Page 4

4

Raven

Beatrice didn’t wave this time.

That was the first thing I noticed.

She always waved. Even if she was walking Mike his leash nd being pulled at sixty miles an hour, she’d lift her hand and toss a smile my way. Not today.

Today, she was all business—jaw tight, shoulders squared, heading straight from her truck to the back door of her place like she was being watched.

I didn’t like it.

Mandy didn’t like it either. She sat next to me on the deck, ears perked and body alert, eyes fixed on the dunes. Same as the night before.

Something was off.

I stepped inside and grabbed my phone. River and Cyclone were already in the office when I got there.

“You two hear about the warehouse fire this morning?” I asked casually, dropping into the chair across from River.

Cyclone nodded. “Beatrice’s station responded. Why?”

I leaned back. “She came home looking like she’d gone ten rounds with hell. Not injured, just... haunted.”

River narrowed his eyes. “You think something’s going on?”

“I know something’s going on.”

River tapped a pen against his desk. “You want to check it out?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “But not by knocking on her door and grilling her.”

“You want to investigate casually ,” Cyclone said dryly. “Good luck with that. She’s sharp.”

“I’m not looking to trap her,” I replied. “I just want to know what the hell is making her flinch at shadows and not sleep. I see her light on in the middle of the night.”

River sat up. “Did Mandy wake you again last night?”

“Yeah. Around two a.m. Growling at the dunes.”

“That’s the third night in a row.”

None of us liked coincidences. Especially not ones that involved women we were starting to care about.

* * *

Later that day, I saw her again—this time down at the market.

She was walking with her brothers, buying fruit and vegetables.

I caught up with her at the far end of the produce tent.

“You okay?” I asked, watching her carefully.

She blinked, like she hadn’t seen me there. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“I heard about the fire. Everyone all right?”

“Mostly,” she said. “One woman in the building. We got her out in time.”

She didn’t elaborate.

But her eyes flicked past me—toward the alley beside the market—and that told me more than her words.

I turned slightly, catching a glimpse of a tall man in a green beanie leaning against a post, pretending to look at his phone.

Too clean. Too still. Not a local.

“Friend of yours?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Beatrice.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about it here. Are you always this nosy?”

“You think I’m nosy? I’m just trying to figure out who has been on my beach and why you don’t sleep at night.”

“I sleep at night. What are you talking about?”

“I see your light on when you are off your shift at night.”

“Maybe it’s one of my brothers. Why are you up all night watching my house?”

“I only wanted to know if you were alright. And who is that guy over there watching you?”

“Can we talk later?”

That was enough for now. “Yes.”

But my hand itched for the pistol I wasn’t carrying.

Because someone was following her, and it wasn’t her dog Mike this time.

* * *

Back at the house, I stepped onto the deck with Mandy and scanned the beach again.

No footprints today.

But the feeling in my gut hadn’t gone away.

And now I was sure of two things:

Beatrice Jones was in trouble.

And whoever had followed her here… had just made a huge mistake.