Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102754 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 514(@200wpm)___ 411(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
The man held up his hands, covered by thick black gloves, and wiggled his fingers. “Sure did. Got eczema, so the less stuff I get in it, the cleaner and comfier it is.”
The tech guy pulled on his own gloves and crouched to examine the tire, his eyes scanning every inch like he was mentally cataloging details. Then, he retrieved a heavy-duty evidence box from the back of his vehicle, lifted the tire carefully—the knife still intact—and lowered it into the container like it was fragile glass.
I watched as he filled out a form on a clipboard, jotting down notes in tight, blocky handwriting. When he was done, he peeled off a sticker from the form and affixed it to the outside of the box, sealing it with one last firm press.
The AAA guy wrapped up around the same time, scribbling something on his paperwork before handing me a copy and offering a polite smile. The tech gave my car one last slow sweep with his eyes, then, without a word, turned and walked into the mall.
Like it never happened.
My phone rang again, and I didn’t need to check to know who it was.
“Hey,” I answered, already walking to the front of the car.
“Is the tire swapped?” Roque asked.
“Yeah, and your guy picked up the one with the knife. Didn’t say much, just boxed it up and took off into the store.”
“Good,” he said. His voice was steady but low as if he were juggling too many thoughts at once. “Go home, okay? Just go home.”
I didn’t argue.
The drive back was quiet, a little eerie, but I kept my focus on the road, watching the way the snow was finally melting away at the edges. I didn’t let my thoughts spiral—I wouldn’t let myself fall into the trap of trying to explain what couldn’t be explained just yet.
When I pulled into Roque’s driveway, the moving truck was parked at the curb, and the hazard lights were blinking.
The moment the back doors rolled up, any lingering unease from the mall vanished. I barely had time to think about what had happened. My mind was consumed with sorting boxes, directing the movers, and ensuring everything the kids needed was in the right room.
Kaida’s ballerina pig comforter went into the wash, and Kairo’s fireman puppy set was next. I laid out their beanbags by the window, tested the aurora projector on the ceiling, and stuffed soft star-shaped cushions onto each pillow.
I wasn’t just setting up rooms. I was building a haven, one soft thing at a time.
And whatever had happened in that parking lot, it could wait.
The kids were coming home, and that was the only thing that mattered.
Chapter 13
Roque
Istood in the center of the briefing room, my jaw clenched so tight it ached. Judd was at the head of the table, arms folded, that unreadable expression on his face that told me he was just as pissed off as I was—he just had more practice hiding it. Around the room sat one of the detectives, Imogen, sharp-eyed and always five steps ahead. Kapono—our steady, quietly brilliant investigator—and Keir, the Deputy Sheriff, whose silence spoke volumes. Kai was already thumbing through files on his tablet, frowning.
I’d just finished explaining what happened to Sayla—a flat tire, knife, the two assholes in black, the tire now boxed and sealed for evidence.
Kapono didn’t waste a second. He pulled out his phone and called the lab, asking for his brother. “Yeah, I need you to get that tire Roque flagged. It’s evidence now. Also, do me a favor—check in on Sayla for us. She was there when it happened.”
It was the right call, but it was like striking a match in the powder keg under my skin.
“No,” I snapped, pacing now, my boots echoing off the tile. “No more checking in—they went after her. This isn’t a scare tactic, it’s retaliation. They know we’re onto them, and this proves it.”
Everyone in the room went still, the kind of quiet that only came when everyone agreed with the words but no one wanted to hear them.
“They’re worried,” I went on, voice low and furious. “Which means we’re finally making the right noise, but they didn’t come at me, they went after her. And that—” I stabbed a finger toward the table “—means we’re getting too damn close, so we need someone to watch her.”
Judd exhaled through his nose, then turned to the monitor on the wall. With a few taps on the remote, he pulled up a video still. The Chief—Randolph Topper—standing outside an old building in Palmerstown, shaking hands with two men we’d identified weeks ago as members of the money laundering and prostitution ring infecting the town like rot beneath the surface. The footage was clear, damning even, but it wasn’t enough.
“Without stronger evidence,” Judd said grimly, “we can’t get a warrant or a task force yet.”