Chapter 27
Rowan stayed near the window long after the SUV disappeared down the drive.
The kitchen that had felt warm and cozy only minutes ago suddenly seemed too visible. Too open. Like the walls had thinned somehow while she wasn’t paying attention.
Each person in this house carried something that had followed Rowan here.
She wrapped both hands around her coffee mug even though it had long gone cold. “I’m sorry.”
The words came out quietly, but the room heard them.
Caleb looked back first. “Rowan—”
“Don’t.” She shook her head. “We all know this is because of me.”
No one disagreed. That was almost worse.
She looked at the windows again, the knot in her stomach pulling tighter. “I shouldn’t stay here.”
“Don’t you dare.” Naomi’s voice came out sharp, a warning not to argue.
Rowan argued anyway.
“A man with a camera showed up at the gate less than twelve hours after someone shot at Wes and me on a mountain road.” Rowan heard her own voice rising and couldn’t stop it.
“What happens when more reporters show up? What if someone posts a picture online and one of the women here gets recognized because of me?”
“That’s enough.”
The firmness in Wes’s voice stopped her cold. She hadn’t expected it—not from him, not right now—and she turned toward him without thinking.
He crossed the kitchen and stopped in front of her, his voice dropping to something quieter but no less certain.
“You didn’t choose any of this. Neither did they.” His eyes held hers. “That means we figure it out together instead of deciding it’s all yours to carry.”
Something in her chest cracked open at the word together.
She looked away before he could see how much that word affected her.
She hadn’t had someone to help her carry her burdens since . . . well, since she left Virginia. And she hadn’t realized how tiresome walking alone could be.
Her mom appeared at her side and covered Rowan’s hand with hers. “Sweetie, we don’t let family shoulder things alone in this house. Never have, never will. That’s not how you were raised, and we’re not going to start now.”
Emotion rose sharp and sudden in Rowan’s throat.
She pressed her lips together and stared at the window, blinking hard.
Before she could pull herself back together enough to respond, Naomi’s phone buzzed on the counter.
She glanced at the screen. “It’s Micah. Excuse me real quick.”
She answered, murmured a few things, and then turned to everyone. “He has an update he thinks you’ll all want to hear.”
Wes stood near the doorway as Naomi set her phone against the fruit bowl and angled the screen toward the table.
Standing was old habit. He rarely sat with his back to a room.
From here he could see everyone at once, including Rowan, who hadn’t touched her breakfast since the reporter arrived.
Sheriff Sutherland’s expression on the other end was serious enough that the last few murmurs of conversation faded on their own.
“Tell me you’ve got good news,” Caleb said.
Sheriff Sutherland’s cheek twitched as if he were holding back a frown. “Depends how you define good.”
Ruby slid into the chair beside Rowan and leaned slightly toward the screen, close enough to hear. She’d brought the biscuit basket with her and set it in the center of the table without a word, nudging it toward Wes and then toward Naomi in turn.
It was such a small thing. But that was Ruby. She couldn’t sit still in a crisis without finding some way to take care of the people around her.
“We cleared the overlook and most of the ridge before sunrise,” Sheriff Sutherland said. “Didn’t find the shooter.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Wes said.
“Didn’t surprise me either.” Sheriff Sutherland shifted on screen. “No shell casings either.”
Across the table, Rowan’s head came up. “None at all?”
“Not one. Whoever this was, he cleaned up after himself.” Sheriff Sutherland glanced toward Wes through the screen. “That’s not somebody acting on impulse.”
Wes nodded once. He’d already known that.
The controlled positioning, the timing, the tire shot—none of it had felt random.
Vince Furlough had spent a career making sure problems disappeared quietly and without fingerprints. This had that same quality to it.
The man very well could have hired a professional to hit last night.
Or . . . the possibility still remained that this hadn’t been Vince. Instead, maybe the shooting was connected to the Hardings or the Hendersons.
Rowan lowered her gaze back to the table, one hand wrapped tight around her mug.
She still looked as if she were tallying everything up and putting it on her own tab.
Sheriff Sutherland cleared his throat. “Honestly, the shooting troubles me—but it doesn’t feel like it came from the same place as what’s been happening around Refuge Cove. The pattern’s different.”
Rowan’s expression flickered with guilt. Wes recognized the emotion right away. Even when someone handed her a reason not to blame herself, she found a way to hold onto it anyway.
“And there’s something else,” Sheriff Sutherland said.
The table went quiet again.
Wes looked at the screen and waited.
What else could there possibly be?