He steps around me, slow and controlled, and that’s when I see it too.
A piece of paper taped low against the doorframe, placed where it wouldn’t be noticed until you were close enough to see it, deliberate and waiting.
My stomach drops.
Jace reaches for it, peeling it free with careful fingers, his expression tightening as he unfolds it.
“What does it say?” I ask, my voice quieter now.
He reads it once, then again, like he’s making sure he didn’t get it wrong.
Then he looks up at me.
And whatever’s written there…
It just made this a whole lot worse.
Chapter thirteen
It’s Getting Personal
Jace
The note is still in my hand, the edge of the paper digging into my fingers where I’ve been gripping it too tight, the crease running deep from how many times I’ve folded and unfolded it.
I've read it four times now, maybe five, and the words haven't changed. They're not going to. But I keep reading them anyway, like something's going to shift if I look long enough, like the meaning is going to rearrange itself into something less pointed than what it is.
Back off. Last warning.
Three words. Four if you count it generously.
Simple enough that it could mean anything.
Specific enough that it means exactly one thing.
Riley is quiet behind me, dressed again, her arms crossed over her chest in that way she has when she's holding herself together by sheer force of will, and I catch the shift in her the second I really look.
Whatever heat was there a few minutes ago has cooled into something tighter, her shoulders set, her breath measured, like she’s bracing instead of leaning in. She hasn't asked again what it says. She doesn't have to.
She can read it in the set of my shoulders, in the way I haven't put it down, in the fact that I'm standing here in the dark of my own trailer trying to think instead of react.
Reacting is what I want to do.
I fold the note once, carefully, and set it on the narrow counter.
I hesitate for half a second, my mind wanting to shove this aside and deal with it later, deal with it easier, but I force it down and push through anyway. Then I start moving through it from the beginning, the way I should have done days ago instead of letting it sit at the edge of my attention like something I could afford to ignore.
The evidence on the Miller land.
Buried deeper than it should’ve been, the dirt packed hard and damp with a sour, metallic smell the moment we broke through. I remember the weight of it in my hands when we pulled it up. Metal dulled and pitted, edges worn, something that had no business being there unless it was put there on purpose.
Buried deep enough that it wasn't meant to be found, wasn't meant to surface, but it did.
Old enough to predate anything I could account for. Tied to the circuit in ways that are impossible to miss if you know what you're looking at. Gear. Records. Things that don't belong on a working ranch unless someone put them there on purpose.
The truck, parked at the same angle, same distance, same window of time, two nights running now. Not a coincidence. Not someone passing through. Someone watching, tracking, staying close enough to know when to move and when to wait, and the sabotage ties into it.
The gate that stuck, the rope that slipped. Small things, targeted things, things that only make sense if you know the mechanics of it well enough to break them without looking like you did.
