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I know this setup. Nice place. Upper middle-class money. Sturdy doors. Clean landscaping. But something’s off. I feel it like static under my skin.

I walk the perimeter first. Old habit. I’m not going in blind. Her curtains are drawn. Lights off except in the kitchen. I see movement—small, sharp. She’s pacing.

I knock.

No answer.

I knock again, louder.

Footsteps. Then the door opens, and she’s standing there in jeans and a tank top, barefoot, hair up in a haphazard knot, like she hasn’t realized she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Like she forgot the room catches fire when she walks into it.

Her eyes narrow. I know she recognizes me from the Devil’s Den, but I didn’t actually introduce myself. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

“Deacon Winslow, Texas Ranger."

"ID?" I hand it to her and she studies it carefully before nodding. "Is that anything like 'Walker, Texas Ranger?" she says with a grin.

"Only a little bit. I'm a lot taller. I’m here about the sketch you gave Detective Wilson.”

Her arms cross. She’s not inviting me in. “So now they care.”

“I have no idea if they care or not. All I know is I do.”

She tilts her head. “And why is that?”

“Because I know who that man is. And I know what he does.”

She studies me, calculating. Her mind moves fast. I can see it.

She exhales through her nose. “Of course you do.”

“I need to come in.”

“You always lead with demands, Ranger?”

“When someone’s marked by a contract killer, yeah.”

She steps back a half inch. Not fear—just enough room to think. She’s processing.

Finally, she unlocks the chain reaching from her door to the doorjamb and turns to walk in without waiting for me.

I follow.

Her place is warm and inviting. Nothing matches and yet everything goes together. It’s the kind of space that feels curated for soul instead of status—nothing sterile, nothing safe. Not like the bunkers and safehouses I’m used to, all cold metal and concrete. Here, every object feels like it has a story, like it was chosen on purpose. I don’t belong in this kind of softness. But I feel the pull of it anyway. It smells like sage and lavender and her. No fear in the air. Not yet.

“You want a beer?” she asks without turning.

I blink. “You serious? Isn't it kind of early?”

"It's five o'clock somewhere," she tosses back over her shoulder as she opens the fridge. “No point dying sober.”

I accept the bottle. She takes one for herself. We face off across her kitchen island.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to compliment my décor,” she says.

“No.” I nod at the sketch on the table. “You saw the Reaper.”

She frowns. “Is that his actual name or a nickname you edgy types use when you run out of acronyms?”