Chapter Thirteen
Ethan didn’t go to any motel. He’d never booked one anyway. That was just a cover.
He let the lie sit where it landed and took the long way out of town—headlights off, gravel crunching beneath the tires like bone. No radio. Just engine and breath and the low thrum of old ghosts coming out to walk the roads with him.
The James place in the rearview. The hollows of Calhoun County laid out ahead, dark and strange and too damn familiar.
Before he peeled off, he’d quickly changed in the truck.
He’d swapped the sweats for jeans and a plain black tee, threw on the field jacket that still smelled faintly like diesel and pine.
No armor, but close. The kind of thing a man could blend into shadows in, or stand toe to toe with trouble. Tonight might call for both.
He took the back roads slow.
Every mile pulled something forward he hadn’t wanted to feel.
Kaleb’s funeral.
Kolt’s confession.
Lainey’s warning.
And now Amara. Back on that farm, running herself raw, fielding problems like a one-woman army.
The south line marked with new flags. The bin pad smelling like something more than soybeans.
A mother smiling too bright, trying to be polite to people who’d sell her soul if it came bundled with land access.
Something was wrong. Not maybe. Not could be.
Wrong.
He’d seen this before. Different country, different stakes, same damn smell. Power sniffing at vulnerability like blood in the water. Men in polished boots making quiet offers. Friendly papers signed over coffee. Land flipped behind closed doors. Dead men buried shallow.
And the woman he left behind standing dead center of it all.
He gripped the wheel tighter. Callus on a thumb that hadn’t healed in years.
The ridge road curved up past the old church where he’d thrown a punch at seventeen for her honor.
Past the diner where Georgianna used to leave out biscuits for “that Kane boy.” Past the VFW where they’d sent off too many kids in boots.
Ten years in New York hadn’t dulled the instincts. It had just taught him how much evil wore suits.
And something here? It stank like a deal made two towns over and six feet under.
Kolt said Wooldridge wanted out. Said he was scared. That the clinics weren’t clean. That vets were dying.
And now the James land—Amara’s land—was suddenly interesting?
No fucking way that’s coincidence.
He pulled off at the overlook. Shut the truck down. Let the night wrap around him, thick and private.
This wasn’t just about a girl anymore.
Wasn’t even about the past.
This was about power. Land. Greed. A good town going to rot while the people in charge smiled wide for church directories and plotted the selloff behind closed doors.
And he knew this game. Had played it on worse fields. Knew how it worked, how the pressure came in slow, legal, polite. Knew how to make it hurt when the time came.
You don’t walk away from this one, he told himself.
Not when Kaleb’s in the ground.
Not when Amara’s sleeping with a pistol in the drawer.
Not when something in this town is killing its own.
He sat in the dark a little longer, engine cooling beside him, heat bleeding off like old rage.
Then he keyed the ignition again, turned the truck back toward the ridge, and made a quiet decision.
If someone wanted to play dirty in Calhoun County…
They’d have to go through him first.
The subdivision that rose just past the old high school had been farmland once.
Houston bought in ten years ago, right when he made Assistant DA and decided to plant some roots.
The house was a clean two-story brick job—well lit, well maintained, front yard still sharp with the scent of recent-cut grass.
The porch light burned steady. A lawyer’s house. Respectable. Safe.
Except Ethan didn’t believe in safe. Not anymore.
And not with a blue Lexus sitting pretty beside Houston’s black Silverado.
He eased the truck to the curb, killed the engine, and sat for a minute, engine ticking down. This one was sleek, low to the ground, still glinting faintly from a recent wash.
Ethan stepped out into the hush of midnight, his boots soundless on the asphalt. No skulking. No creeping like he didn’t belong. If someone looked out, they’d see a man standing tall and taking stock.
He moved to the Lexus, crouched once, casual as breath, and noted the plate number. Snapped a photo with no flash, then typed it into the notes app under a heading that now included Wilcox Clinic // Ridge Interests // Houston’s Visitors. The list was growing.
He rose, hands in pockets. Eyes scanning.
He wasn’t looking for signs of guilt.
He was looking for patterns.
Houston had called him into this mess. Said something didn’t smell right—too many dead men, too many strings connecting to nowhere. He’d sworn up and down that Calhoun was bleeding slow, and no one but Ethan could suture it shut.
But now?
Now even Houston wasn’t above suspicion. No one was.
Ethan didn’t knock soft.
Three solid raps. Measured. The kind of knock that said I know you’re in there, and I’m not going away.
The porch light clicked on. Curtains shifted. Behind the frosted glass, he saw movement—first hesitation, then a shadow crossing the entryway. The door opened a crack, chain still on.
“Ethan,” Houston said. Not a question. Not a greeting. Just the sound of a man halfway into a bottle and halfway into trouble.
“Houston.” Ethan kept his voice even. “Need a minute.”
A pause. The chain slid back. The door opened wide.
Houston didn’t look like a man ready for company. His collar was skewed, cheeks blotchy with drink. There was a red flush high on his cheekbone—halfway to a bruise. His hair looked like someone had run a frustrated hand through it one too many times.
Inside, a TV muttered low. A woman laughed, too sharp and too close.
Houston stared at Ethan another beat. Whatever passed between them in that silence, it burned.
Then he stepped back. “Get in.”
Ethan entered slow. Clean jeans, black T-shirt under his waxed field jacket.
Boots still dusty from the ridge. He didn’t offer thanks.
