Chapter 17
Rowan sat cross-legged on the clean kennel floor, and six puppies invaded her lap. They were all warm, squirming, and impossibly soft.
Their mama, Juno, appeared to be a chocolate lab. She’d heard her cousin Hadley would be adopting Juno after the puppies found homes—once they were a little older, of course.
The puppies were all brown with patches of white scattered across their faces and paws in no particular pattern. One had a white smudge across its nose that made it look perpetually surprised. Another claimed her knee as a napping spot and fell asleep, twitching every so often.
“That one’s Quirkle, and he’s the runt—and he’s also the troublemaker of the group,” Max Kincaid said from his spot near the wall, nodding toward the puppy currently attempting to chew through her shoelace.
“Naturally, he’s my favorite.” Rowan scooped him up and held him against her chest. He immediately tried to nibble on her chin. “Hi. Yes, I see you.”
Max watched from the other side of Juno’s kennel door, his posture relaxed. He hadn’t made a single comment about her movies or asked for a photo, which elevated him considerably in her estimation.
The puppy on her knee startled awake, looked around with enormous unfocused eyes, and went back to sleep.
Rowan laughed—a real one, the kind that came without thinking. She couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.
The tension in her shoulders eased in a way that nothing else in the past several days had managed. Not the long drive, not the mountains, not even sitting at the kitchen table with Naomi and Grace.
Something about a sleeping puppy refused to coexist with dread.
The kennel door opened, and Rowan looked up as Wes stepped inside.
He had something in his hand—a padded envelope, rigid and flat, roughly the size of a sheet of paper.
He paused beside her and held it out, his expression neutral. “This just came for you.”
Rowan looked at it.
The words on the front were written block style with a thick black marker. No return address. Los Angeles postmark.
She forced herself to keep her expression neutral as she took the envelope. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
Even after she took that package, Wes stayed where he was. His eyes traveled over her face, studying her like he always did.
Then he took a few steps back. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Later,” she murmured absently.
When he was gone, Rowan looked down at the envelope in her hands again.
She couldn’t open it here. Not in front of anyone. Not where her face would be visible to someone who might ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer.
She set the puppies gently aside and rose to her feet. The troublemaker redirected his attention to her vacated spot on the floor.
She thanked Max for letting her play with the puppies.
“Anytime . . .”
She forced a smile that she suspected didn’t reach her eyes, tucked the envelope against her side, and walked out of the kennel.
Then she headed for the house, and the stairs, and the privacy of her room.
Whatever was inside that envelope, she needed to face it alone.
Rowan closed the door behind her and stood with her back against it, the envelope in her hands.
Her room was quiet. Afternoon light stretched across the bed, warm and ordinary . . . and completely indifferent to what she was holding.
Her knees felt weak, and she wobbled. She sat on the edge of the bed and turned the envelope over. The handwriting on the front was neat and controlled—and generic.
Her thumbnail slid under the flap, and the contents slid out into her lap.
Inside was a single photograph. She picked it up.
The black-and-white image was a still frame pulled from security footage. The quality was degraded, washed out in some places and too sharp in others.
But she recognized the room immediately.
It was Vince’s production office.
And there she was.
On her knees on the floor, leaning over Thayer’s body. Her hand was pressed to his neck where she’d checked for a pulse. From this angle, at this quality, with no context, it looked like something else entirely.
It looked like exactly what Vince needed it to look like.
Like Rowan might have hurt him herself.
Rowan stared at the image, her thoughts racing.
Vince knew where she was.
He hadn’t sent this photo to the police. He hadn’t sent it to the press.
He’d sent it here—to her family’s address, to the place she’d run to, the place she’d believed she had some measure of safety.
He’d found her within days of her leaving California, and he wanted her to know it.
She’d told herself that coming here was the right move. That she needed time to think, to find solid ground before she decided what to do next. She’d told herself that distance would help.
What she hadn’t considered was that distance worked both ways—and that Vince, unlike her, had used his to get organized.
She stood and walked to the window again.
Wes was still below, moving along the far side of the kennel. Remington ranged a few feet ahead of him.
This had just gone to a different level. Rowan now understood that with a clarity she hadn’t had before.
Vince wasn’t waiting for her to make a move. He’d already made his—and he was making it from a position of considerably more strategic calculation than she was ready for.
She needed to think. She needed to be smart, and careful, and several steps ahead of a man who had spent his entire career being exactly those things.
She turned from the window.
Then, before she could stop herself, she picked up the photograph again and looked at it one more time. Her eyes fixed on Thayer. On the stillness of him. On the way he was positioned, just slightly wrong.
Nausea pooled in her gut, so she set it face down on the dresser.
Do the right thing. Even when it costs something.
She pressed her fingers flat against the back of the photograph.
Maybe doing the right thing meant not staying here. What if she was putting everyone in danger? Especially since Vince knew she was here.
How far would he go?
Or maybe that’s what he wanted. Maybe he wanted to drive her away, all so he could enact the next part of whatever plan he’d come up with.
Then she straightened. She shoved the picture between her mattress and boxspring, where no one would find it.
Then she squared her shoulders and walked downstairs.