Page 29 of Omega’s Fever (Prime Match #2)

Milo

The laptop sits open on my dining table, Kellen’s search history on display. My hands shake as I click through the links he visited while we were at the office. Finally—there. A Facebook profile for someone named Penny, no last name, profile picture of a dog on an orange sofa.

This is her. She told Kellen something that made him throw away his freedom.

I study the screen, trying to glean any information from the sparse profile.

The privacy settings are locked down tight—no photos of people, no personal information visible.

Just that dog on the orange sofa and a header image of a generic sunset.

But Kellen had spent several minutes on this page. He’d found what he was looking for.

I follow his crumbs. He’s searched senior care homes downtown, looking at maps and searching names.

The last place is called Sunrise Senior Care.

The website loads slowly, the photo on the main page shows a building that looks in far better condition than the one on google maps.

The staff page doesn’t list individual employees, but the contact section gives me the address.

My phone buzzes. Anne. Again. That makes six calls since I didn’t show up at the office this morning.

I let it go to voicemail, already grabbing my coat.

By now she’s probably drafting my termination letter.

Good. Let her. None of it matters and I have had enough of her bullshit. I can’t believe I once idolized her.

The drive downtown takes forty minutes in late morning traffic. This part of the city feels forgotten. I drive past check-cashing places next to boarded-up shops, liquor stores with barred windows.

I find the nursing home but I circle the block twice, trying to get a feel for the area.

There’s a bus stop out front where a few elderly people wait on a bench that’s seen better decades.

An empty lot next door grows weeds through cracked asphalt.

Across the street, a strip of businesses clings to life: a nail salon with sun-faded photos in the window, a tax preparation office that’s probably only open three months a year, and a diner that looks like it’s been there since the fifties.

The sign on the diner is chipped and peeling, but the lights are on and through the window I can see customers at the counter. More importantly, I can see clear sightlines to the nursing home’s employee entrance.

I park in the small lot beside the coffee shop, between a rusted pickup truck and a Honda that’s been there long enough that all four tires are flat. My BMW looks obscene here, obviously out of place but there’s nowhere else to leave it.

The diner door sticks when I push it, then gives way with a grunt. A bell jangles overhead, the sound harsh and metallic.

“Sit anywhere, hon.” The waitress looks about sixty, with hair dyed an aggressive shade of red. She doesn’t look up from refilling coffee cups along the counter.

I choose a booth by the window, the vinyl creaking as I slide in. The table is sticky despite obvious recent wiping. A laminated menu offers the kind of food cardiologists have nightmares about. Everything is fried, covered in gravy, or both.

“Coffee?” Dolores appears at my elbow, pot already poised.

“Tea, please. Chamomile if you have it.”

She gives me a look that suggests I’ve asked for champagne and caviar. “We got Lipton.”

“That’s fine.”

She shuffles off, returning with a mug of hot water and a tea bag that’s seen better days. The tag reads “Orange Pekoe.” Close enough.

“You eating?” She pulls out an order pad that might be older than I am.

“Just the tea, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She leaves the check on the table, already totaled. Two dollars for hot water and a dubious tea bag.

I settle in to watch, pulling out the only photo I have of Penelope Evans, one that came in the case file. The image is grainy and unclear: dark haired woman, early thirties maybe. The quality is terrible—it could be anyone. But it’s all I have.

I smooth the photo on the sticky table, willing it to become clearer through sheer determination.

Penelope Evans. Former dancer at The Pit.

One of the few witnesses who refused to testify against Kellen.

She’d told the police “no comment” to every question except confirming she knew him.

That kind of loyalty in Cobb Sewell’s world usually ended badly.

My phone buzzes again. Anne. I flip it face down on the table.

I nurse the terrible tea and watch the nursing home entrance. A few employees come and go—smoking breaks, probably—but none match the woman in the photo.

Dolores refills my hot water without being asked, bringing fresh tea bags that are actual chamomile this time. “You want some crackers or something? You’re looking a little green.”

