“Saturday.”
He caught her eyes one more time, something heated and satisfied in his expression—as if he’d won a case he’d been trying for a long time.
She watched him drive away, the green convertible gliding down the dark street.
Eleanor stepped inside and closed the door softly.
And for the first time all day, the Mercer case wasn’t the thing on her mind.
It was the man who had kissed her on her front porch—and the storm she suspected was coming for both of them.
Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
Eleanor glanced toward it, pulse still uneven.
Unknown number.
A single new message.
She didn’t move right away.
Then she crossed the room and picked it up.
The screen lit beneath her thumb.
Same number. Same thread.
One new message.
You’re defending a murderer.
I know what he did.
Everything inside her went still.
She looked at the message, then at the heavy oak door she’d closed. She’d locked it, but for the first time in Sylva, she didn’t believe the wood was thick enough.
25
The Scott Farm
As Burke turned onto Scott Valley Road, the familiar curve of split-rail fence and open pasture came into view.
The first spread on the road was Bridlepath Farm.Grant’s place.
Grant Scott looked enough like Burke that strangers always knew they were brothers—same blue eyes, same broad shoulders, same easy confidence. But Grant was a couple of years younger, with sun-streaked blond hair, a more rugged edge, and the kind of face women noticed twice. Years spent outside had left him leaner, rougher around the edges, and permanently tanned. Where Burke looked like a sheriff, Grant looked exactly like what he was.
A cowboy.
Burke spotted him halfway down the blackboard fence line, riding a restless palomino that was dancing sideways and tossing its head.
Burke slowed the truck and dropped the window.
Grant glanced over, one hand easy on the reins despite the horse acting up beneath him.
“What’s up?” Burke called.
“Horse has decided he’s personally offended by that mailbox,” Grant said dryly as the palomino sidestepped again.
