Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
OZZY
Morning at Rainmaker tastes like pine and cold metal. The kind of air that wakes you up whether you want it to or not.
I’m in the kitchen with my bare feet on the chilled tile, staring at the coffee maker. Sort of just dazed as I think about a future with Salem. What that would look like. What would it feel like?
The safehouse is quiet in that early way where everything feels suspended. The fridge hums. A branch taps the window once, soft and harmless, but my body still logs it. My brain still catalogs sounds like it’s sorting threats.
Behind me, Salem is moving around in the bedroom. I hear a drawer slide open, and fabric rustle. She didn’t sleep great. I can tell by the way she held me too tight last night. Like if she loosened her grip, the truth would crawl in and bite her.
She’s been through a lot. More than I’d ever wish on anyone.
I set two mugs on the counter and pour coffee like I’m doing something normal. Like I’m not thinking about how to tell a girl that the people who should have loved her most might be the reason she almost disappeared forever.
My phone buzzes. It’s Arrow. My spine straightens on instinct. I swipe to answer. “Talk.”
Arrow’s voice is low and fast. “We have a lead.”
My stomach tightens. “On what.”
“Goldenbell movement,” he says. “Possible transit point. Warehouse on the outskirts of Magnolia Ridge.”
My eyes flick to the window. Trees. Quiet road. Nothing but frost and the faint haze of morning.
We’re close.
Too close.
“You want me to sit on my hands and wait for you to drive two hours?” I ask.
Arrow doesn’t bite. He just exhales like he expected this response. “I want you to stay put. That’s the order.”
“It’s not an order,” I say.
“It is when Dean says it,” Arrow replies. “And he did.”
I stare at the coffee dripping into the pot, jaw tight. My pulse is already kicking up. “Who’s on it?” I ask.
“brAVO is mobilizing,” Arrow says. “Dean’s sending a team. Rae’s patching into local feeds. But we need eyes on the warehouse before it goes cold.”
“And I’m eyes,” I say.
“Not today,” Arrow shoots back. “Ozzy, you have Salem with you. You are not turning this into a cowboy mission.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth despite myself. “It’s not cowboy. I don’t own cowboy boots.”
“Ha ha.” Arrow’s voice goes flat. “Don’t joke.”
I glance toward the hallway. Salem appears, hair messy, wearing one of my shirts. It hangs to mid-thigh on her and makes something possessive flare in my chest. She rubs sleep from her eyes and pauses when she sees my face.
I lift a finger. One second.
Her gaze narrows like she hates being left out. I nod, and put the phone on speaker, holding it between us.
Arrow keeps talking. “There’s chatter that someone important passed through that warehouse last night. We don’t know who. We don’t know if it’s a trap. We don’t know if they already cleared out.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Then waiting is stupid.”
“Ozzy.” Arrow’s tone sharpens. “You are not going.”
I stare at Salem, at the way she’s watching me like she already knows I’m about to do something reckless. She knows me too well.
I lower my voice. “I’m the closest. I can check it and be back before your team hits the highway.”
“You can get killed before they hit the highway,” Arrow snaps. “Or Salem can. Use your head.”
My jaw clenches. I should listen. I know I should.
But the thought of Arthur Charles’s name sitting in my brain like a loose wire makes me itch.
Salem said it last night with this strange mix of anger and hope and confusion.
If her father is missing, the only thing that makes sense is that he got too close.
The warehouse could be nothing. Or it could be the first real thread.
I don’t say any of that to Arrow. I just say, “I’ll call you back.”
Arrow’s voice goes harder. “Ozzy, do not hang up.”
I hang up. The line goes dead. Silence hits me in the chest like a shove.
Salem steps closer, eyes scanning my face. “What do you think?”
I love how she gets me. She wants to go there as badly as I do. I pour her a cup of coffee and slide it over to her. “We shouldn’t.”
She lifts the mug to her lips with two hands. “We?”
“Well,” I pause. I should tell her to stay.
I should keep her here, tucked away in the warm safehouse where the only danger is reality.
But Salem is not the kind of girl who stays tucked.
Not anymore. And she’s already in this. She’s already carrying the truth of her mother and Carl and her missing father like it’s a backpack full of bricks.
If I leave her behind, she’ll sit here and spiral until she breaks.
If I bring her, I can keep my eyes on her. “Maybe just me.”
Salem sets the mug down carefully. “No, I’m coming.”
“No,” I say automatically.
Her eyes flash. “Yes.”
“Salem, it could be a trap.”
“It could be a clue,” she shoots back.
I scrub a hand over my face. “You don’t have training.”