Morning sickness chooses that moment to surge. I breathe through my nose, willing it back. “Crackers would be great.”

She returns with a sleeve of saltines and, surprisingly, a small cup of ginger ale. “On the house. Got three kids myself. I know the look.”

I blink at her, startled. Is it that obvious? My hand goes unconsciously to my still-flat stomach.

“Thanks,” I manage.

She pats my shoulder with one hand and moves on to other customers. The crackers help, as does the ginger ale. I make myself eat slowly, mechanically, eyes never leaving the nursing home entrance.

Then I see her.

She’s smaller than I expected, more compact. Her hair is different from the photo—shorter, darker, pulled back in a neat bun. She pauses at the employee exit, scanning the street with the kind of hypervigilance I recognize from Kellen. Satisfied, she starts up the street.

I fumble for cash, leaving a twenty on the table. The door sticks again as I push through it, the bell jangling my departure.

“Penelope!”

She’s halfway across the street when I call out. The way she freezes tells me everything. She spins, eyes wide.

Then she sees me. She frowns, looking me up and down, then I see a moment of realization in her eyes.

“You’re Kellen’s omega.” It’s not a question. She can probably smell him on me despite the distance.

“Milo.” I’m breathless from the sprint, from the weight of everything I need to ask her. “Milo Warren. Please. I need to talk to you.”

She glances around again, that same careful surveillance Kellen does. Her eyes linger on the coffee shop, the empty lot, the few pedestrians. “Not here.”

We end up back in the diner, but this time in a corner booth far from the windows. Dolores doesn’t comment on my sudden return, just brings two mugs and a fresh pot of coffee without being asked.

“I’ll have tea,” I start to say, but Penelope is already pouring herself coffee with hands that shake slightly.

“He took a plea deal.” The words tumble out before she’s even settled. “Ten years. He’s throwing away ten years of his life, and I need to know why. We were winning. The case against him was falling apart. Then he talked to you yesterday and suddenly he’s giving up. What did you say to him?”

Penelope sits back in her seat and studies me. “I can smell Kellen on you. That’s the only reason I know who you are. You’re asking me something I’d only really trust Kellen enough to talk about. Why hasn’t he told you?”

I breathe out through my nostrils, frustrated, and shake my head.

“I really don’t know. I can’t understand it.

At first, he refused to talk to me about you and another person at the club.

You two were the only ones who hadn’t turned on him.

I was hoping you would testify but he just refused to let me try contact you.

He was just insisting that he’d just go to prison and that would be the best way to protect me, protect everyone. ”

Penelope’s mouth twists. “That sounds like Kellen.”

She wraps both hands around her mug like she’s trying to absorb its warmth.

“He’s stubborn,” I say. “So damn stubborn. When we found out about the baby, I thought I’d finally managed to persuade him that he has to fight to stay out but then he goes and does this. I don’t know what changed his mind.”

Penelope looks around, then seemingly satisfied that no one was looking at her, she says, “We were talking about the real books. Not the fake ones the police have. Cobb kept two sets—one for show, one with actual names and numbers. And there were security cameras all over The Pit. Good ones, digital, with off-site backup. If those recordings still exist, they’d show who was really running things. ”

“And Kellen wasn’t.”

“God, no.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Kellen would break up the occasional bar fight upstairs, collect his pay for the cage matches, go home. That’s it. Everyone knew the real boss was—” She stops, glances around nervously.

“Cobb Sewell.”

She flinches at the name. “We don’t say it out loud. Not even now. Not even here.”

“But you told Kellen where to find this evidence?”

“No.” She pushes a strand of hair back, a nervous gesture. “We don’t know where any of it is. But we told him who would.”

I’m confused. Why would Kellen find out about evidence that could take Cobb down and then decide to ignore it? If we had this kind of evidence, it would solve everything.

“That doesn’t make sense,” I say. “It could free him.”

Penelope takes a sip of her coffee and frowns. “I don’t know. He did have a reaction to the name Haymore though. I wondered if he knew something.”

My blood chills. “Haymore?”

