Chapter 17
I offer to drive Freya into the station. I’m not ready to take my eyes off of her after last night. There is something too coincidental about the wrench at the quarry—someone hiding in the shadows.
And now she tells me Ingram wants to meet up with her at the junkyard behind the police impound.
She told me on the way here that he simply said she was right to keep the case open. And now, if they’re meeting at the impound, he’s clearly ready to have another look at Zoe’s car.
So he’s missed something and admitting it. That either says he’s humble, or he’s getting involved because he wants control of this case again.
I watch Freya walk toward the double glass doors of the station, her shoulders squared, ass swaying in those black uniform pants. It feels wrong to let her walk up alone. Ungentlemanly. Unnatural.
But walking her in would embarrass her. And hovering would piss her off. So I stay where she needs me: close enough to catch her if she falls, far enough to let her lead.
She doesn’t look back. She wouldn’t, not when she’s trying so hard to make a mark here.
She doesn’t want to be taken care of, but every instinct I have is built for exactly that.
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to turn that off.
I’m not sure I even want to.
She pushes through the glass, and the station doors swallow her up.
I put the truck in gear.
I think about the wrench again and how a lot of people in this town knew the case was reopening by the time Freya went to the quarry, but for sure, Ingram was one of them.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel. I’m naturally suspicious, I know that, but Ingram will have to prove he’s humble before I rule out he’s manipulating something here.
I head toward the long road that cuts through Echo Valley. Dust rises behind the truck in the rearview mirror, blurring the outline of the station. I force myself not to glance back again. She’s inside. She’s safe. Until 2 p.m. when she’s out in the open again.
The morning plays itself back on a loop: the moment she pushed back, the way she steadied herself and set those boundaries with more courage than she realizes. She’s trying so hard to prove she can handle all this. To prove she’s earned that badge. And I respect the hell out of that.
But the truth?
I want this over for her. I want the case closed. I want her to get to just…breathe. She’s pregnant. She deserves mornings that smell like pancakes, not stress and shadows at quarries.
I get the pull of the job. I get why she loves it. Even when the worry is intense, I keep it contained.
But for the next several months, she’s growing a baby, and the idea of stress carving into her like that sits wrong in my gut.
I need to end this and figure out how to make life interesting, even though she’s on desk duty.
I remember when Zoe’s accident happened—the guys and I were at the Cantina. Callum told us the news over a beer. A tragedy like that in a town this small? It hit everyone, and we were all struck by a solemn silence.
All but Santi, that is. He knew her parents and made a toast to Zoe—the “bright, full-of-life” kid he said she was. He gave a small eulogy and mentioned how she was responsible, determined, and bubbly.
He certainly didn’t make her out to be suicidal or a reckless young woman who would get drunk and joyride on her own at an abandoned quarry.
I rub my thumb against the wheel.
If this is foul play, and every bone in my body is starting to say it is, then Freya might have brushed too close to someone comfortable with killing a young woman. And bold enough to come back to the scene of the crime.
Freya gave me permission to watch from the shadows. She doesn’t realize how much that means. I won’t take a single inch more than she gives me. But I’m sure as hell using the inches I have.
No one gets near her.
No one goes near my—
My what? My friend? She’s way more than that. The mother of my child?
Christ. I don’t even have a name for what she is to me.
But the reflex hits before the definition does, and that says everything.
It says friends is make-believe.
A lie.
It’s not how I feel. But is it how I want to feel?
The turn toward Monarch Hills appears ahead, and the moment my tires roll onto the gravel drive, my pulse finally eases. I wind through the paved roads of the family estate where the homes are and onto the tarmac drives that wind toward the stables, barns, and my workshop.
I need something to do between now and the junkyard where I’ll find a position that allows me to watch them. I want to hear every word he says.
When I unlock the doors to my shed and push them open, the air smells like sawdust and sun-warmed wood. The sweet, whiskey-like aroma of the oak I have sitting in the corner brings my thoughts back to Earth.
Inside, I step into a different version of myself—one that’s not carved from scars and old missions and lost years. The version of me who builds instead of destroys.
I like this me. More than I’d like to admit.
I walk to the worktop where my drawn-out design for the crib is taped on the wall. I take it off the wall and consider it.
I don’t know how much money is in woodworking, but it sits right.
Suddenly, Freya’s words drift into my brain. I can hear her sweet voice clearly.
You’re good with your hands.
Fuck, I’d like to use them again on her. Could I even handle it? I fucking doubt it. Having sex with a woman like Freya in that hotel room after months of wanting was one thing. Now she’s carrying my baby in that voluptuous body of hers, it makes me almost sick with greed.
I shake my head.
Work, Easton.
I grab a piece of plywood I need to make a template for my crib sides. I place the wood on my workbench and draw out the curved lines of my design, erasing over and over. I need to get the shape right.
