Chapter 37 Lo
Lo
Idon’t remember the drive. Just Beck’s hand clamped over mine, and the inside of my skull screaming like a kettle someone forgot on the stove. My phone’s dead, which is probably a blessing because if I have to read that text again, I’ll throw up. Or scream. Or both.
The truck crunches to a stop on gravel, and I blink as if someone just shook me awake. Hayes and Ford’s place. My home. At the moment, anyway. It still doesn’t feel quite like home since Beck doesn’t live with us.
Beck kills the engine. Turns to me with that tight-jawed hero face on.
“You’re okay,” he practically demands.
Am I?
I nod anyway because what else am I supposed to do? My head feels like it’s full of bees. Angry ones. With knives.
The car door swings open before I can even move. Ford stands there, a statue carved out of bad moods, Henley stretched over those stupid arms, a beer dangling from his fingers. His brows slam together when he sees me.
“I felt you and came as soon as I could. What happened?”
“Inside first,” Beck snaps, all Alpha-command, and for once, I don’t roll my eyes at it.
Ford steps back, silent but simmering, and Beck ushers me inside.
The home smells of cedar and vanilla, honeycomb and fresh linen, Christmas trees wrapped in leather.
And all of it drenched in my sugary peach scent.
It’s warm, and fruity, and woodsy, just like the holidays that are upon us, and it makes my chest hurt because, God, I want to feel safe in it. I really do.
Ford drops the beer bottle on the counter so hard it makes a sound loud as a gunshot.
“Lo—”
“I’m fine.”
Lie. Lie. Lie.
My voice sounds like gravel run through a blender, but I manage to spit it out because what am I supposed to say? Actually, someone out there thinks I’m their favorite horror movie, and guess what? I’m the final girl.
Ford’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t buy it.
Beck mutters something about water and disappears into the kitchen. Which leaves me standing in the middle of the living room like a malfunctioning Roomba, clutching the hem of my sweatshirt. My hands won’t stop shaking.
“You wanna sit?” Ford asks softly, like he’s trying not to break me in half.
I nod, lowering onto the couch that smells faintly of Hayes. Dripping honey and cool cotton sheets that have been freshly washed. It guts me a little. Where is he?
And then, slam.
The door bangs open as if the universe heard me.
Hayes’s gaze finds mine. “Lo—”
I stand so quickly that my back screams. There he is. My Hayes. My Beta. Looking like a Wall Street wolf who just murdered his tie in the car. His hair’s a mess, his shirt is rumpled, and his eyes are blazing wildly.
Three strides. That’s all it takes. And then his hands are on me. Warm, solid, cupping my face, checking for cracks.
“Are you okay?”
“I—” My throat does this horrible hitch thing. “I think so.”
He doesn’t buy it. His thumb traces my cheek like I might disappear if he blinks.
“What happened?”
Before I can answer, Beck does it for me. “She got another set of texts. From Dylan.”
Hayes goes still. Statue still. His jaw clenches once, twice, chewing on murder.
“Show me,” he says icily.
“My phone’s dead,” I whisper.
“Then tell me.”
I swallow, heat stinging my eyes. “It was photos. Of me. Of us. Of my home on fire…”
Silence. The kind that presses down on you like a weighted blanket.
“He started it?” Ford demands. “Dylan is in town?”
Beck’s already pulling his phone out, muttering something that sounds similar to every swear word in the English language.
“Nash,” he barks when the line clicks. “Yeah, it’s me. Get to Hayes’s place. Now.” He listens for a beat, jaw grinding. “Because we’ve got a situation. And bring your goddamn lights this time.”
Click. Phone down. Beck looks like he wants to throw it through the wall.
I sink back down onto the couch, knees tucked up, trying to fold myself so small the world forgets about me for five minutes.
Spoiler alert: It doesn’t work.
Ford’s pacing now, big strides across the room, muttering curses. Hayes hasn’t moved, though. Still crouched in front of me, hands gentle but shaking, holding back a hurricane.
“Lo,” he says, softer now. “I need you to breathe for me, okay?”
I try. I really do. But then Ford stops mid-stride and turns to Hayes.
“Where the hell were you, anyway?” he demands. “I tried calling as soon as Beck texted me—”
Hayes blinks like he just remembered there are other people in the room. Straightens up slow. Rolls his sleeves like he’s about to drop a bomb.
“I was in the middle of a meeting,” he says. “The meeting where I quit my job.”
And—yeah. That’s not the answer anyone was expecting.
Ford’s brows shoot up so high they could signal aliens. Beck freezes mid-step on his way back from the kitchen.
“You what?” Ford says.
“I quit,” Hayes repeats.
Except his eyes—they’re brighter. Lighter. Like someone just sawed the chains off his ribs and let him breathe.
