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“Probably.”

I was halfway out the door when I noticed it. A dark sedan parked down the road, pulled slightly into the trees. Tinted windows, engine off but someone definitely inside.

I frowned. “You expecting anyone?” I tried to keep my voice casual.

Sam came to the door, following my gaze. The moment she saw the car, her face changed. All the color drained out, leaving her pale under the porch light.

“No.”

One word, but it carried weight. Fear. Recognition.

“Stay here,” I said. “I’ll check it out.”

“You don’t have to…”

“Stay here.”

I walked toward the car with the same easy stride I used on job sites. Nothing threatening, just a guy out for a walk. The kind of approach that didn’t make people nervous but let them know I’d noticed them.

I reached it in no time and knocked on the driver’s window, polite but firm.

The window rolled down to reveal a man in his forties. Plain face, forgettable features, button-down shirt that screamed office worker. His eyes flicked past me toward Sam’s house before focusing on my face.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“Just lost. Looking for an address.” He held up his phone. “GPS led me down here but I think I took a wrong turn.”

Bullshit. Lost people didn’t park in the trees. Lost people didn’t watch houses, their eyes didn’t track toward one specific property before answering questions.

“What address you looking for?”

He named something on the other side of town. I gave him directions, watched him input them with theatrical concentration. He thanked me, started the car, and pulled out slowly. Like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t bothered by being caught.

I memorized the license plate before he turned the corner.

As soon as I was back in my truck, I called Patrick. My brother answered on the second ring.

“What’s wrong?”

“Need you to run a plate for me.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” I rattled off the number. “Dark sedan. Guy in his forties, looked like an accountant trying to seem casual.”

“Tyson…”

“Patrick. Please.”

He sighed but I heard typing. The benefits of having a cop for a brother.

I texted my crew that I’d be there soon, ignoring their responses about my sudden absence. The Morrison job could wait another twenty minutes.

“Huh,” Patrick said finally. “Car’s registered to Davidson Investigative Services. Based out of Charlotte.”

“Charlotte?” What the fuck was it doing in Cedarbrook? My grip tightened on the phone. “Private investigator?”

“Looks like it. Want to tell me why a PI from North Carolina is hanging around Cedarbrook?”