“Arrogance suits you—must be custom-tailored for your emotional repression,” she adds.
The path curves away from the main lawn, winding between towering blue hydrangeas and wind-bent hedges until the estate falls quiet around us. At the edge of the property, overlooking the dark sweep of the bay, sits the weathered stone bench. Itssurface is worn smooth by salt air and decades of storms, tucked beneath a canopy of blooms that nod in the ocean breeze.
Tessa slows when she sees it, glancing around, and her expression shifts from irritation to something softer.
“This is where the Hale family used to come when they wanted privacy,” I say, my voice low. “Long before this place hosted law students and networking retreats.”
She glances at me with surprise flickering across her features. “How do you know?”
“My dad used to share stories after his third scotch of the night.” I shrug.
She walks over to the bench and trails her fingers along the edge with a gentleness that makes me remember how those fingers felt in my hair twenty minutes ago. “I can see why they did. It’s quiet.”
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. “Peaceful.”
“Peaceful,” she agrees softly.
I sit beside the bench instead of on it and take the photo required for the challenge, then email it to the event address because, of course, there’s a submission protocol, even for a scavenger hunt. Tessa doesn’t move, just keeps her hand on the stone, tracing the weathered etching of someone’s initials—V.H., 1983—with a focus that tells me she’s thinking about something she doesn’t want to say.
“You said something once,” she says finally, her voice careful and quiet. “You said the law wasn’t about justice; it was about timing.”
I remember.
It’s one of the only honest things I’ve ever said.
“And you hated that,” I murmur.
We’re staring at the same bench but not seeing the same thing. I see leverage. She sees the man I used to pretend to be.
She pulls the clue list from her back pocket, the paper crumpling between fingers that are still unsteady. “Next one.”
Her voice sounds too calm. That’s how I know it’s not.
“Seek the place where silence is kept,
Where countless laws and secrets slept.
Find the scales not carved, but worn,
Among the books where kings are born.”
I already know the answer. “The Hale library.”
“Of course it is,” she says, folding her arms. “Let me guess. You already know exactly where in the library we’re supposed to look.”
“Second floor,” I say. “North reading room. Beneath the portrait of Hale wearing the scales lapel pin she never stopped using after graduation.”
She turns toward me slowly, lips parting in disbelief before the faintest smile curves. “You’re terrifying.”
“You dated me.”
“Exactly.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to smile and scowl at the same time.
She steps forward and stops dead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I follow her gaze. Camden and his partner are at the antiquated stone memorial, taking selfies.
