Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Sergeant Diaz arrived twelve minutes after Brian's call. He'd been counting.
Hank and Colby had gotten there first, materializing from the direction of the motorcycle shop like they'd been shot from a cannon.
Colby had taken one look at Tessa's pale face and positioned himself on her other side, creating a wall of muscle and solidarity that made Brian's chest tight with something that felt uncomfortably like gratitude.
"Tell me everything," Hank said quietly, his eyes scanning the street in both directions. "Don't leave anything out."
So Brian told him. The confrontation, the veiled threats, the way Webb had stood there in broad daylight like he owned the sidewalk. The words that kept echoing in his head: People get hurt when they walk away.
"Son of a bitch," Colby muttered. "He actually said that? Right to her face?"
"He said a lot of things." Brian's jaw was so tight it ached. "All of it carefully worded. Nothing that would hold up as an explicit threat. He's a psychologist. He knows exactly where the line is."
"Doesn't matter where the line is if we make him cross it," Colby said.
"That's not how we're handling this." Hank's voice was calm but firm. "We do this right, or we don't do it at all."
Diaz's patrol car pulled up to the curb, and she stepped out with the unhurried efficiency of someone who had seen many situations and learned that rushing rarely helped.
Her dark hair was pulled back in its usual neat bun, and her eyes moved over the group with quick assessment before settling on Tessa.
"Ms. Callahan. You okay?"
Tessa nodded, though the tremor in her hands said otherwise. "He approached us. Right here on Main Street. Broad daylight."
"Walk me through it."
They moved to Diaz's car, leaning against the hood while Tessa recounted the conversation.
Brian filled in the parts she glossed over, the parts where Webb had smiled that knowing smile and talked about observation and study and consequences.
By the time they finished, Diaz's expression had gone from professional neutrality to something harder.
"I ran his name this morning," she said. "Before you called. I wanted to know who we were dealing with."
Brian straightened. "And?"
"Marcus Webb. Licensed psychologist, or he was. His license was suspended eighteen months ago after complaints from three different patients. The board found evidence of boundary violations, inappropriate contact, and obsessive behavior toward clients he'd fixated on."
"Christ," Colby said under his breath.
"It gets better." Diaz pulled out her phone and scrolled through something.
"I talked to a detective in Chicago this morning.
Webb has been connected to harassment cases in three other cities over the past five years.
Minneapolis. Detroit. Cleveland. Same pattern each time.
He identifies a target, usually a woman in a helping profession, and he.
..studies her. His word. He calls it research. "
"Research," Tessa repeated. Her voice was flat. "That's what he called it today. He said he was observing me. Documenting."
"The previous cases never resulted in charges.
He's careful. Stays just inside the line, as you said.
" Diaz met Brian's eyes. "But this time is different.
He's violated a restraining order by following her across state lines.
That's federal. I've already reached out to the FBI field office in Charleston. "
"How long until they can act?" Brian asked.
"They're reviewing the case now. Could be a day, could be a week. Federal wheels turn slow, but they turn heavy." She looked at Tessa. "In the meantime, I want you to stay visible. Go about your life, but don't be alone. The more witnesses to his behavior, the stronger our case."
"You want her to be bait," Brian said. The words came out harder than he intended.
"I want her to be documented." Diaz didn't flinch from his tone. "Every time Webb shows his face, I want it on record. Times, dates, witnesses. We build a pattern that even the best lawyer can't explain away."
"She's not wrong," Hank said quietly. "The more public he is, the more rope he has to hang himself."
Brian wanted to argue. Every instinct he had screamed to put Tessa somewhere safe and stand guard until this was over. But he'd spent enough time in emergency services to know that Diaz was right. Documentation mattered. Patterns mattered. You couldn't fight what you couldn't prove.
“His brother?" Tessa asked. "His brother died in my ER."
Diaz nodded. "Daniel Webb. Died nine months ago at Chicago General after a car accident. Multiple traumas, catastrophic injuries. The medical examiner ruled it unsurvivable." She paused. "You were the attending surgeon."
"I remember him." Tessa's voice was barely above a whisper. "I remember all of them. But Daniel... there was nothing anyone could have done. His aorta was shredded. He was gone before he hit the table."
"The medical records support that. So does the ME's report." Diaz's voice softened slightly. "You didn't do anything wrong, Ms. Callahan. Webb's grief doesn't change the facts. It just gives him someone to blame."
