Chapter 25
Levi
Aggie’s Airstream was compact yet remarkably welcoming, every inch thoughtfully arranged to feel like a true home. Mugs already waited on the small table before Matt’s truck engine even quieted, a sign that Aggie had been watching the road.
Gram had stayed. She sat tucked into the corner of the banquette, Gerald draped across her lap like a living scarf, her walking stick leaning against the wall. She sipped her tea and ate a scone with calm, deliberate pleasure, clearly intending to remain until she’d heard what Matt had to say.
Matt stepped through the door. “Morning,” he said, voice low and even.
“Matthew.” Gram raised her mug in greeting. “Scone?”
“I’m good, thank you.”
“They’re very good. You should have one.”
“Gram,” I said.
“I’m being hospitable,” she replied, and passed him one anyway.
He accepted it without protest—resistance was pointless—and took the chair Aggie indicated.
“The car Travis drove this morning,” Matt said without preamble. “I ran the plates on the way over.”
“And?” Becca asked.
Matt set the scone down untouched and wrapped both hands around his mug.
“It’s registered to Pacifica Valley Holdings.
Same as the other one. The LLC was formed fourteen months ago, and the registered agent is a Portland law firm that specializes in staying opaque.
Nothing illegal on its face, but that firm has handled land-acquisition work for at least two other developers in the region over the last three years. ”
Becca’s hands rested around her own mug, elbows on the table. “Well, Travis has always known where I live,” she said. “That’s not new. Driving a company car—that’s new. Was he trying to warn me? Or scare me?”
“He’ll never tell us,” Matt said.
“So Travis is a messenger,” I said. “Not the source of all of this.”
“For now. Whether he knows more than he’s letting on is another question.” Matt looked at Becca. “Did he sound rehearsed, or did some of it feel like his own knowledge?”
She considered for a moment. “Mostly, he was yelling about Levi and me. He only let one half-sentence slip about the campground.”
Gram made a small, wordless sound of agreement laced with contempt.
Becca exhaled slowly. “You know I podcasted last night. Just a quick one—it was personal. Nothing about what I saw that night. But he said someone told him to listen.”
Matt nodded once. “Visibility draws attention. Good and bad. Exactly what we counted on.”
“And the next episode…” Becca trailed off, then met his eyes. “I was planning to lay it all out. All of it. Everything I know. The figures, the timing, and what it connects to.
Matt’s jaw tightened slightly, the only outward sign he was processing. “That’s a big step. Don’t do it until I say it’s okay.”
“Okay. I’ll check with you first.”
The table fell quiet. Outside, the campground stirred in fragments. Gerald migrated from Gram’s lap to Aggie’s without fanfare.
“I have information to share,” Aggie said, and slid a manila folder across the table.
We all looked at it.
“I’ve been keeping notes,” she said simply.
Matt opened the folder.
Inside were pages of Aggie’s distinctive, looping cursive, dated entries stretching back for months.
License plates, vehicle descriptions, overheard snippets from the post office, Violet’s Café, the county planning office.
Tucked in the back were printed public records and meeting agendas from the previous spring and summer.
A “regional corridor study” for the Sweetbriar River valley.
One August item mentioned a completed property assessment study.
Aggie’s red-inked note beside it: Requested under public records.
Denied. Cited ongoing confidential negotiations.
Matt read in silence, jaw tightening as he absorbed the details. “Aggie,” he said at last, “how long?”
“Seven months. Give or take.”
“Why didn’t you—” Becca began.
“Say anything?” Aggie met her gaze evenly. “You had enough weighing on you, sweetheart. I wanted to be certain before I raised alarms.” She stroked Gerald. “I’m certain now. Something is happening.”
Becca stared at her aunt for a long moment, then reached across and covered Aggie’s hand with her own. Aggie’s expression softened.
I looked away and caught Gram watching me with that knowing look she’d worn since I was little. She raised one eyebrow.
I shook my head faintly.
She returned to her tea, content.
Becca and I gathered the dishes and cleaned up. Matt spent the next hour methodically reviewing Aggie’s notes, cross-referencing on his phone, photographing pages with care.