I decided against a sleigh-bed style originally as that’s too classic. Too could have been store-bought, so I started over and drew something out of my imagination instead.
The new design is whimsical, and I know Freya will love it. I got the idea when Kat came by the shed looking for Santi. She and I got to talking about toys and strollers and baby books, and she told me about her favorite book when Theo was younger.
I Love You to the Moon and Back.
And the idea hit me almost instantly for the crib to be two large crescent moons with cutout stars and hearts.
I knew it was right because while I drew, I imagined Freya standing in a softly lit nursery, resting her hand on the wood I carved and polished, her strong arms reaching down for our baby and bringing them to her breast.
I don’t know if I’ll be standing beside her or in the doorway…but I know I’ll be there.
My throat goes tight. I always wanted to be a dad, but I didn’t know how much it meant to me until now. Nobody can understand a feeling they’ve never had. It’s a sucker punch. I’m doomed when the little one gets here; I’ll probably lose all my ability to say no.
I finish sketching the shape I want, clamp it to my horse, and to get to work with my jigsaw. I have to go slowly, inch by inch on the shape.
The concentration settles me. Steel on wood. Pressure. Resistance. The shavings curl and fall where they’re supposed to. There’s no chaos in this. Just problems and solutions. You pay attention. You adjust. You make it right.
My shoulders loosen with each millimeter of progress.
My mind drifts away from all the shit out there toward possibilities.
I’m in the zone when I hear boots crunching on gravel outside, and I pull up my jigsaw.
Gabriel steps into the doorway first, expression carved from granite. Rio is right behind, hands in his pockets, but tension radiates off him in waves.
Two men who don’t show up together unless something’s wrong.
I set the jigsaw down, wiping sawdust off my hands.
“What’s going on?” I ask, already bracing.
Gabriel’s jaw flexes once. “There’s news around town that Freya is keeping the Marshall case open.”
As I told Freya, nothing stays quiet in this town.
Rio crosses his arms. “Why’s that?”
“It’s Freya’s case,” I say because she’s in charge. Not me. “You should ask her.”
“That was a courtesy question,” Rio states. “She thinks there’s foul play.”
It’s obvious, but I don’t confirm.
Gabriel steps farther into the workshop, only a few steps away from my horse, and glances down at my handiwork. “We thought she should know there was another incident at the quarry ten years ago. Another death. A young woman.”
Rio leans against the wall, boot up.
“What happened?” I ask, but from the ominous feeling that entered this shed with them, I already know what’s coming.
“Same as Zoe,” Gabriel answers. “Ran her car off the cliff. No foul play noted.”
“But Ingram,” Rio says, pinning me with a somber gaze, “was in charge of the case.”
Enzo glances over at his brother with something I can’t detect. Sympathy? Concern? Whatever it is, this particular death feels personal.
Gabriel sits on the rocking chair Santi brought in here. “Yes, they’re ten years apart, but there’s one common thread.”
“Ingram…” Thoughts swirls around my mind. “But that’s to be expected. There aren’t that many officers in this town.”
Rio pushes off the wall. “I never thought anything about him before. He seems like a decent man. But if he’s fucked up this case, and there was another just like it ten years ago that was closed by him...”
Gabriel unwraps a piece of gum and pops it into his mouth. “Coincidences don’t mean much. Patterns do.”
I look away for a second, jaw tight enough to crack. “So you’re either saying Ingram is a really shitty cop or he’s messed up on purpose.”
Rio tilts his head. “Both are bad, which is why you need to know.”
“Freya needs to know,” I correct him.
Even though I’m really fucking glad they’ve come to me, too.
Before anyone can say more, my cell buzzes. Freya’s name lights up the screen.
Freya
At the station. All good. Heading to the junkyard and impound earlier now. 12pm.
My stomach knots. Then another text.
Freya
Can you be there?
Fuck. She’s nervous.
Me
Right behind you, honey.
Shadow mode.
I don’t wait for the sawdust to settle. I grab my jacket off the hook and move for the door. I don’t have as much time as I thought. If I’m going to get into position without being seen, I need to go.
Gabriel’s eyes track me. He can tell something just shifted.
“Freya doesn’t know about the other death,” I say. “And it can’t come from me.”
He studies me for half a second longer, then nods. He gets it. His fiancée is an independent woman with a capital I. I don’t want Freya feeling like they never intended to loop her in, too.
“Give her the facts,” I add. “Anything she needs to pull the file.”
Rio straightens. “I’ll get together what I can today and touch base with her tomorrow.”
“Fine. She’s busy at the impound this afternoon anyway. But don’t sit on it.”
I step outside into the glare of the afternoon sun, cold air hitting my face, my pulse already ticking faster.
Two women. Same place. Same ending.
Both were written off.
Maybe it’s incompetence.
Maybe it’s more.
Either way, it makes Ingram a liability.
And that makes what Freya is walking into a hell of a lot more dangerous.