Brian reached for Tessa's hand, threading his fingers through hers. She held on tightly, her grip almost painful.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
"Now?" Diaz tucked her phone away. "Now I put out a BOLO on Webb's vehicle.
I've got his license plate from the Chicago records.
If he's still in the area, someone will spot him.
And I'm going to have a little chat with the hotel where he's been staying.
See if the staff have noticed anything useful. "
"He's staying at a hotel?" Colby asked. "Here in town?"
"The Sandpiper, out on Route 17. Checked in three weeks ago. Paid cash for the first three weeks, then switched to a credit card." Diaz's smile was thin. "People always slip up eventually. He got comfortable and used his credit card today."
Three weeks. Brian's stomach turned. Webb had been watching them for three weeks, and they'd only known for the last ten days. All those mornings on the deck, all those walks into town, all those quiet moments they'd thought were private.
"I want him gone," he said. "I want him out of this town and out of her life."
"Working on it." Diaz pushed off from the car. "I'll be in touch. In the meantime, my cell number's in your phone. Use it."
She drove away, and the four of them stood on the sidewalk, watching the patrol car disappear around the corner.
"Come back to the shop," Hank said. "Bree's there. She's been worried since I texted her."
"I should go home," Tessa said. "I need to call Julia. She should know what's happening."
"You can call from the shop," Colby said. "We've got coffee. Bree made those lemon bars you liked. And frankly, I don't think any of us want to let you out of our sight right now."
Tessa looked at Brian, and something passed between them. A silent conversation in the space of a heartbeat.
"Okay," she said. "The shop it is."
They walked together down Main Street, Hank and Colby flanking them like an honor guard. Shop owners watched from their windows. Ruth waved from the doorway of her bookstore. Tom Cooper stepped out of the hardware store and gave Brian a nod that carried the weight of a promise.
This town, Brian thought. This ridiculous, nosy, fiercely loyal town.
He'd come here to hide. To disappear into anonymity and nurse his wounds in private. Instead, he'd found a community that refused to let him be alone, a woman who had walked into his life by accident and become the center of it, and friends who showed up without being asked.
Webb thought he was dealing with one isolated woman and her boyfriend. He had no idea what he was up against.
The vintage motorcycle shop came into view, its hand-painted sign swinging gently in the sea breeze. Through the window, Brian could see Bree already moving toward the door, her face creased with concern.
"How bad?" she asked as they filed inside.
"Bad enough." Hank kissed her forehead. "But not as bad as it could be. Diaz is on it."
Bree pulled Tessa into a hug, the kind of embrace that didn't need words.
Over Tessa's shoulder, her eyes met Brian's, and he saw his own fear reflected there.
But he saw something else, too. Determination.
The same stubborn refusal to let the darkness win that had carried Bree through her own grief, her own rebuilding.
"Coffee's fresh," Bree said when she finally let go. "And I wasn't kidding about those lemon bars. Stress baking is my coping mechanism, and I've been very stressed."
That surprised a laugh out of Tessa, watery but real. "Stress baking?"
"Don't knock it until you've tried it. There's something very therapeutic about beating the hell out of butter and sugar."
They gathered in the back of the shop, where a makeshift break area had been set up with mismatched chairs and a coffee maker that had seen better decades. Brian took the seat next to Tessa, close enough that their shoulders touched. She leaned into him automatically, as if by gravity.
"So," Colby said, settling into a chair with a lemon bar in each hand. "What's the plan?"
"We wait," Brian said. "Diaz is building a case. The FBI is reviewing. We document everything, and we don't give Webb what he wants."
"Which is?"
"Fear." Tessa's voice was steadier now. "He wants me afraid. He wants me looking over my shoulder, second-guessing every decision, wondering if I deserve what's happening to me." She straightened in her chair. "I'm not going to give him that."
Brian looked at her, at the steel that had crept into her spine, the fire in her green eyes.
This was the woman who had walked into his cottage with a suitcase and a door code and turned his whole life upside down.
This was the woman who had spent years in trauma surgery, facing death every day and fighting it back.
Webb had picked the wrong target.
"Good," Hank said quietly. "Because that's exactly the attitude you're going to need."
Outside the window, the afternoon sun painted Main Street in shades of gold. Tourists wandered past with their shopping bags and ice cream cones, oblivious to the drama unfolding inside the motorcycle shop. Life went on, the way it always did.
But somewhere out there, a man with dark hair and cold eyes was watching. Waiting. Planning his next move.
Brian intended to be ready for it.