Chapter 89
JAKE
The hum of monitors fills the storm cellar as Mason rewinds the footage for the third time. Emma will be pissed when she finds out we’re doing this without her, but I finally convinced her to take a nap, and I’m not waking her up.
"There," Luke says, pointing at the screen. "Three twelve. That's when he enters the frame."
I lean closer, watching the masked figure move through the Circle H property with professional efficiency. Dark clothing, gloves, face completely obscured. He knows where the cameras are—moves just outside their optimal range, keeps his head down, his gait controlled.
"Professional," Mason mutters. "Look at the way he's carrying the accelerant. Two containers, balanced. He's done this before."
"Or he's smart enough to plan it properly." I scrub a hand over my face, frustration coiling tight in my chest. "Can we get anything? Height? Build? Gait analysis?"
Mason shakes his head. "Five-ten to six feet. Average build. Not Turner. The clothing is generic—jeans, dark jacket, work boots. Nothing distinctive."
Luke leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "The setup is textbook. Multiple ignition points, accelerant spread for maximum damage, timing designed to ensure total loss before fire department arrival. This wasn't some drunk asshole with a grudge and a gas can."
"It was Turner," I say flatly.
"We know that." Mason's voice is calm, methodical. "But knowing and proving are two different things."
I watch the footage again—the figure moving through Emma's property, destroying her home, her father's legacy. I see that look in her eyes again, and my hands curl into fists.
"Law enforcement won't move on this," Luke says. "Reasonable doubt. No face, no voice, no definitive identification. Garrett would need more."
"Then we don't wait for law enforcement." My voice is cold, controlled. "We handle it ourselves."
Mason meets my gaze. "Agreed. But we need to be smart. Turner's not Eli. He's crafty. We move on him, we do it clean, without repercussions."
I nod, already running scenarios. Timing. Location. Disposal.
The faint sound of tires on gravel cuts through my thoughts.
All three of us freeze. Shadow barks once from the stable.
"Expecting someone?" Luke reaches to pull up the exterior feeds as Mason reaches for his rifle.
“No.” Emma’s secure in the house, but I’m not taking any chances. I lean over Luke’s shoulder, looking at the screen.
The deputy’s cruiser is parked in front of the main house, and Harper Garrett is getting out.
“Officer Hot Stuff,” Luke says with a purr.
"Fuck," Mason mutters.
I watch Deputy Garrett look around, her movements brisk, her expression grim. She's not here for a social call.