One missing dog. One missing woman. One dog at Lila’s clinic with a broken jaw.
He needed to move. Needed to get in his truck and go.
“Bear.” Boone’s voice came from directly behind him, low and even. “Step back from the window.”
He didn’t move.
“Dane.” Boone used his real name, the one he only pulled out when things were bad. “You’re standing in full view of half the neighborhood. Step back.”
Bear forced his hands off the counter. Took one step back, then another. His body moved like something mechanical, joints grinding, everything stiff and wrong.
Boone stayed close. A wall of presence at Bear’s left shoulder, solid enough that Bear could feel the gravity of him.
A fourth vehicle turned onto Maple. This one Bear recognized before it parked — the dark blue Chevy Tahoe with Bravlin County Sheriff decals, the light bar across the top.
Hank Goodwin’s truck.
Bear’s jaw locked.
The Tahoe pulled up behind the unmarked sedan and Hank got out, already adjusting his hat. He crossed to where two state troopers were conferring near Greta’s mailbox and inserted himself, one hand on his duty belt, his mouth moving like he was giving orders.
It didn’t take long. The taller trooper said something short and sharp and pointed back toward the street.
Hank’s face went red. He said something else, louder, and the tall trooper stepped into his space.
Hank went still. Then he backed up three steps, turned, and walked stiffly to his truck.
“Good,” Boone said quietly. “Stay inside.”
The words took a second to land. When they did, Bear turned his head and looked at his friend. Boone was watching him. Flat. He’d been reading Bear’s body language and he didn’t like what he’d seen.
“I wasn’t going to?—”
“Yeah, you were.” Boone’s tone didn’t leave room for argument. “You were about to go over there and put your hands on him, and that would end this whole thing before it starts.”
Bear’s hands curled into fists. Boone was right. He’d been half a second from the door.
He made himself unclench his hands. Made himself turn away from the window.
The kitchen table had become a command center. Ghost sat at one end with his laptop open, two external hard drives plugged in, his face lit blue-white by the screen. Naomi stood behind him with her phone, talking someone through a list —names, dates, vehicle descriptions. Walker was at the counter with his own phone, his hat off, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. He was thinking three moves ahead.
The rest of the Valor Ridge crew filled the kitchen — Jax and Anson at the table waiting for tasks, X at the doorframe with his usual grin gone, River at the sink, Hatch and Jonah by the back door, all of them still and waiting.
Logan sat at the far end of the table with Johanna beside him. The kid’s face was pale but steady, his hands flat on the table, his attention moving from person to person as he tracked the conversations.
Bear crossed to the table and stopped behind Ghost’s chair. He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t make his body fold into a chair when every nerve in him was screaming to move, to act, to do something.
“Talk to me,” he said. His voice came out rough.
Ghost didn’t look up. “Working on it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.” Ghost didn’t stop typing. “I’m pulling traffic cam footage from every intersection between here and the highway. It takes time.”
“We don’t have time.”
“I know.” Ghost’s tone was flat. Final. “Which is why you’re going to let me work and stop breathing down my neck.”
