Page 43 of Knox

“That wasn’t there this morning,” she whispered.

My muscles locked, ready for an attack, though it was only us and this small shell. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Her voice shook. “That shell is new.”

I pulled out my phone, photographed it without touching it. The scotch bonnet was common on our beaches. Tourists collected them by the dozen. But this wasn’t a tourist souvenir. This was a message.

“Someone was here. In my home.” Sloane swallowed, turning in a small circle, eyes searching everything in sight, as if he might still be here. “He could’ve touched anything. Done anything, and he left this.” Her gaze snapped up to meet mine. “He wanted us to find it. He wanted us to know he was here.”

I dipped my chin in confirmation as she echoed my thought upstairs.

I tugged her away from the table and the shell representing everything I’d failed to protect her from. “The hall window was open upstairs. I know I locked it this morning.” I pulled up Nash’s number on my phone. “I’m calling the sheriff. Now.”

Sloane

Knox had his phone to his ear in an instant. “Yeah, we need you at Sloane’s place.” He paused. “Someone was in the house.”

I sank onto the couch, legs suddenly unreliable. My gaze jumped to the windows and doorways, then always back to the coffee table. To that perfect little shell centered on my books like a calling card.

He’d been here. In my home. Walking through my rooms. Touching my things.

He’d been upstairs. Opened the hallway window. Is that how he got inside? Was he in my bedroom? Had he stood over my bed imagining⁠—

My stomach lurched.

“Hey.” Knox crouched in front of me, his large hands bracketing my knees. “I’m right here. Nash is on his way.”

“We were out looking for him, and he was right here.” My voice came out thin. Distant.

“I know.”

“Is he watching us now? Laughing. Enjoying this?”

“Don’t.” Knox’s jaw was tight, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “Don’t do that to yourself. We don’t know, but we will find out. And I won’t leave your side.”

Tears slipped over my cheeks unbidden.

Knox’s hands tightened on my knees. “Sloane.”

I dragged my gaze to his and nodded.

Then, Knox pulled me forward into his arms, and I went easily, gladly. I buried my face in the curve of his neck and tried to breathe through the panic clawing up my throat.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into my hair. “I’m not letting him near you again.”

I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.

But the shell on my coffee table warned me otherwise.

Sheriff Sullivan arrived fifteen minutes later with a deputy and a crime scene tech. I watched from the deck while they photographed the shell, dusted for prints, examined the window.

Knox stood beside me, close enough that our arms touched. He hadn’t left my side since I’d sat down.

“Sloane.” The sheriff moved in our direction, expression grave. “I need to ask you some questions.”

“Okay.”

“When’s the last time you’re certain that shell wasn’t there?”