“Lost him at the creek,” Burke said, his voice lower now, the jagged edge of the adrenaline dulling. “He had a dirt bike stashed on the other side. By the time we hit the water, he was gone.”
He crossed the room to Caitlin. He looked at her for a long second, chest still heaving from the ride. Then he reached out, his thumb brushing a smudge of dust from her cheek. His hand stayed there, cupping her face.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Caitlin leaned into his palm, her eyes fluttering shut. “Yes. We’re okay.”
Burke’s shoulders sagged, relief roughening his voice. “Thank God.”
Then he pulled back, his eyes snapping to Izzy, then back to Caitlin, the Sheriff returning to his eyes.
“Now,” he said, his voice regaining its steel. “You’re both grounded. Both of you. For the next ten years. I’m impounding the horses. I’m impounding your boots. You aren’t leaving the farmhouse without an escort.”
Grant stepped up beside Izzy. He didn’t touch her, but the heat coming off him was a physical weight. He looked at the bundle in her hands, then at the hard, determined line of her mouth.
“Whoever was up here today wasn’t trying to scare you off,” Grant rumbled. “They were trying to beat you to it.”
Izzy didn’t flinch. She held out the black notebook. “The warning came twenty-seven years ago, Grant. We’re the ones finally reading it.”
* * *
The Kitchen — 30 Minutes Later
The black notebook sat in the center of the farmhouse table. It looked small, but it felt like a bomb.
Burke flipped through the loose sketches Izzy had pulled from the oilcloth. He stopped at the last one. It was raw, urgent, done in heavy charcoal that had smeared under Clara’s hand.
“Look at this,” Burke said, his voice tight.
Grant leaned in. Izzy and Caitlin stood behind them, very still.
The sketch showed the landing strip, but it wasn’t empty. A small Cessna sat on the asphalt. Four men stood in a semicirclenear the wing. Three were blurred, but the fourth—even in rough lines—was unmistakable. The height, the tilt of the Stetson, the way he stood like he owned the ground beneath him.
“Wade,” Grant whispered.
“And look at the tail,” Izzy pointed.
Clara had rendered the call letters with obsessive detail, as if she knew they were the only thing that couldn’t be denied.N372FL.
But it was the next sketch that made the room go cold. It showed the men loading heavy, rectangular crates into the belly of the plane. In the foreground, partially hidden by a tree—as if Clara were drawing from the shadows—was a man watching them.
He wasn’t part of the crew. He was holding a badge.
Grant and Burke looked at each other. A thick pause settled over the kitchen.
Burton Scott had been the Sheriff for thirty years. He was the reason Burke had a career in law enforcement. He was the reason the Scott name meant law in this county.
“No,” Burke said, the word scraping out quiet and raw. “Dad wouldn’t. Not for Wade. Not for anyone.”
“She saw it, Burke,” Izzy said, her voice soft but unyielding. “She saw the crates. She saw the plane. And she saw the Sheriff watching it happen.”
Burke’s hand shook as he flipped to the final entry in the notebook.
“Sam called. He’s coming to get me tonight. He says we’re going to the Sheriff. He says Burton will listen.”
Burke stopped. He looked at Grant, his eyes wide with a sudden, sickening realization.
“But I saw the way Wade and the Sheriff looked at each other at the fair. I don’t think anyone is coming to save us.”
