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Then another text comes through.

Chaos: I don't know if he's going to make it.

Jesus Christ.

Me: He's a dog.

Chaos: A dog without Scooby-Doo.

I text Beck Mercer’s location and tell him to take over. Then I look toward Bramble & Bean.

This is fucking ridiculous.

Five minutes later, I'm holding a dog's iPad.

I've made questionable decisions in my life. A lot of them. Some involving guns. Some involving bodies. One involving a woman in Miami that resulted in Beck calling me Hot Lips for the next six fucking years.

But this might be the worst.

“Callie forgot it,” Gracie says from behind the counter.

“I know.”

Her gaze drops to the tablet in my hand, then comes back to me. Something about her expression makes me suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I fucking hate that word. Everybody in this town says nothing while very clearly thinking something.

“I'm taking it to her.”

“I assumed.”

“Her dog is pouting.”

“Of course.”

I narrow my eyes.

Gracie smiles.

I leave before this gets worse.

Callie's house looks different in daylight.

I've bled on her couch. Fucked her upstairs. Left before sunrise.

None of those things prepared me for pulling into her driveway in the middle of the afternoon carrying a fucking iPad for her dog.

There are two cars outside. I recognize Callie's SUV. The other one isn't hers.

I park behind it and sit for a second.

Mercer didn't follow me. I'm sure of that. I took enough turns getting here to know.

Still, I check the street, the neighboring houses, and the surrounding cars. Nothing is out of place.