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I take a deep breath, pretending to fiddle with the bolt with my screwdriver.
All the faces I care about flash through my head.
Aunt Faye.
Uncle Grady and Willow.
Sawyer and Avery, my little cousins.
Drake and Bella Larkin.
Quinn and Tory Faulkner.
Ridge and Grace Barnet and even Tobin the frigging butler.
They’re my people, my tribe, and they’ve all offered me a helping hand one time or another. What kind of rat would I be to cut and run before I’ve repaid them a hundred times over?
I stay here for them as much as I do for myself.
I know what Dallas is.
This town is the only place I’ll ever fit in.
A slamming car door dispels my thoughts. I turn to see Drake walking up the front walkway, his sheriff’s badge shining in the porch light.
“Changing the locks?” he asks with a tip of his head.
“Yep. All heavy duty and reinforced with new bolts on the front and back doors.” I nod respectfully, grateful he’s here to check it over.
Besides being the town sheriff, he was one hell of a bodyguard for Jonah Reed before he shacked up with her daughter years ago.
“Great timing,” he says darkly, leveling a look. “Listen, West, I’ve had patrols driving by here regularly since the theft. It sounds like someone was snooping around last night again, right after dark. The officer didn’t get a good look at him, and the perp scattered real fast when he heard the cruiser approaching.”
My spine stiffens. I drag a hand over my face.
“Shit. Sheriff, you ought to know Shelly found something in one of Faye’s photos. It could be a real long shot motive, but listen...”
As soon as I tell him about the meteorites and the connection to Hudson, Shel arrives and finishes the story, noting where he can track down the same photos she found online.
I hardly do any of that social media crap—there’s no need when you’re the only good full-time mechanic in town—but Drake gets how to pull up the info.
“There’s something else you should see,” he says, pulling up the tablet at his side housed in a thick reinforced rubber case. He punches at the screen a few times before pushing it toward me. “Take a good look. Mickey got out with a flashlight and took those photos last night. You can see a few bootprints heading into the brush. Might be a few remnants by the back porch.”
Dammit, he’s right.
Heavy duty impressions left in soft dirt stare back at me, taunting and infuriating as hell because they make no sense.
These are workman’s boots.
Not the kind of shit I could ever fathom that Carson jagoff being able to maneuver in if he deigned to own a pair of something so blue collar—and definitely not something he could outrun a cop in.
“Muddy Boots?” I grind out, more to myself than the sheriff. “I need to check if Marty’s followed up on that guy yet. Supposedly he mentioned working for North Earhart when he came stomping around at Aunt Faye’s sale like a foul-tempered buffalo.”
“I’ll follow up for sure. Don’t you guys worry. I’ll make the rounds personally tonight, and we’ll also have patrols sweeping Amelia’s,” he promises.
I grasp his hand in a brotherly handshake.
Here in Dallas, the police are your neighbors and the badges a formality.
