Desert landscaping placed with intent—stone, cactus, low palms arranged like someone had paid to make it look effortless.
The search at the store turned up nothing. The owner had been no help either.
The woman in the photo turned out to be Monica Westfall.
Which was how they’d ended up in Summerlin, just west of Las Vegas, Nevada, running on the chance Rook would show up at her place. He’d almost caught him in Arizona. Not much of a stretch to think he might try Nevada next.
Sage glanced around.
The quiet neighborhood reeked of wealth.
Nothing about the house in front of him read temporary. Nothing about it read safe house.
It read money. It read quiet. It read people who noticed things that didn’t belong.
The SUV door shut behind him with a muted thud.
“Yeah,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “This’ll do.”
The passenger door opened.
Buckshot launched.
Sage’s attention snapped with him, tracking the movement before the thought fully formed.
The dog cut across the driveway in a straight line, heading for the house across the street.
A woman stood with a leash in hand—cream linen blouse tucked into tailored slacks, dark hair pulled back, oversized sunglasses hiding her eyes but not the way she held herself. Upright. Composed. Like she’d never had to hurry a day in her life. A small, carefully groomed dog waited at the end of the lead, coat trimmed exactly, and nails short.
“Buckshot,” Law called, voice even, carrying without effort.
The dog didn’t slow.
Sage moved a step forward, already adjusting—distance, timing, how to intercept without escalating it into something that drew more attention than it needed to.
Buckshot skidded to a stop in front of the woman like he’d been expected, tail moving, posture open and easy.
