Chapter 10
The phone call came at two-seventeen in the morning.
Joe was still awake, had been for hours, watching security footage on a loop and cross-referencing rental car registrations. When his secure line buzzed, the one only three people had the number to, he knew before he answered that the news wouldn't be good.
"Talk to me," he said, voice low so he wouldn't wake the house.
"Your girl's got a shadow." The voice on the other end belonged to Johan Vance, former Marine intelligence, current private security consultant, and one of the few people Joe trusted with his life.
"PI out of Dallas named Dan Harris. Former cop, went private about five years ago.
Clean record, but he works for whoever pays best. No moral compass to speak of. "
Joe's jaw tightened. "Who hired him?"
"That's where it gets interesting. Money trail goes through two shell companies before it dead-ends at a law firm in Manhattan. Russo and Associates."
The name hit Joe like a fist. He'd done his research on Olivia Langford's story, knew exactly who Damian Russo was and what kind of people he associated with.
"How close is Harris?"
"He checked into your ranch yesterday afternoon under the name William Hendricks. Driving a black Chrysler 300, Texas plates. Rental out of Austin."
Joe pulled up the guest registry on his laptop. There it was. William Hendricks. Booked for three nights. Room seven.
Son of a bitch was sleeping under their roof.
"Johan, I need everything you can get me on Harris. Work history, known associates, weak spots."
"Already on it. I'll send what I have by sunrise." A pause. "Joe? These people don't hire guys like Harris to have conversations. Whatever they want with your girl, it isn’t going to end with a polite chat over coffee."
"I know."
"Watch your six, brother."
The line went dead.
Joe sat in the dark office for a long moment, staring at the guest registry. Then he picked up his phone and sent a group text to his brothers.
Office. 5 a.m. Before the guests wake up.
Mike was already on his second cup of coffee when Lyle and Kenny arrived, both looking like they'd slept about as well as he had. Which was to say, not at all.
Joe had the security footage queued up on the big monitor, Dan Harris's face frozen mid-step as he crossed the parking area.
"That's our guy," Joe said without preamble. "Dan Harris. Private investigator out of Dallas. He's in room seven under a fake name, and he's being paid by people connected to Damian Russo."
The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.
"The man Liv saw commit murder," Lyle said quietly.
"The same." Joe clicked through more footage. "Harris has been here less than twenty-four hours and he's already photographed the property, asked questions about our staff, and made a point of getting close to Liv during dinner service."
Mike's hands fisted against his thighs. "Damn it. I saw him talking to her. I should have followed my instinct and intervened. We need to get him out of here. Now."
"And tip our hand?" Kenny's voice was flat, tactical. "He already suspects we're protecting her. We kick him out, we confirm it. Right now, he’s obviously not a hundred percent sure that Liv’s his mark. Otherwise he’d be out of here."
"So what? We just let him stay here and gather intel?"
"We watch him," Joe said. "We know who he is now. That gives us the advantage. And we find out what he knows and who else he's talked to."
"I don't like it," Mike said.
"Neither do I," Lyle agreed. "But Kenny's right. We need information before we make a move."
Mike scrubbed both hands over his face. Every instinct he had was screaming to throw Harris off the property and stand between him and Liv with every weapon he could get his hands on.
But tactics and instinct were two different things. And right now, tactics meant staying smart.
Liv was already in the kitchen when the sun started painting the sky pink and gold. She'd woken from another nightmare. Damian Russo's face, the gunshot, blood on marble floors. She finally decided that if she couldn't sleep, she might as well bake.
The familiar rhythm of measuring and mixing helped settle her nerves. Flour, butter, ice water. Fold and roll. Fold and roll. Her grandmother's pie crust recipe, the one thing Olivia Langford had carried with her from her old life that still felt pure.
She was crimping the edges of her third crust when Charlotte appeared in the doorway, pajamas askew, lamb tucked under one arm, hair sticking up in about seven different directions.
"You're up early," Liv said, smiling despite everything.
