“But you will?”
“Yes.”
Her expression transforms into something I can’t name. Gratitude, maybe. Or guilt. “Thank you.”
I step outside before she can feel worse about asking.
The morning heat is already gathering beneath the raised cottage, warming the crushed-shell drive and lifting the smell of damp wood from the outdoor shower below. I take position on the landing beside the door, close enough to hear if she calls out, far enough that her voice becomes nothing but a low murmur through walls and glass.
I don’t like closed doors when I’m responsible for what’s behind them. I like this one even less. That isn’t about the job. That’s about the man on the other side of her screen.
Dr. Adrian Vale.
I search the name on my phone because I’m not above being practical when I’m irritated. Licensed psychologist. Orlando. Trauma, anxiety, performance stress, high-profile clients. Clean website. Calm face. Expensive haircut. The kind of man who probably says things likelet’s sit with thatand gets paid four hundred dollars an hour for it.
I have no reason not to like him. That doesn’t help. This is crazy. I don’t know why I feel so possessive of Kara.
Through the wall, Kara’s voice rises slightly, then breaks off. I can’t make out the words. I make myself step down one stair.
Boundaries matter. So does staying alive. There’s the balance. My phone vibrates and it’s Sloane.
I answer quietly. “Navarro.”
“Morning update,” she says. “Burner number that sent the knife photo was activated in Orlando.”
My gaze shifts toward the dune path, then the road. “When?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
“Any purchase location?” I ask.
“Convenience store near the edge of downtown. Cash. Rafi’s trying to get footage, but don’t hold your breath. That may be difficult.”
“Who is on the list of possibles?”
“Everyone is on the list.”
That’s Sloane. He’s careful, with no unnecessary comfort.
“Kara called Vanessa this morning,” I say. “Friend suggested she contact an old therapist. Dr. Adrian Vale. Male. Orlando.”
“Concerned?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then find out.”
From inside the cottage, Kara laughs. It’s muffled by walls and distance, but I hear it anyway. Not the tired laugh she gave Vanessa. Not the startled one she gave me. This one sounds smaller. Sadder. Like someone touched an old bruise and didn’t press too hard. For some reason, that bothers me more.
“Sloane,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Run Vale.”
“I already am.”
Of course he is. The line goes quiet for a moment.