Gram listened without comment.
We spoke little. Becca passed me mugs and plates, and I dried them. She gazed out Aggie’s small window at the campground, expression thoughtful and distant.
“Waiting to share what we know is smart, in theory,” she said quietly. “Matt will want to trace everything. The detective, the LLC, the planning commission, before anything goes public.”
“He’s right. You don’t show your hand until you know what cards you hold.”
She handed me the last mug. “But the next episode is already in my head. If I wait too long, people could sign things they shouldn’t or miss notices without knowing why they should look closer.”
I understood the reasoning. I also felt the instinctive tug—not yet, not until it’s safe—and pushed it down. This wasn’t entirely my decision to make.
“What would you do?” she asked.
“Not name names yet. Just ask questions on the record. About the planning documents, the denied records request, and what a corridor study could mean for valley properties. Tell people to watch their leases. And tie it back to what I saw at the river last night.”
“Matt will say sit on it.”
“I know, and he has a good point about waiting. He’s not wrong.”
“I know that too.” She studied my face. “What do you think?”
I took a breath. “I think it’s your call.”
She held my gaze, waiting for me to elaborate.
“I have opinions,” I said. “Some are about keeping you safe—you know that—and some I probably shouldn’t lead with. But it’s your platform, your choice. I’m not going to talk you out of something just because it makes me uneasy.”
Something shifted in her eyes.
“But,” I added, “I want to be in the room when you talk to Matt. Whatever you decide. I’m not trying to interfere. I just want to know what’s happening.”
“Okay,” she said. “Of course.”
Matt’s assessment came exactly as predicted.
He leaned back, pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, and said, “I need forty-eight hours.”
“To do what?” Becca asked.
“To talk to the PI. To identify who’s behind Pacifica Valley Holdings, if it’s even relevant.
To learn what the planning commission actually knows and from whom.
To check for similar inquiries on other parcels.
” He paused. “If this is what it looks like, going public too soon—especially naming the LLC or the study—could do more harm than good. We’d be sounding an alarm without knowing what we’re warning against.”
Becca was quiet. “Forty-eight hours,” she repeated.
“Maybe seventy-two,” he hedged. “Just to be safe.”
She met his eyes. “And then we discuss the next episode. What I can say, when I can say it.”
He held her gaze, then nodded. “And then we discuss it, and everything will be okay. I will make it so.”
Gram set her cup down with a small click. “Good.” She looked at Becca steadily. “You built something real with your podcast. Use it wisely.” A pause. “Timing is everything.”
Becca nodded once.
Matt said goodbye, promising an evening update. At the door, he gave me the long, assessing look of an older brother and a cop in one. “Take care of Becca,” he said, then left.
Gram gathered her walking stick, kissed Becca’s cheek—drawing only slight surprise—and caught my eye on her way out. “Walk me to my car.” I took her elbow and guided her across the gravel and opened her door. She said without preamble, “She’s good for you.”
“Gram.”
She adjusted her grip on her cane. “You’ve arranged yourself around that girl for fifteen years. It’s good to see you stand beside her instead.”
I said nothing.
“You also have your grandfather’s timing,” she added. This time, I understood it carried a warning. “He waited so long to tell me he loved me, I nearly married someone else out of sheer impatience.” She glanced sideways. “Don’t do that.”
“I won’t,” I said.
She patted my arm once, then got into her car.
When I turned back, Becca was waiting on her porch, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. She gave me a small, tired-but-content smile and held out her hand.
“Come inside with me,” she said softly.
I took her hand without hesitation, and we walked together back into her trailer.
Inside, the morning light slanted through the small windows, catching on the rumpled sheets from the night before. Becca closed the door behind us, then turned and rested her forehead against my chest for a moment.
“I should grab some clean clothes from my trailer real quick,” I said.
She nodded, smiling softly. “Hurry back. We can get ready together.”
I jogged the short distance to my own trailer, grabbed some fresh clothes, stuffed them into a bag, and was back in under two minutes. When I stepped inside again, Becca was already waiting by the bathroom door with a playful look in her eyes.
