Chapter 21 Hawk
HAWK
The Bellamy land looks different in daylight. The same endless hills and fences, but after what Reyes pulled, the whole place feels like it’s holding its breath.
I lean against my truck, phone in hand, staring at the coordinates he sent. The numbers stare back like a dare.
I should drive out there right now and torch it, but my gut still says don’t go alone.
I need to call Falcon, but I punch in Robin’s number instead. I still want to know what she found out from her research. Again, though, it goes to voicemail.
“Hey, Robbie,” I say. “Call me back as soon as you can.”
Now, for some help. Falcon’s my best shot at backup, even if I have to feed him a line.
I hit call. It rings twice before his gravel-rough voice answers. “You alive?”
“Barely.”
“That’s my line.” He yawns. “What’s going on? You sound like you’re about to ask me to help bury a body.”
“Nothing like that,” I say, hoping I’m not lying. “I just need your eyes on something. A spot on the property I’m thinking of using. Might build a guesthouse or something down the line.”
He pauses. “Since when are you into hospitality?”
“Since I started needing distractions.”
Damn, the lies are coming too easily.
It’s always the same. Once you cross the line, every next cross gets easier. I don’t like it. Yet I continue.
He snorts. “Uh-huh. Where is it?”
“I’ll text you the coordinates. Meet me there?”
“Sure thing. But you owe me lunch. I want ribs.”
“Deal.”
He hangs up before I can think too hard about it.
An hour later, Falcon’s truck kicks up dust behind me as we drive between patches of dead grass and wild sage.
The old barn appears like an afterthought. It looks different in the daylight. Less spooky and more forlorn. Sunlight catches on something pale along the ground, and for a moment I think it’s bones.
I shake my head to clear it.
Falcon pulls up beside me and rolls down his window. “You’re kidding,” he says, leaning out. “You dragged me all the way out here for this?”
I shut off my engine. “What, you don’t like my architectural vision?”
He furrows his brow. “It’s a ruin.”
I shrug. “Which makes it private.”
He climbs out, stretching, his prison knuckle tattoos catching the light. “Private and haunted, maybe.” He takes a few steps forward and stops short. “Wait a second. I’ve been here.”
My pulse jumps. “When?”
He squints, hands on his hips. “Before I went to prison. Maybe a month before. I came across it while riding. Thought it’d be a good place to camp out or get some thinking done without people breathing down my neck. Dad caught wind of it somehow and told me to stay away.”
“Why?”
“Said the old buildings on the property weren’t safe. Could collapse any time.”
I glance at the barn. Yeah, it’s sagging, but it’s not near collapse. “That didn’t seem to bother him about any of the others.”
Falcon shrugs. “Guess not.”
“Did he ever come out here?”
“Not that I saw. But…” He gestures around us. “You see those?”
At first, I don’t. Then the breeze shifts, and I catch the pale shapes around the foundation—delicate flowers blooming.
I crouch to look closer. “Moonflowers,” I murmur.
Falcon arches an eyebrow. “You know plants now?”
“App.” I hold up my phone and take a photo. The identification screen glows bright against the dirt. “They only bloom at night. Used to grow all over the southern fence line, back when Grandma was alive. She said they reminded her of home.”
They remind me of Daniela. Beautiful and soft, but dangerous if you pick too many.
Well, only the Devil’s Trumpet moonflower is dangerous. These are morning glories that only look like dangerous moonflowers.
Still…
I swallow hard. I should’ve called Daniela last night. I should’ve gone back.
Falcon kicks at a patch of gravel. “Are you going to stand there all day getting poetic, or do you want to see what’s inside?”
I gesture inside. “After you.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not your canary.”
But he goes first anyway. I knew he would. He’s always been the quintessential big brother. The protector to my fixer.
The door groans when we push it open. Inside, the air is thick with dust and the scent of rot. Shafts of light cut through gaps in the roof, catching on cobwebs.
“Watch your step,” Falcon mutters. “Floorboards look soft.”
He’s right. The boards bow under our weight, but they hold.
I sweep my flashlight over the space. Nothing jumps out. No drug paraphernalia. No bloodstains. Just emptiness.
“What’s this?” I ask, nodding toward the corner.
Falcon joins me. “Old fencing. Probably from when they expanded the north paddock.”
“Then why drag it all the way out here?”
He scratches the side of his head. “Because Dad was weird about storage?”
