Page 164 of Only Be Mine

My chest tried to fold in on itself. I forced it open.

“What else?” I asked.

He held my gaze for a moment, measuring me. Then he spoke like he was walking across thin ice, placing each word down carefully, testing it before he let go.

“The injuries on the body they cremated,” he said, “weren’t consistent with someone who died by accident. There was… rage in it, Cate.”

I blinked hard. “How do they know that? If he was unrecognizable…”

“Because of what was done to him,” Seth said, quietly but firm. “Not just to kill him, but to make sure no one could bring him back.”

I felt something sharp and hot move through me, cutting cleanly through the grief.

Anger.

Not wild or screaming.

Focused.

“Marshal thinks whoever did it had time,” he went on. “Privacy. Control. And enough confidence to believe they wouldn’t get caught.”

My stomach turned and I forced myself to swallow.

“And the man with John’s ID… the one who turned up dead a couple weeks ago?”

Seth nodded. “Marshal believes he was involved somehow. Maybe paid. Maybe pressured. Maybe both.”

“And he kept John’s things,” I whispered.

“Yeah,” Seth said. “Marshal thinks he kept them because he couldn’t… let them vanish completely. Or because they were insurance. Or because guilt does weird things to people who aren’t complete monsters.”

My throat tightened. “And now he’s dead.”

Seth’s mouth flattened. “Now he’s dead. And suddenly John’s things exist again, ten years later, like someone opened a drawer that should’ve been sealed.”

I stared at the far wall; at the perfectly neutral art Trevor had chosen. Everything in this house was like that, calculated to be acceptable, calming, clean.

Nothing that screamed or protested.

I brought my attention back to Seth. “What does Marshal think happened after John was taken?”

He hesitated.

My pulse climbed. “Seth.”

He exhaled slowly, like he was letting the last shred of denial leave his lungs.

“He thinks John was held,” Seth said. “At least for some amount of time.”

The room tilted, and my skin prickled.

I couldn’t tell if the sudden cold was memory or imagination or intuition, but it slid along my spine anyway, quiet and invasive.

“How long?” I asked, and my voice didn’t sound like mine.

Seth shook his head. “We don’t know. Marshal doesn’t know. Not yet. That’s what he’s trying to confirm. That’s part of the timeline he’s trying to rebuild.”

Rebuild.