Inside, she hung her jacket and called, “Tallulah?”
Silence.
She rattled the dry-food tin. Nothing.
A faint unease whispered through her.
She turned on Sam Cooke, poured a splash of wine—ordinary, routine—and called again.
Her gaze caught on the basement door. Open, just an inch. A draft curled from the gap and brushed her ankles—cold, misplaced. She told herself it was the heater. Old hinges. A draft.
She stepped closer, voice taut. “Tallulah?”
A small, muffled yelp floated up from below.
Her pulse leapt. She hurried down the stairs, one hand skimming the wall until her fingers brushed the switch. Light flickered on?—
And there was Tallulah, fluffed, crouched, eyes wide.
Relief washed through her. “What are you doing down here? You scared me.”
She scooped the cat into her arms and turned back toward the stairs.
A shadow moved on the wall. Wrong shape. Wrong place.
A faint, sharp tang threaded through the cool air—a scent she didn’t recognize.
Tessa reached for her sidearm?—
Darkness surged from behind her.
Hands closed on her—hard—before she could do anything.
33
Sheriff’s Office — Morning
Scout leaned against the edge of the evidence table, half-reading a file, half-listening for the door.
He hadn’t slept much, but he felt better than he had in days.
Last night had taken the edge off something raw between them.
And for the first time since Sara disappeared, he could feel the case tightening—like they were finally close enough to grab it.
Tessa was late.
Not by much at first. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. She was usually early—organized, precise.
She’d texted him last night. Home. All good.
“Traffic off the ridge’s rough this time of morning,” McHan said.
Scout didn’t answer.
Kyle started pacing. “I’ll text her.”
He typed fast, then stopped, staring at the screen. Waited. Nothing.