I grunt, unconvinced.
We circle the perimeter, my eyes peeled for anything that justifies Reyes’s interest. There’s an old table, a broken chair, a coil of rope hardened with age. Nothing that screams burn this to the ground.
Falcon leans against the doorframe, watching me. “You want to tell me what this is really about?”
“What do you mean?”
He smirks. “You’ve never cared about ‘guesthouses.’”
I swallow. “I’m branching out.”
“Bullshit.”
I meet his stare. “Drop it.”
He holds my gaze for a moment but then nods once. “Fine. But whatever this is, make sure it doesn’t bite you in the ass.”
Too late.
I glance around again, every instinct prickling. There’s something wrong about this place, something under the surface. Maybe Dad’s warning about structural integrity was just a convenient lie, a way to keep us out of here.
I file the thought away. “By the way,” I say, forcing a casual tone, “you still have that team keeping an eye on Dad?”
Falcon’s attention sharpens. “Of course. I guess you haven’t visited him at the hospital lately.”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because the guard is still there, and he’s still checking IDs.”
I resist my eyeroll. IDs. Everyone knows we’re family. But whatever.
“Why do you ask?” He wipes sweat off his forehead with a bandana.
“Add Eagle to the list.”
Falcon frowns. “He has security.”
“I want the whole shebang,” I say. “Like Dad.”
Falcon raises his eyebrows, but he doesn’t press me further. “Okay.” He kicks the dirt. “You think something’s going on?”
I shrug. “Just being cautious.”
He seems to buy it, though his gaze stays on me a little too long.
We step back into the light. The moonflowers sway around us, white petals shimmering like ghosts in daylight.
Falcon whistles low. “They’re beautiful,” he says.
“Yeah.” I pull out my phone, snapping pictures from every angle—inside, outside, the whole structure. My mind’s already racing. If Vega’s “death” was an AI-manipulated photo, maybe I can “burn” this building the same way. Then I’ll have time to really get things checked out.
I’ll send him proof the barn’s gone without ever striking a match.
Falcon heads toward his truck.
“Thanks for coming out,” I say.
He waves it off. “Next time, bring beer.”
When he’s gone, I linger. The wind hums low through the cracks, and for a heartbeat I swear I hear something beneath it—a whisper, almost, like breath through hollow wood.
I shake it off.
I take a few more shots, making sure to get the roofline, the flower ring, the boards. Enough for the AI software to do its job. Then I head home.
By the time I get back to my place, it’s past noon. My coffee’s gone cold, and the adrenaline’s long since turned sour. I load the pictures onto my computer and pull up the AI render tool I use for graphics mockups.
“Let’s see what you can do,” I mutter.
The program’s interface is slick—drag, drop, prompt. I feed it a description: wooden barn engulfed in flames, collapsing structure, night sky, smoke and embers.
The preview loads slowly, pixel by pixel, until the image burns to life—so convincing it makes my chest tighten.
I generate two more variations, one mid-blaze and one showing only smoldering ash. I save them, adjust the metadata so it looks like a phone shot, and attach them to a text message on the burner phone that says simply—
Done.
I let my finger hover over the send button for a minute.
Another.
One more.
Then I hit it.
It’s only after I close the laptop that I let myself breathe. The satisfaction doesn’t last long.
If the picture of Vega was AI, and now this is too… We’re all just lying to each other with prettier tools. The whole world is smoke and mirrors.
I pull out my phone again and scroll through my contacts until I hit a name I haven’t used in a while—Jack Masters, PI. He’s a former cop, and he excels at finding what people don’t want found.
He answers on the second ring. “Bellamy? Damn, haven’t heard from you since you wanted dirt on that land developer.”
“This is different,” I say. “Are you available?”
“For you? Always. What do you need?”
“A property sweep. An abandoned barn on Bellamy land. Coordinates incoming. Don’t advertise who hired you.”
“Got it. You expecting trouble?”
“Just the truth.”
He grunts. “I’ll head out first thing in the morning.”
“Tonight,” I say. “I’ll pay extra.”
“Copy that.”
I send him the coordinates, close the call, and sink back in my chair. My reflection in the dark laptop screen looks nothing like me.
If Jack finds nothing, I’ll torch the place for real. Reyes will have his ashes, and I’ll have one less secret weighing me down.
But deep down, I already know that barn isn’t just an old building.
It’s a grave.
I just don’t know whose yet.