“Argued with my father, again, told him I was done. Done being his pawn. Done being his heir. Done pretending I give a damn about his version of Whitlock legacy. Then told Peter I can’t do it anymore.” He exhales, and it’s almost a laugh. “And god, it feels good.”
Ford stares at him as if Hayes just announced he’s moving to Mars to herd llamas. “You… quit the job. The job you’ve been killing yourself over since—”
“Yes.” Hayes cuts him off, but there’s a curve to his mouth now. The kind that’s dangerous. Beautiful. Free. I’m sitting there, shaking like a leaf, and this man might as well have just ripped the sun out of the sky and stuck it in his chest.
Nobody speaks for a second. Then Beck mutters, “Well. Today’s really out here trying to win gold in the Plot Twist Olympics.”
Hayes grins at that. Just for a second. And wow, I forgot what that looked like. Forgot how much the world tilts in the right direction when he does.
Then the grin fades, his gaze snapping back to me, sharp and fierce again. “Lo, we’re gonna fix this. I promise.”
I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
And then headlights sweep across the windows. Blue and red flickers follow.
“Sheriff’s here,” Beck announces.
He swings open the door and leads Sheriff Nash inside.
“What’s going on?” Nash’s eyes dart around the room.
“Lo needs to talk to you,” Beck says, no sugar, no softening.
Nash’s attention shifts to me, and I swear my lungs forget how to work. But I nod, because I can’t keep this in anymore. I can’t keep pretending this isn’t real.
“Can you… sit?” My voice comes out so small I barely recognize it. He nods and takes the armchair across from me, pulling out a notepad.
“Start from the beginning,” he says.
So I do.
“I first met Dylan through my investigative work a few years ago,” I say. My hands twist in my lap, knuckles white. “And it was fine, at first.”
Nash doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. I keep going.
“We were friends. It was harmless.” My throat tightens because I almost want to laugh at the word “harmless.” “Or so I thought.”
I stare at the floor, the words scraping out of me like glass.
“Then he asked me out.”
Beck stiffens behind me. I don’t look at him.
“I said no. And things got weird…” My pulse hammers as I force the rest out.
“He couldn’t accept the ‘no,’ so he started to just be everywhere.
No matter where I went, he followed. No matter what job I took, he found a way to wiggle his way in.
Every city. Every state. For years, just chasing me around.
It’s why I came back here, to hide out. To stop living in my car for a bit.
I hadn’t told anyone about this place. About my past. I figured he can’t find me somewhere that I haven’t mentioned before. ”
Nash writes something down, his jaw tight.
“But he found me here anyway. He’s always known I was here, and he’s the one that set the fire at my family’s townhouse.”
Beck curses under his breath. Hayes’s shadow moves across the wall, a storm passing too close.
Nash exhales through his nose and glances at the dead phone on the table. “You have messages?”
I nod. “Photos, too.” I tremble. “He sent me pictures of everything.”
Hayes doesn’t let me move. He’s already plugging my phone into a charger, setting it gently on the coffee table. The screen lights up, mocking me with its calm little logo while my whole life burns behind it.
“Passcode?” Nash asks.
I give it. He scrolls, and then I watch his face go hard as granite. His eyes sharpen with every swipe.
“Jesus Christ,” Beck mutters from the kitchen.
Ford doesn’t say a word, but the muscles in his jaw jump, ready to snap.
Nash looks at me again. “These are all from him? This Dylan guy?” All I can do is nod. His pen scratches against paper. “I’ll need to take this as evidence. I also want a photo of him. Do you have a clearer one?”
My stomach flips. “Not on here. I deleted everything when I moved.”
Nash’s brows crease. “Can you get one?”
I swallow, nod, and take the phone to pull up my messages, fingers trembling so hard I almost drop the damn thing.
Sal. Thank God for Sal.
I tap her name and type:
Lo: Emergency. Need a photo of Dylan. Please tell me you have one.
I hit send and stare at the screen, willing her to reply faster. My knee bounces. Hayes’s hand brushes mine on the couch, warm and steady. A silent anchor.
The typing dots appear.
Then vanish.
Then appear again.
And then… ping.
One photo. Him. Dylan. Grinning like the devil himself wearing a boy-next-door mask on his fucking face. My stomach heaves just looking at him.
I turn the phone toward Nash. “That’s him.”
The sheriff leans forward, eyes narrowing as he studies the picture. And then his entire face changes. His head snaps up, eyes wide, sharp with something that looks a lot like oh, shit.
“When was this taken?”
“Couple years ago.” My words trip over each other. “Why? What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer me. Just exhales hard and mutters, “Son of a…” He straightens, jaw locking, grinding down fury. “I just arrested that man this afternoon.”