“Kenneth Haymore.” She says it like the name tastes bad.

“Nasty piece of work. Came by the club every week, looked at us girls like we were something he’d scrape off his shoe.

But he handled all of Cobb’s legitimate businesses, made the money clean.

If anyone knows where the real books are hidden, it’s him. ”

The coffee shop tilts sideways. I grip the edge of the table, forcing myself to breathe through the wave of nausea that has nothing to do with morning sickness.

“Kenneth Haymore,” I repeat, needing to be sure.

“You know him?”

My laugh comes out cracked. I pull out my phone with numb fingers, scrolling through photos until I find one from last Christmas: Uncle Kenneth standing stiff and uncomfortable next to me, his smile never reaching his eyes, hand on my shoulder in what probably looked like affection but felt like possession.

I turn the screen toward her. “Is this him?”

The color drains from Penelope’s face. Her coffee mug hits the table hard enough to slosh. “How do you—oh god.”

“He’s my uncle.”

Everything clicks into place with sickening clarity. Uncle Kenneth’s insistence that I throw the case. His fury when I refused. The way he’d said I’d end up dead if I stayed with Kellen.

We’re done. I can’t look out for you if you’re going to be so stupid.

He wasn’t worried about me. He was worried about himself.

“Kellen must have realized,” Penelope whispers. “When we said the name. He would have put it together, that’s why he—oh, honey. He took the plea to protect you.”

I pull my hand back, mind racing. “He doesn’t get to make that choice for me.”

“Milo—”

“I know where Kenneth keeps things. Secret things.” The memory surfaces sharp and clear, eight-year-old me playing in places I shouldn’t.

“He has a vacation house upstate. There’s an old playhouse in the back garden, been there since before he bought the property.

I was playing in it one summer and found loose floorboards. Underneath was a trapdoor.”

Penelope’s eyes widen. “You can’t be serious.”

“There’s a safe built right into the foundation. I remember because I thought it was like a pirate treasure. He caught me before I could see inside, told me never to go near it again. But I know it’s there. I know where he keeps his secrets.”

She stops, swallows hard. “We just wanted to help. We thought if Kellen knew where to look for evidence, he could clear his name without putting anyone else at risk. We never imagined—”

I stand, suddenly desperate to move, to act, to do something. “The vacation house is three hours north. If I leave now, I can be back before—”

“You need to be careful.” Penelope stands too, urgent. “Cobb’s people. They know who you are, what you mean to Kellen.”

She’s right. Of course she’s right. But I’m beyond caring about personal safety.

“Thank you,” I tell Penelope. “For talking to me. For confirming what I needed to know.”

“Be careful.” She pulls out a pen, scribbles something on a napkin. “That’s Damon’s number. Just... in case. If you need help, call us. We owe Kellen that much.”

I pocket the napkin without looking at it. “Take care of yourself. And the baby.”

“You too.” Her smile is sad and knowing. “Kellen’s lucky to have you.”

My silver BMW sits where I left it, gleaming between the beaten-up vehicles of actual neighborhood residents.

There on the windshield, tucked under the wiper blade, is a playing card.

Jack of spades, torn diagonally across the middle.

My hands shake as I pick it up. The tear is clean, deliberate. The same message Kellen told me found on his bunk weeks ago.

It’s the same warning system Cobb uses to let people know they’re being watched, that they’ve stepped out of line, that consequences are coming if they don’t correct course.

The torn card flutters in my trembling fingers. They know I met with Penelope. They know I’m digging into things I shouldn’t. They want me to know they know.

The smart thing would be to go home. To let Kellen take his plea. To pretend I never learned my uncle is a criminal and move on with my life.

But I’m done being smart. I’m done being the good omega who follows the rules and doesn’t make waves.

I get in my car, placing the torn playing card carefully on the passenger seat where I can see it.

It’s meant to be a warning but its also confirmation that I’m on the right track.

They’re watching. Following. Waiting to see what I’ll do next.

Good.

Let them watch. I know exactly what I’m going to do. I reach for my phone and begin dialing.