“Yes,” I say. “It’s mine.”
“How sure are you?”
“One hundred percent.” My voice cracks with certainty. “It has my initials engraved near the handle. You can see them if you zoom in.”
Sloane enlarges the image, and there they are.
K.S.
My name reduced to two letters on a blade in the hands of someone who should never have touched it.
Cole has not moved from the doorway. He stands with his body angled so he can see me, the front windows, and the porch doors without looking like he is trying to do all three at once.
“What kind of surface is it on?” he asks.
Sloane zooms out again. “White cutting board. Commercial grade, maybe. Could be residential. Could be any kitchen.”
“Lighting?”
“Overhead. Cool white. Not enough background to identify location.”
“Tomato sauce?” Sheriff Vaughn asks.
I stare at the red words on the screen.
Miss You.
“Probably,” I say. “Could be marinara. Could be tomato paste thinned with water. It has that gloss.”
The fact that my brain can identify probable sauce texture while I am terrified makes me want to laugh in a way that feels totally crazy.
Sloane’s gaze lifts to me. “Who has this number?”
“Friends. Family. My assistant. My publicist. Some business contacts. Too many people, probably.”
“Any fan-facing number? Brand contact? Newsletter? Public booking page?”
“No. Those all go through team emails or business lines.”
Sloane makes a note.
“Does that matter?” I ask.
“Everything matters until we can eliminate it.”
Sloane’s answer is honest, but not comforting.
Cole finally steps farther into the room. “Walk us through exactly what happened before the text came in.”
I take them through everything. The sheriff’s visit. The storage door and footprint. Talking to Vanessa. Had tea. Heard noises while on the porch. Tried to convince myself not to be paranoid. Yada, yada, yada.
I tell it as plainly as I can, though my voice catches once when I mention how normal everything had felt right before the phone buzzed.
Cole doesn’t interrupt. That is somehow more unnerving than if he did. He stands near the end of the island with his arms relaxed at his sides, but nothing about him seems casual. His body is still in a way that feels ready, as if every muscle has agreed to wait until needed. I remember his hands on the flyrod this morning, strong and competent.
“Who knew you were here?” Sloane asks.
I answer the same way I answered Sheriff Vaughn earlier, but this time it feels more serious.
