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He presses his forehead to mine. "Are you hungry?"

"Don’t flatter yourself. That was the appetizer, now I want the bacon."

"Good," he says, glancing at me over his shoulder with that infuriating half-smile. "Because there’s enough for two. Sit."

CHAPTER 8

SUTTON

Ido. Not because he told me to, I remind myself, but because the scent—sweet warmth layered with sizzling bacon and something rich and buttery—pulls at something deeper than hunger. It tugs at the memory of comfort, of safety, and even if I know better, my feet move before the rest of me catches up.

We eat without talking. No talk of kisses. Or bedrooms. Or the way I may or may not have fallen asleep with my heart pounding like it was trying to outrun what we almost did. The silence stretches, almost sacred—a fragile lull wrapped in warmth and phantom touches, haunted by the memory of opened drawers and shattered mugs.

It should be comforting. Instead, it feels like holding my breath in a house that's pretending not to remember the break-in—heavy with what we’re not saying, and yet oddly comforting. I focus on the sound of the fork scraping the plate, the warm steam from my coffee rising like a veil I can hide behind. And absolutely no talk about the case.

For ten perfect minutes, it’s just perfectly scrambled eggs, golden and fluffy, with French toast laced in warm spice and care—the kind of breakfast that makes you believe, if only briefly,that everything might be okay. Each bite is a balm, anchoring me in a reality I wish I could hold onto a little longer. But peace this sharp never lasts. It always cuts back.

It feels almost normal. Like we’re not tangled in a murder investigation, like my house wasn’t broken into, like there isn’t a stranger's heat still lingering on my skin. Each bite settles into my stomach like an anchor, grounding me even as my thoughts spin. But under the quiet, there’s tension coiled tight in my chest—like I’m holding my breath, waiting for the world to remind me this peace is temporary.

Until Deacon breaks the spell. The soft scrape of his fork against the plate slices through the quiet, sharp and jarring, like the sudden crack of a whip in still air. He sets it down with a clink that’s too precise to be anything but intentional. My fork stills, mid-bite. Whatever fragile normalcy we were pretending to enjoy evaporates. When he speaks, it’s not just the air that tightens—it’s everything inside me, pulled taut with the knowledge that the illusion is over.

"I’ve got to meet Gideon," he says, wiping his mouth. "Be back in a couple of hours. Lock the door behind me. Set the alarm."

I lift my mug in mock salute. "Sir, yes sir."

His eyes narrow, amused. "Don’t be cute."

"I can't help it, it's my natural state," I say with a shrug.

He grabs his keys and opens the front door, pausing like he wants to say something else. His fingers tighten around the metal, jaw ticking, but the words don’t come. Instead, he just looks at me—like he’s memorizing something he’s not ready to lose—for a beat too long.

Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut, and the echo lingers longer than it should, a final punctuation on the spell we almost let ourselves believe in. I stand frozen, heart thumping a littletoo fast, eyes locked on the space he left behind like I expect it to refill itself. It doesn’t.

I watch the door close, wait until I hear the rumble of his motorcycle fade into the distance, and exhale—a long, shaky breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding—as I lock the door. Relief washes over me, sharp and immediate. Not because I wanted him to go, but because the intensity of being around him is too much. He stirs up things I’ve spent years burying under sarcasm and spreadsheets. With him gone, I can breathe again—sort of.

I clean up our plates, rinse the skillet, the scent of sweet spice and rich warmth still clinging to the air like a memory that won’t quite fade. My fingers tighten on the handle as I scrub harder than necessary, each motion echoing with the pulse of confusion and tension Deacon’s presence stirs in me. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s both, and it rattles something deep, something I don’t want to name.

I try to focus on the warmth of the kitchen, the familiar domestic rhythm, but my mind keeps straying—to his hands, his eyes, the way he moved through my space like he belonged there. The air still carries a trace of sweetness, like the ghost of something tender I never learned to expect. My chest tightens as I scrub, muscles tense, remembering the rare mornings growing up when Dad would do the same thing—always after a hard night, always trying to bring normalcy back with a pan and a spatula. It’s comforting and jarring, all at once.

