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Because I need answers. Because Sookie was my friend. Because this isn’t just his case—it’s mine. And maybe, if I can get just a little closer, I’ll understand why someone would murder a woman like Sookie and ransack my house looking for a ghost.

I set the alarm, scribble a vague note about heading out for a quick errand—something light enough not to raise alarms but clear enough to show I wasn’t dragged out kicking. My pen hesitates just long enough to wonder if I’m making a mistake, but I shove that thought aside. I leave it in plain view on the counter, where Deacon won’t miss it.. Lock the door and leave.

Alone.

It might not be the smartest move, nor the safest, but it’s broad daylight, the place is public, and I’m not walking in unarmed. Part of me knows I should wait—Deacon will lose his mind if he finds out—but another part whispers that the trail’s already going cold. If I sit here second-guessing, I might miss something that could change everything. So I’ll go, get in and out, and be back before he even realizes I’ve gone.

I slide into my Range Rover, pulse thrumming in my ears as I grip the wheel. I’m making a choice Deacon won’t like, and every second that ticks by feels like a warning. But it’s my decision to make—and I own it.

I’m assuming the Reaper isn’t already watching. He can’t be. But a chill creeps down my spine as I glance in the rearview mirror. Nothing there but the flicker of sunlight on pavement, but my skin prickles with the unmistakable sense of eyes on me—cold, patient, waiting.

But I don’t let myself think about that. Not yet. Because if I do—if I let my mind go there—I’ll freeze. I won't even pull out of the driveway. I'll get out, run back to the house, lock myself in, and wait for Deacon or someone else to do the hard thing. And that’s not who I am. Not anymore. The fear can ride shotgun, but it doesn’t get to drive.

Instead, I drive. Toward danger. Toward answers. And maybe—if I’m not careful—straight into the hands of the people who killed my friend. I won’t walk in blind. And I sure as hell won’t walk in weak.

Midday traffic hums along as I make my way to Freeport. From where I park in the shopping mall's lot, I can see a few customers chatting on the shaded patio over tacos and horchata. It looks the same way it did the last time I was here with Sookie. The memory anchors me, lends the place a false sense of normalcy and familiarity, like stepping back into a snapshot before everything went wrong.

The image sticks in my head, painting the place as familiar, public, and deceptively safe. It’s a public spot—nothing sketchy or secluded—and that makes me feel just safe enough to justify having come alone. The financial trail led here. My instincts tell me that it's something that might make sense of everything. I sit in the Range Rover and remind myself that if I move now, I might be able to head off a dead end—or get just close enough to uncover what Sookie died trying to find.

And now, if I don’t move fast, I might never know what—or who—she uncovered before they silenced her. I take one last breath, steady my hand on the door handle, and step out into theheat of the sun, ready to walk straight into whatever secrets are still waiting to be dragged into the light.

CHAPTER 9

DEACON

Gideon and Maggie’s loft smells like brown butter and espresso, a rich and oddly comforting mix that speaks to Maggie’s penchant for pastries and Gideon’s reliance on caffeine. I drop into one of the bar stools at the expansive kitchen island and brace my forearms on the edge, eyes scanning the files laid out between us.

“What are we looking at here?” I ask, even though I already know.

This web’s morphing into a Hydra—every time we trace one thread, two more twist out of it, tangled and lethal. It’s not just a case anymore. It’s a trap, a network wired to explode if we miss a single line.

Gideon exhales slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Shell companies out the ass. Fronts masking other fronts. Casinos, construction firms, strip clubs. Money laundering, tax fraud. We think Sookie stumbled onto something while trying to break into investigative journalism.”

I nod once. “And now Sutton’s neck-deep in it.”

Gideon levels me with a look. “She’s the reason we’re seeing the whole pattern. You were right—she’s good. Maybe too good. They’ll notice.”

“They already have,” I say. The words come out clipped. Tension spikes in my spine as I lean back. “But she can connect dots we can’t. We need her.”

“Just make sure you don’t need her so badly you overlook the fact that she’s standing dead center in a sniper’s scope.”

I let the warning hang between us for a beat. “You were the one who told me what it felt like to protect something you didn’t want to lose.”

Gideon’s eyes darken. “Yeah. And Maggie didn’t have a fucking contract killer on her tail.”

Fair. But it’s more than that—his words hit like a gut punch, dragging up the tight coil of possessiveness I’ve tried to keep buried since Sutton crashed into my world. Protecting her isn’t just duty now. It’s something primal, something sharp that won’t let go.

A sharp buzz rattles my wrist—the alert from Sutton’s security system slicing through the tension like a blade. I freeze, gut clenching as I glance down at my watch. One word blinks on the screen: Triggered.

I tap into the app and pull up the interior feed. Nothing stirs. Chairs neatly pushed in, lights off, stillness stretched tight like a held breath. The silence isn't calm—it's the kind that screams something’s wrong. The kind that raises every hackle on the back of my neck.

I flick to the exterior cameras. She's not there. My pulse kicks up as I switch to her GPS feed. The dot pulses steadily, nowhere near here—Freeport. My stomach drops.

"Dammit, Sutton."

A jolt knifes through me as I activate the tracker I embedded in her phone. Her blinking location pulses across the screen—steady, indifferent, like it doesn’t realize it’s got my blood turning to ice. My jaw locks, breath shortening, chest too tightfor anything but the roaring certainty that something’s wrong. Each beat of that dot feels like a countdown I can’t afford to lose.

“She left?” Gideon asks, standing.