Page 13 of Huck Frasier (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #5)

Marley

D ay one without Frasier: I made it to noon before checking my phone twenty-three times for a message that wasn’t coming.

Day two: I baked banana bread. I don’t bake . The loaf came out shaped like a tire iron and tasted like self-loathing.

Day three: I found trouble.

It came in the form of a story—whispers of illegal real estate grabs, small families losing land near the edge of town, quiet payoffs. Nothing flashy. Nothing cartel-level. But dirty all the same.

So I followed it.

I told Lark I was “helping a neighbor.”

I told myself I was “just keeping busy.”

But I wasn’t.

I was distracting myself from the fact that the man I loved had walked into danger…

And I hadn’t stopped him.

I knew I’d messed up when the back door of the shady little office I’d been tailing slammed shut behind me.

Two men.

One with a clipboard, the other with a crowbar.

I had my phone. I had my brain. I did not have Frasier.

And suddenly that felt like the stupidest thing in the world.

They didn’t lay a hand on me—just gave me a “friendly warning” about sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.

But I left shaking.

And furious.

At myself. I didn’t even have a gun on me. What was I thinking?

And the fact that I still couldn’t stay out of trouble.

At the fact that even with someone like Frasier in my corner, I didn’t know how to wait.

I packed that night.

Quietly. Methodically.

No tears.

Just shame.

Because I wasn’t someone who could wait around like a soldier’s girlfriend, I wasn’t built for porch lights and praying.

I’d told myself this was a big mistake.

But this?

Letting someone matter this much?

This was me repeating the cycle.

So I wrote him a note.

Frasier—

I couldn’t stay still. You knew that.

I wanted to be the kind of woman who waited for her man to come home.

But I’m not her.

I don’t know if I ever will be.

Don’t come looking for me.

—M

I left the note on his pillow.

And walked away. Again.