He didn’t outwardly jump at her voice, but his heart did.
Behind them, Jonah’s booming laugh carried across the yard, followed by the distinct sound of X and River bickering over proper glitter application techniques. Bear’s low rumble joinedin, something about “wasting perfectly good bacon grease” that Ghost couldn’t quite make out.
“I hope you’re not mad at them for the party,” Naomi said softly. “They meant well.”
“They’re insufferable,” Ghost countered, but the words lacked their usual bite.
She smiled, a quick flash that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and looked toward the group, firelight dancing across the side of her face.
This close, he could see the exhaustion etched there, the shadows beneath her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the slight slump of shoulders that usually stood military-straight. She’d been working with Brandt, he knew, coordinating between tribal authorities and federal agents, piecing together the shattered fragments of a case that grew more complex with each passing day.
“How are you?” she asked, finally turning to face him. Her eyes dropped to where his hand instinctively went to the wound.
“Fine,” he lied, then amended at her skeptical look: “I’m healing. Doctor says another week before light duty.”
She nodded, accepting the half-truth. They’d developed a language of their own—knowing when to push, when to let go, which silences needed filling and which deserved respect. It was a dance Ghost had never mastered with anyone else, this delicate balance of truth and protection.
“They found Mitch Deveraux,” she said after a moment. “Two days ago, on county land near the old Henderson property.”
“Dead?”
“Shot in the back of the head, execution-style. Professional job. Clean. No shell casings, no footprints, no witnesses.”
The clinical assessment didn’t mask the undercurrent of frustration in her voice. Ghost processed the information,slotting it into the mental map he’d been constructing since that night in Ava’s cabin.
Mitch Deveraux, loose end.
Julius Charlo, convenient scapegoat.
Someone was cleaning house, erasing connections, ensuring the trafficking operation remained hidden even as its known operators were eliminated.
“Who found him?”
“Hikers,” Naomi replied. “Couple from Missoula, out for a day trek. Pure chance.”
Or someone wanted the body found, he thought, but didn’t say. Wanted to make a statement, close a chapter.
“Goodwin’s already spinning it,” Naomi continued, confirming his suspicions. “Saying it proves Julius was working with Deveraux, that they had a falling out. He’s pinning everything—Mary Rose, Leelee, all the missing girls—on Julius. Case closed, tied with a neat serial killer bow.”
“And Brandt?”
Naomi’s expression hardened. “He tried to keep pushing, but politics got in the way. The federal task force is wrapping up, focusing on the interstate angles, and he got pulled from it. They got their collar with Julius, got credit for breaking the case. They’re content to let the local angles die with Mitch.”
Ghost wasn’t surprised. Law enforcement, at every level, preferred clean narratives with identifiable villains. The messier truth—that trafficking networks rarely died with a single operator, that corruption threaded through institutions designed to protect—was harder to prosecute, harder to explain at press conferences.
“But you’re not finished,” he said. Not a question.
“No.” The single word carried the weight of eleven years of searching, of promises made to families still waiting for answers.“I’m still sorting through evidence, debriefs from the girls we rescued.”
“Are they okay?”
She gave him a real smile. “They are. They’re together in a home for trafficking survivors.”
“Good. That’s… good.”
The conversation died a slow, painfully awkward death.
“I, uh—” Naomi started, but stopped and drew in a breath. “I still have a few things to pack up in the Hub. So you can have your space back.” The words were casual, but the undercurrent pulled at something in his chest. “Sorry I took over for so long.”