“Come on,” she said softly, taking my hand and leading me toward the tiny bathroom. “Shower with me.”
The shower stall was barely big enough for one, let alone two, but we didn’t care. She reached in and turned the water on, letting it warm while we undressed each other with unhurried hands. Clothes dropped to the floor one piece at a time—my shirt, her sweatshirt, the quiet slide of denim.
When we stepped under the spray, the hot water cascaded over us, steam rising around our bodies.
Becca tilted her face up into the stream first, eyes closed, letting it wash over her.
I picked up the soap and lathered it between my palms, then began washing her back in slow, gentle circles—over the curve of her spine, the slope of her shoulders, the nape of her neck.
She leaned into my touch with a quiet sigh.
I reached for her shampoo, squeezed some into my hand, and worked it into her hair.
My fingers moved through the wet strands, massaging her scalp with firm, careful strokes.
She let out a soft sound of pleasure and tilted her head back, eyes drifting shut as I worked the lather from root to tip.
The simple act felt impossibly intimate, my hands in her hair, the warm water rinsing away the suds, her body relaxed and trusting against mine.
I rinsed her thoroughly, then kissed the top of her damp head while the last of the soap swirled down the drain.
She turned to face me, water streaming down her cheeks, and reached up with a playful grin.
“My turn.” She squeezed shampoo into her palm and tried to work it into my hair, but even on her tiptoes, she couldn’t quite reach.
Her fingers kept sliding down the back of my neck instead, and she let out a frustrated little laugh.
“Damn it, you’re too tall,” she complained, bouncing once for emphasis.
I grinned and bent my knees dramatically, lowering myself so she could reach. “Better, shortstack?”
“Much better, giant.” She laughed and dug her fingers into my scalp, massaging with way more enthusiasm than skill. “You’re gonna end up with shampoo in your ears at this rate.”
I closed my eyes, smiling under the warm water. “I don’t even care. Feels too good.”
She bit her lip, trying not to grin. “You’re making it really hard to even want to go to work today.”
“Good,” I said, leaning down to kiss the corner of her mouth. “I want you thinking about me all shift.”
“Oh, I will,” she promised, her hands sliding up my chest. “But fair warning—if you keep talking like this, you might not make it through the front door tonight before I jump you.”
I laughed softly against her lips. “That’s not exactly discouraging me.”
We stayed under the spray a few minutes longer, trading lazy kisses and quiet laughter, the kind that felt like pure happiness even with everything else swirling around us.
When the water finally ran cooler, we stepped out, skin flushed and soft.
We dried each other with the same slow tenderness—towels brushing over arms and backs, a soft kiss pressed to her damp shoulder, my fingers gently combing through her wet hair.
She handed me a spare toothbrush and smiled when I used it beside her at the sink.
We dressed in comfortable silence—her in fresh jeans and a soft gray sweater, me in the clean clothes I’d just grabbed from my trailer. By the time we were ready, the ordinary activity of getting ready together felt surprisingly natural, like we’d been doing it for years.
“I’ll drive you to work,” I said as I pulled on my boots.
Becca nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. “Okay.”
We stepped out into the morning air. I opened the passenger door of my truck for her, then climbed in on the driver’s side. As we rolled slowly out of the campground, the gravel crunching under the tires, I glanced over at her.
“I’ll pick you up after your shift,” I told her. “Then we’ll have the evening together.”
She turned toward me, eyes bright. “I can’t wait.”
“Me either.” I reached over and rested my hand on her thigh. She covered it with hers, fingers lacing through mine.
“Tonight,” she said softly.
“Tonight,” I echoed.
The drive to town passed in comfortable quiet. For these few minutes, it was just us—happy, together, and already looking forward to the night ahead.
When I pulled up in front of her work, I leaned across the seat and kissed her, slow and lingering. “I’ll see you later.”
She nodded, cheeks a little pink, then slipped out of the truck with one last smile back at me.
I watched her go inside before pulling away, already counting the hours until I could pick her up and bring her home to the evening we’d just been teasing each other about—the new, unguarded space we were finally stepping into together.