“If I hadn’t stepped out there, Izzy, I don’t know what his play was,” Grant continued, looking at the floor. “You have to stayon guard. They’ve got you in their sights now. Maybe they think you know something, or maybe they’re being cautious because you’re close to Cal, but it scared me. I’ve spent a lot of time looking for ghosts, but those men are very real.”
Izzy watched him for a long moment, the moonlight catching the midnight blue of her dress. “I didn’t know you could dance like that,” she said softly.
The record finished, and the automatic arm of the stereo lifted. A new disc dropped onto the platter—Otis Redding, slow and mournful. The horns kicked in, low and steady.
Grant didn’t say a word. He held out his hand.
Izzy took it.
This time, there was no rough collision, no marking of territory. He pulled her close, one hand resting gently at the small of her back, the other cradling her hand against him. As she leaned in, the faint, sophisticated scent of her perfume—something like warm vanilla and dark plum—clouded his senses, a stark, sharp contrast to the familiar cedar and damp mountain air clinging to his own shirt. They moved in the dim light of the living room, a slow, swaying shadow. For a few minutes, there was no cartel, no Hollis, no “Clara Vale.” Just the music, her scent, and the way she fit perfectly against him.
She pulled back an inch, her eyes searching his, a slight moment of connection that felt more dangerous than any warehouse raid. Then, she cleared her throat softly.
“I should go to bed,” she whispered. “It’s been a long night.”
Grant let her go. He watched her walk up the stairs, the blue silk disappearing into the darkness of the landing.
He sat down in the dark, the Otis Redding track fading out. He felt like a fool. He’d spent so much time convinced he was turning into Sam Talley—the man who lost his mind over a woman and never recovered—that he’d pushed her straight into Cal’s arms.
Thinking about it now, it felt embarrassing. He wasn’t Sam Talley. He was a man who knew how to survive, who knew how to keep living even when the mountain tried to break him. He wasn’t going to stop breathing because of a memory.
But as he stared at the empty staircase, the image of her in the library returned. The way she’d leaned into Cal. The way her arms had locked behind his neck. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the regret tasting like copper in his mouth.
He’d finally gotten his head out of his butt, in time to realize the door might already be locked.
* * *
Jackson County Sheriff’s Office
Sunday morning had hollowed out the station.
Burke sat at his desk in a wrinkled uniform shirt, the night still written across his face. The small glass vial sat sealed in an evidence bag at the corner.
The lobby door buzzed.
Tessa Quinn stepped inside, composed, all business. She crossed straight to the desk, picked up the vial, and locked it into a padded case.
“I’m taking this to Asheville,” she said. “But I already know what it is. High-purity Ghost Ice. Vargas’ signature.”
Burke leaned back slightly.
“So the Hub is real.”
“It’s more than real.” She slid a tablet across the desk. “It’s a waypoint. International.”
She tapped the screen.
“I went through Vance Varga’s manifests overnight. The two men at the gala—the ones watching Izzy? Top lieutenants out of Miami. They don’t travel unless something matters.”
A chair shifted quietly along the wall.
Scout Wilson sat there, one ankle hooked over his knee, arms loose—but nothing about him relaxed. He’d been in the room longer than anyone realized. He was staring at the tablet screen, processing the logistics data with a tracker's precision.
Tessa didn’t acknowledge him. She didn’t need to.
“The original operation here went dark around 2000. Near RICO exposure. Everything shut down.”
A swipe.