She points at herself. “I survived being kidnapped. I’m training in real time.” That hits hard.
I exhale slowly. “You stay in the car.”
Salem’s mouth twists like she hates compromise, then she nods. “Fine.” Then she adds, softer, “I’m not staying here alone with my thoughts.”
“Okay,” I say. “We go.”
Her shoulders drop a fraction, relief slipping through.
I move fast after that. Because the longer I stand in this kitchen talking, the colder that lead gets. I grab keys, jacket, my knife roll, my phone. Salem disappears into the bedroom and returns in jeans, sneakers, hoodie. Hair pulled up. Determined look on her face.
“How do we find it?” Salem asks. “Did Arrow tell you where?”
I smirk. “I’ve got a guy on the inside,” I say, already texting Poe for details.
She smiles wide, and the sight of her does something to me. Something primal. I don’t comment on it. If I do, I’ll kiss her, or fuck her. Both are bad ideas right now.
We step outside and the cold hits us like a slap.
Salem inhales sharply. “God.”
“That gets the blood pumping,” I say with a laugh.
She snorts once, a quick burst of humor that’s mostly a defense mechanism. I respect it. I unlock the SUV and open her door. Salem pauses, staring at me like I’m being ridiculous.
“What,” I say.
She lifts a brow. “Are you opening my door?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
Salem climbs in slowly, smiling like she hates how much she likes it. I shut the door, circle to the driver’s side, and get behind the wheel. Engine on. Heat blasting. The safehouse shrinks behind us as we pull onto the road.
Magnolia Ridge sits like a postcard town. Cute storefronts. Breweries. Smiling people who don’t know what it looks like when your whole life turns into a hunting ground.
We don’t head into town.
We skirt it.
Outskirts means industrial edges, empty lots, fields turning brown in the winter, old buildings that got left behind when the world moved on. The sky is pale and sharp. Clouds stretched thin like torn fabric.
Salem sits quiet beside me, eyes fixed on the road ahead. Her knee bounces once, then she forces it still. Her fingers twist in her lap like she’s holding herself together.
I keep both hands on the wheel. I keep my eyes moving. Mirror. Road. Tree line. Side street. I don’t like being out here without backup. I hate that I brought her. I hate more that I had to.
We take a turn onto a cracked service road lined with chain-link fencing. The asphalt is pitted and patched. Weeds poke through like the earth is trying to reclaim it. The further we drive, the quieter it gets. It’s just us and the sound of tires on old pavement.
Salem shifts in her seat. “This feels like a place where bodies get dumped.”
I glance at her. “You need to stop watching true crime.”
“I lived it,” she says, deadpan.
Fair.
The warehouse appears ahead, half hidden by trees and neglect. Big rectangular silhouette. Metal siding stained with rust streaks. Windows boarded in places. A loading dock with a sagging overhang. Graffiti on one side, faded and layered, like people kept coming back to mark their existence.
There’s a wide lot in front, mostly empty. Puddles reflecting the sky. Broken glass glittering near the edges. The kind of place that looks abandoned enough to be invisible.
I slow down and scan the area. It’s eerily empty, and I swear it feels like I’m being watched.
“What are you thinking?” Salem asks.
“I’m not sure.” I park a distance away, behind a line of scraggly pines. Not perfect cover, but better than sitting in the open like a target. “Stay in the car,” I say.
Salem nods, but her eyes follow me like she might jump out the second I move.
I reach across and squeeze her hand once. “Lock the door after me.”
Her throat bobs. “Okay.”
I get out, cold biting my face. The air smells like wet concrete and old oil.
I shut the door softly and crouch low, moving toward the warehouse with my shoulders tight.
Every step echoes in my head. Not loud, but loud enough.
I keep my path along the fence line, using shadow and angle.
I listen for anything. A footstep. A cough.
The scrape of a shoe on gravel. Nothing.
I reach the edge of the lot and stop. My eyes scan the lot.
Still nothing. I move again, closer now.
The warehouse looms like a dead thing. The loading dock has old pallets stacked haphazardly.
A torn tarp flaps slightly. The wind makes it whisper.
A smell hits me near the dock. It’s something chemical.
Cleaning solution. Like someone tried to erase a presence.
My skin prickles. I edge closer and see fresh tire marks in the damp dirt near the dock.
I glance back at the SUV. Salem is still inside, face pressed to the window, watching me like she’s trying not to panic.
I lift a hand, palm down. Stay. Then I move toward the dock door.
It’s locked. But the padlock looks new. Someone’s securing a place that’s supposed to be abandoned.