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That brow arched again. “There it is.” A smile ghosted across his lips.

She sighed. “What’s my tell?”

“You go still. Completely.

Well. Hell.

“Just … be aware of that when you talk to State.”

Was that concern in his voice?

“Thanks, Beau,” she said.

*

Felicity met with investigators from the Nebraska State Patrol’s Investigative Services Division in Lincoln later that afternoon. By evening, DEA agents out of Omaha were looped in.

Things moved rapidly after that meeting. Within days, Operation Harvest was underway. They folded Felicity into the task force, and she split her time between Clearbrook and Lincoln. The next weeks blurred together in a cycle of briefings, surveillance, warrants, and long hours behind a screen.

She learned quickly that federal investigations moved at two speeds — glacial and terrifyingly fast. Days of paperwork and surveillance could suddenly explode into action over a single intercepted call or suspicious bank transfer. More than once, she drove back to Clearbrook near midnight only to be called straight back to Lincoln before dawn.

Voss — his real name was Evan Hollis — had once been DEA. A good agent. Decorated. Respected. Until he resigned abruptly four years ago and vanished so completely it had triggered an internal inquiry. No forwarding address. No financial trail worth a damn. Just gone.

Until now.

And yes, Sofía Velasco was his wife. They married in Colombia three years earlier under their real names. Somewhere along the line, their paths had crossed, and either Hollis had fallen hard enough to follow her into the dark, or he’d discovered there’d been something dark in him all along.

Felicity reckoned the latter.

Through all of it, Ronan remained a constant. When she couldn’t make it home by nightfall, he went over to her place and took care of her dogs. On those nights, she came home to a cooked meal and a welcoming smile.

Somewhere between stakeouts, evidence boards, and exhaustion, he’d become part of her routine.

And that was starting to worry her.

Because July was coming.

And with it, the end of her time in Clearbrook.

*

The raid took place just after noon beneath a brutal June sun. A fleet of armored SUVs tore down the gravel farm road and skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. Felicity stepped out into the oppressive heat alongside dozens of law enforcement officers.

Overhead, the helicopter thundered low enough to rattle the corrugated roofs and whip grit against her face. Agents stormed the processing shed. Protecting the women was their top priority. Others surrounded the house.

“Runner!” someone shouted, pointing her way.

Felicity pivoted, hand already on her weapon, as a man burst from between two trucks parked beneath the extended carport beside the processing shed.

Voss.

“Son of a bitch.” She took off after him through the dust, boots hammering against hard-packed dirt. Voss veered around the humming generator, heading straight for the riverbank.

“Stop! Sheriff’s Office!”

The bastard was not getting away.

He looked over his shoulder. A mistake. His boot slid in loose dirt near the river path. He stumbled hard, arms pinwheeling for balance.