“That kind of love,” he said gently, “the kind she couldn’t say out loud.”
Her fingers tightened around the journal.
“You thought it meant something,” he continued. “Those nights in the cabin.”
She went still.
He shouldn’t know that.
“Jealousy,” he said softly, “is love with nowhere to go.”
“Scout doesn’t?—”
“You’re not angry at her,” he cut in. “You’re angry at yourself.”
The journal snapped shut.
“You know what fascinates me about you?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“You don’t miss the big things. You miss the small ones first.”
He gave a soft, humorless breath.
“My mother used to say that about me,” he said.
Tessa stilled.
“She said I missed the obvious because I was busy admiring the sentence.” A faint edge entered his voice. “She didn’t tolerate errors. Not in her house. Not in her pages.”
Silence.
“She wrote romance novels,” he said. “Dozens of them. Perfect endings. Perfect men.”
A faint edge entered his voice.
“And she circled my mistakes in red ink like they were character flaws.”
The words landed.
“That fire case,” he continued casually. “Everyone knew the story before you arrived.”
Her hand moved to the scar on her shoulder. Pressed once. Then fell away.
“A grieving husband. A clean ending.”
A pause.
“But you went back.”
Her grip tightened.
“Two people dead. For weeks, you almost let him walk.”
Her breath hitched.
“You broke the case. You made yourself the villain so the truth could stand.”