Didn’t smile. Eyes swept once over the room—half-full tumbler on the table, a second glass lip-sticked and untouched, the scent of expensive perfume in the air. Couch pillows dented.
Not alone, Ethan thought. And not relaxed.
Houston led him to the kitchen. “What can I do for you?” he asked, as if the answer might change something.
Ethan didn’t answer right away. He tracked every detail—slight limp, a scabbed knuckle, the off-kilter tension in the man’s spine. Not drunk. But not clean either. And hiding something.
At the island, Houston opened the fridge, grabbed a Shiner Bock, popped the cap without asking. “Still cold,” he said, sliding it across.
Ethan caught it. “Appreciate it.”
That’s when she walked in.
Raven hair, porcelain skin, blue eyes like high-beam headlights. Maybe thirty, maybe younger. Barefoot, in tailored black slacks and a silk blouse, sleeves pushed up. She paused in the doorway when she saw Ethan—no flinch, no retreat. Just a long, curious once-over.
“Well, this must be Ethan,” she said, voice smooth as Tennessee cream. “The PI with opinions.”
Houston coughed. “Ethan Kane, this is Juniper.”
“Juniper Hollis,” she added, sliding up beside Houston and threading her arm through his. Then, with a wink toward Ethan, “Fiancée, isn’t it?”
Houston’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”
Ethan nodded, slow. “Hollis like—”
“Yep.” Juniper’s smile turned sharp. “Born and branded. My father is the King of Bourbon County.”
“Hollis Whiskey,” Ethan said, watching her reaction. “Didn’t know Thetus had a daughter still around.”
Juniper’s laugh was low and wry. “Most days he forgets, too.”
Ethan logged it. Noted the way her eyes didn’t quite match the smile. Something cracked behind that bright, polished veneer.
“You work for the family business?” he asked, voice neutral.
“Senior VP, Public Affairs,” she replied, with that same grin that meant everything and nothing. “II get to lie for a living.”
Houston shifted beside her, subtle but telling. “Well,” Ethan said, lifting his beer, “here’s to family.”
Juniper raised her glass, but Houston just turned away.
“I won’t stay long,” Ethan said, finally returning to Houston. “I just need a few things cleared up.”
A beat. Houston sighed, scrubbed his face, then looked at Juniper. “Give us a minute?”
Her eyes lingered on Ethan like she didn’t quite trust him, but she nodded. “Try not to break anything.”
When she was gone, Ethan waited. Let the silence stretch.
Finally, Houston said, “What’s up?”
Ethan leaned against the counter, arms crossed, beer untouched. Eyes fixed on Houston.
“You called me into this,” he said, voice low but sharp. “Not the other way around. So don’t get cagey now. Download what you know. All of it.”
Houston took a sip from his tumbler, jaw tight. “I have.”
“Really?” Ethan cocked a brow. “Because I’ve been in town less than forty-eight hours, and already heard there’s something going on with the James property.”
That hit.
Houston’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth. His jaw ticked once, hard.
Ethan clocked it. Pressed. “You know something. Lainey hinted as much. Farmhands, too. You said this was about Kaleb Wooldridge, about the suicides—but you’re leaving pieces off the board.”
Houston set the glass down, spine straightening. “Amara James. Is that what this is really about?”
Ethan didn’t flinch. “Don’t turn this personal.”
“Hell, it is personal,” Houston snapped, voice rising. “You blew back into this town like a damn thunderclap, and the first place you go is the James farm. You got history there, Ethan. Don’t pretend it doesn’t color the way you’re seeing this.”
Ethan stepped forward, slow. “I’m here because something smells wrong. That doesn’t change just because it’s her land. If you know something about why her family’s property’s in the crosshairs, now’s the time to stop holding back.”
“You’re chasing the wrong thread,” Houston said, cold now.
“I didn’t call you here to poke around the ridge or ask about real estate.
I called you because Kaleb Wooldridge’s death doesn’t sit right.
And neither does James Lattimer’s. Or Duncan Fife’s.
All ruled suicides. All former Corps. All connected, somehow. ”
Ethan stilled. “So say it plain. What do you want from me?”
“I want to know if Wooldridge really pulled that trigger.” Houston’s voice dropped to a hush. “Or if someone put him in that truck and staged the whole damn thing. Because the cops? They’re not asking those questions. They don’t want to.”
“And you do.”
“Damn right I do.” Houston ran a hand down his face. “Kaleb was a friend. He called me three days before he died, said he didn’t feel safe. Said someone was watching him. Next thing I know, he’s dead and it’s ruled clean.”
“And you’re thinking murder.”
“I’m thinking pressure.” Houston’s eyes locked on his. “I’m thinking somebody leaned on him hard. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why. That’s what you’re here to find out.”
Ethan didn’t respond right away. He stepped back, grabbed the beer bottle, rolled it between his hands, thinking.
“You sure those threads don’t run through the James place?” he asked, too quiet.
Houston’s mouth flattened. “I’m telling you, you’re wasting time. I need you focused.”
Ethan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I am focused. On the truth. All of it. Even the parts you don’t want found.”
Houston’s jaw tightened again. “You think I’m hiding something?”
“I think everyone in this town is.” Ethan set the bottle down with a thunk. “And I think Thetus Hollis has dirt on just about everybody. Including Sarge. And if you want me to dig? Then you don’t get to tell me where the shovel goes.”
“Then you do what you came here to do.”
Ethan nodded once, final. “Fine.”
He turned, left the beer untouched, and walked out into the dark. The engine of his truck growled awake. If the James place was the key, he’d fucking find the lock.