Deacon’s presence lingers in the room like heat from a fire long since burned out, and I can’t shake the feeling that letting it comfort me is a mistake I’ll regret. I wipe down the counter—because scrubbing dishes is easier than scrubbing Deacon’s voice from my head. Or the image of him barefoot and casually lethal in my kitchen. The heat of his gaze still clings to my skin like phantom fingers, and every time I breathe too deeply, it’slike I can taste him in the air. My hands tremble slightly on the dish towel, and I grip the counter harder than necessary. I’m not touching that landmine this early in the morning—but God, my body wants to detonate.

Instead, I head to the converted dining room where I’ve set up my makeshift office—a long farmhouse table scattered with notepads, a second monitor, and a corkboard of color-coded sticky notes that I’d insisted wasn’t a murder board, even though it totally is. I set my laptop down and slide into the worn chair, the wood creaking familiarly beneath me. Fingers poised, I start digging deeper into Sookie’s bank records, the glow of the screen casting a faint blue light over the chaos I’ve built around her case.

The transactions are odd. Scattered and inconsistent, but there’s a rhythm if you squint. Funnel after funnel, transfers masked as vendor payments or personal expenses. Several lead back to the Devil’s Den. Others vanish into shell corporations, then into offshore accounts. None of it makes sense. Unless...

My fingers fly across the keys, jittery with adrenaline and caffeine and something sharper—fear, maybe, or instinct. My pulse thuds in my ears as I chase the trail like a hound after blood, lungs tight with the sense that I’m closing in on something dangerous.

There. A pattern. A sudden rush of recognition bolts through me, a cold, electric snap that makes my breath catch. My pulse kicks like a startled heartbeat, a mix of adrenaline and vindication. I lean in, eyes scanning the screen with hyper-focused intensity, tracing the web of data Sookie had unraveled before she died. A buried trail she was either part of… or trying to expose. It’s tangled and thin, easily missed unless you know how to read the gaps—how to see what’s not there as clearly as what is. And I do. The numbers don’t lie, even if the people behind them do. And Sookie had been trying to pivot intoinvestigative reporting—digging deeper, taking risks, chasing stories that could make a name or get her killed. This trail might’ve been her shot at both.

My pulse spikes. I check the time. Deacon’s been gone forty-five minutes. I could wait. I should wait. Every rational cell in my body screams for caution. But logic’s drowning under the rush of adrenaline and the ache of betrayal curled in my chest like a fist. Sitting here, doing nothing, feels like a betrayal of Sookie’s memory. It feels like cowardice. I chew the inside of my cheek, trying to convince myself that waiting is the smart play, the right move. But I already know I’m lying.

But if these transfers are real—if someone killed Sookie over them—then the Devil’s Den isn’t the only rotten link. There’s another trail buried beneath the offshore accounts: a defunct shell company registered to a PO box outside of Freeport. A storage facility just off a main road, tucked behind a still-operating self-serve car wash and a faded shopping mall with a busy taqueria. Public enough to feel safe during the day, with enough foot traffic and vehicles around to avoid raising suspicion. Accessible. Unremarkable. Easy to overlook—but not abandoned.

I grab my keys like they’re burning a hole in my palm. My fingers close too tight around the metal, knuckles whitening as a jagged spike of adrenaline floods my veins. I pause at the door, every instinct screaming that this is a bad idea—but I shove the fear down, bury it beneath the steady thump of purpose and the ghost of Sookie’s laughter. I’m not running. Not this time. The air feels too still, like it’s waiting for me to make the wrong move. I should wait. I should sit tight and do what I was told. But something’s clawing at my chest—insistent, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

I should wait for Deacon, but I don't like feeling tied to him. He's not my boss, and I know how petulant that sounds, but it isthe truth, and I feel a need to assert my independence. Besides, heading out to a quiet, publicly accessible complex in broad daylight isn’t exactly reckless—but it’s not textbook safe either. Still, sitting still while the trail cools feels worse. I might miss the thread Sookie died chasing, and I can’t let that happen.

I’m not going in blind—I’ll take the handgun from my nightstand, the one I used to keep in a locked case until last week made that feel naïve. I check the clip, tuck the holster into the waistband of my jeans, put the gun in it, and pull my shirt down to cover it. It’s not perfect. It’s not safe. But it’s something and doing nothing feels like killing my friend all over again.