Page 8

CHAPTER 8

J ake put his truck into Park behind Raven’s white Lexus when they reached her rental.

When he strode toward her, she lowered her window.

“Wait here while I check your place out.” His words weren’t a suggestion.

She stared at him as if she wanted to argue.

Fire flashed in her blue eyes—a look that had always gotten to him.

There had been part of him that had loved to get her riled up.

Finally, she nodded. “The code to get inside is 71840.”

He glanced at the small cottage perched on stilts.

It was located on the ocean and probably only twelve hundred square feet. It had seafoam-colored siding and a deck that stretched around the entirety of the place. Plus, there was what almost looked like a watch tower, or maybe a widow’s walk, on one side—a place visitors could climb up for a better view of the ocean.

Jake bounded up the steps, punched in the code.

Within minutes he’d cleared the place and started back to her. “You should be fine to go inside.”

“Thank you.” Raven’s voice sounded strained as she said the words.

He had no doubt that being here had taken a toll on her—first with the bombing, then seeing him after all these years.

She always tried to be so strong.

At one time, Jake wanted to think he could be strong for her. But those days had passed.

He hated to see the strain in her eyes. The worry.

And the tension between them . . .

He fought the urge to smooth things over. He got the sense Raven didn’t want to talk about anything personal, and he couldn’t blame her. In some ways, he didn’t want to either. In other ways, it would be nice to clear the air.

However, it had already been a long day.

Raven opened the car door and stepped out, her long, dark hair blowing in the breeze as the sun continued to sink lower in the sky.

Oftentimes, the sunsets in Lantern Beach were gorgeous. But tonight’s dusk held only muted grays with not even a hint of pink on the horizon.

Jake watched as Raven walked to the back of her car, popped the trunk, and grabbed a slender black bag. She held a backpack and the evidence in her other hand as she turned toward him.

All the words Jake wanted to say remained inside him—the best place they could be.

Maybe sometime while she was here, he’d speak them aloud. He’d try to explain.

He touched the chain around his neck—the chain with the gold ring at the end.

Would Raven understand if he told her everything?

He wasn’t sure. But he knew now wasn’t the time.

Jake cleared his throat, trying to remain focused. “If you need anything, call me. I won’t be comfortable until that guy is found and questioned, at the very least.”

“I can do that.” Raven swallowed hard as if she’d forced the words out. “I’ll need your contact info, of course.”

The two of them exchanged numbers.

Then Jake tore his gaze away from her and nodded at his truck. “I’ll head out then.”

“Thanks for the escort.”

He hesitated again.

Jake would rather be here and keep an eye on her. But he knew Raven would never go for that. Besides, even offering felt like overstepping.

At least he’d only be ten minutes away if she needed him.

Instead of arguing the point, he climbed into his black Dodge Ram and pulled away. He’d return to the scene and continue his own investigation.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him.

Life had a funny way of coming at him full circle sometimes. That was what it felt like now.

Except this full circle didn’t exactly feel welcome.

Raven sat at the dining room table, the bomb fragment in front of her, a notebook on one side and her laptop on the other.

She’d brought everything with her she might need to examine this, and she’d laid out her equipment on the kitchen counter behind her. Though she could send this sample to the lab, the results could take days. There were tests she could conduct here to give preliminary results—which was exactly what they needed right now.

A genuine historical bomb would have metal compositions and impurities consistent with past manufacturing methods, corrosion patterns that developed naturally over decades, and explosive residues that showed signs of long-term degradation rather than fresh compounds.

Additionally, paint and coatings would match historical records. If the bomb had been in the ocean for decades, the salt and soil deposits would match expected environmental exposure, and the paint would have faded gradually rather than showing signs of artificial aging methods.

However, if the bomb were a modern fake, the metal alloy might be too pure or contain elements not used in historical manufacturing, and its corrosion might show inconsistencies or unnatural patterns under microscopic analysis.

The explosive residue might contain modern compounds instead of degraded historical explosives, indicating it was recently armed or tampered with. Likewise, paint, coatings, or engravings that contained synthetic pigments or machine-cut precision beyond historical capabilities would be immediate red flags.

By piecing together these findings, she could determine whether the bomb was a genuine relic of the past or an elaborate forgery meant to deceive investigators. If the evidence overwhelmingly pointed to modern materials, artificial weathering, and recent explosive compounds, it would suggest someone deliberately constructed a fake to look old. On the other hand, if every test aligned with historical expectations, she may have found a true artifact with a deadly story waiting to be uncovered.

She couldn’t wait to dig in and find some answers.

And the remnant was fascinating.

But working with Jake . . . it hadn’t been on her agenda.

He’d broken her heart when, after a whirlwind romance, he’d left.

She’d thought what they had was love. Instead, it was just adrenaline and fading feelings—their romance hadn’t been based on anything solid.

She’d thought she’d found her storybook romance. Instead, she’d found the harsh reality of heartbreak.

She’d never put herself through that again.

No, Jake was off limits. She had to remind herself of that fact and protect her heart at all costs.