Burke clipped her tracking harness from the peg on the wall and crouched just long enough to slip it over her shoulders.
“You’re coming,” he murmured.
Caitlin stepped forward, face pale. “Burke, please?—”
He cupped the side of her face, brief but grounding. “I’ll call when I can.”
Then he grabbed his jacket, keys, and radio in one motion.
He thumbed the radio as he opened the door, his voice steady—edged with urgency.
“Dispatch, this is Sheriff Scott. I need units en route to my location immediately. Code Three. Stand by for address.”
Burke heard the brief pause on the line and knew Dispatch had caught the edge in his voice.
Static. Then: “Copy, Sheriff. Ready.”
Burke rattled off Sinclair’s address.
Caitlin stood in the doorway, one hand over her mouth, watching him go.
Rosie leapt into the passenger seat before he even closed her door.
Burke slid behind the wheel, engine roaring to life, tires chewing gravel as he tore down the mountain road.
A silent pin from Scout wasn’t a request.
It was a warning. A cry for speed. And a near certainty:
Tessa Quinn had been found.
57
Deputy Scout Wilson — On the Pool House Roof
Dark swallowed the yard whole.
Scout lay there another breath.
Then another.
He should go.
Backup was coming. The pin was sent.
But she was right there.
He shifted carefully, inching back toward the skylight. Slow. Controlled. Testing the shingles before committing weight.
Just one more look.
Just long enough to see her breathe.
He eased up enough to see her chest rise.
There.
Alive.
