Just final.
She held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
Then she looked away.
“Let’s get this back before the thaw hits.”
He nodded once.
They mounted the sled.
This time, when she leaned forward against the wind, he didn’t shift away.
But he didn’t reach back either.
Some things didn’t survive daylight.
27
The Sinclair Property — Cullowhee, North Carolina
By the time they reached Preston Sinclair’s neighborhood, the snow had turned to a warm, steady rain, chewing away at the drifts and soaking everything fast.
Sinclair’s house sat behind a low brick wall, lights glowing through tall windows. A white-columned Williamsburg replica. Symmetrical.
“Done all right for an English professor,” Scout muttered.
“Book deals and tenure,” Burke said. “His mama’s people owned half this valley.”
The front door opened before they could knock. Margot Holt stood in soft jeans and a sweatshirt, thick socks on her feet.
“Sheriff Scott. Agent Quinn. Deputy Wilson. Preston’s out back in the studio. Come in out of the rain.”
She gave them a small, polite smile. “He’s been working all day—trying to get an ending right.”
The house was immaculate—citrus oil and coffee in the air.
Margot moved quietly behind them, straightening a stack of mail, aligning a framed photograph by a fraction of an inch.
They stepped through the kitchen. A flagstone path curved past a darkened pool to a brick studio with a wall of glass, smoke lifting faintly from the chimney. Through the rain-streaked panes, they could see Sinclair seated at a desk, lamplight warm against the gray afternoon.
The Poolhouse
Scout paused just inside the door. Sinclair moved easily, pouring mugs like he ran a café instead of a writing studio.
Every detail reflected him:
Fly rods aligned in perfect parallel.
“Hell of a storm,” Sinclair said, handing Burke a mug. “Welcome to the Blue Ridge.”
Tessa noticed the way his finger tapped lightly against the mug. Precise. Repetitive.
Scout felt it underfoot—a faint vibration, steady and low. He shifted his weight once, then let it go.
Tessa stepped closer to the desk, angling for a better look at the journals.
Scout shifted with her—automatic.