"I heard the mixer." Charlotte climbed onto the stool beside her. "Are you making pie?"
"I am. Want to help?"
Charlotte's face lit up like Christmas morning. "Really? Aunt Heather never lets me help with pie. She says I eat all the filling before it makes it to the crust."
"Well, I won't tell if you won't."
For the next hour, they worked side by side. Liv showed Charlotte how to roll dough and how to crimp edges with a fork. “Gentle hands, like you're petting a puppy,” she coached. Charlotte's tongue stuck out in concentration, her small hands surprisingly steady.
"Miss Liv?" Charlotte asked, pressing her fork carefully along the edge of her mini pie. "Are you sad?"
Liv's hands stilled. "What makes you think I'm sad?"
"You get this look sometimes. Like you're remembering something that hurts." Charlotte looked up at her with those too-wise six-year-old eyes. "My mama used to get that look sometimes. Before she went to Heaven."
Liv's throat closed.
"I do get sad sometimes," Liv admitted. "I'm remembering things I wish I could forget."
Charlotte nodded solemnly. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a smooth, gray stone about the size of a quarter. It caught the morning light and glinted with tiny flecks of mica.
"This is for you," Charlotte said, pressing it into Liv's flour-dusted palm. "It's my special rock. The shiny one from the creek. Uncle Kenny says it’s called a mica stone and makes things stronger. So maybe it'll make you stronger too."
Liv stared down at the rock, vision blurring with tears she couldn't quite blink back. "Charlotte, I can't take your special rock."
"You should keep it for a while." Charlotte's voice was certain. "'Cause sometimes rocks help. That's just science."
Liv pulled the little girl into a hug, holding on maybe a little too tight. "Thank you, sweetie. I'll keep it safe."
"Good. And if you get really scared, you can hold it and think about me. That way you won't feel alone."
The back door opened and Harris walked in, all false smiles and new boots that squeaked against the tile.
Liv's entire body went rigid.
"Morning," Harris said, helping himself to coffee like he owned the place. "Something smells amazing."
Charlotte looked up from her pie, studied him with the blunt assessment only children could get away with, and announced, "Miss Liv makes the best cookies in the whole world. You should try one before you get all nosy about her business."
Harris blinked, caught off guard. "I'm sorry?"
Charlotte continued, utterly unbothered. "Aunt Heather says people who ask too many questions are either real interested or real nosy. So I figured you should try a cookie first. They're real good. Might improve your manners."
Liv bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing despite her fear. Harris's smile had gone tight around the edges.
"That's... very thoughtful of you," he said.
"I'm a thoughtful person." Charlotte returned to her pie like she hadn't just put a grown man in his place. "Miss Liv, can I put jam in mine? The strawberry kind?"
"Of course, sweetie."
Harris lingered by the coffee station, clearly trying to figure out how to recover from being called out by a first-grader. Liv kept her hands busy with pie dough and didn't meet his eyes.
"So," Harris tried again, "You from around here originally?"
Charlotte's head popped up. "Why do you care?"
"Charlotte," Liv said gently. "It's okay."
"But he's being nosy again," Charlotte protested. "And Uncle Joe says we don’t like nosy people."
Out of the mouths of babes.
The kitchen door swung open and Mike walked in, took one look at the tableau, Liv pale and tense, Harris hovering, Charlotte standing guard like a tiny, fierce sentinel, and his expression went carefully neutral.
"Mr. Hendricks," he said smoothly, knowing full well that wasn’t man’s name. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to plant his fist in the guy’s face and knock out those too-perfect teeth. "I thought I heard voices. You sleep well?"
"Fine, thanks." Harris set down his coffee mug. "I was just complimenting the chef on her excellent pastries."
"Mm-hmm." Mike moved to stand beside Liv, close enough to be protective without being obvious.
Hell, who was he kidding? He was marking his territory like an arrogant wolf.
"She’s talented, that's for sure. We're lucky to have her.
" He turned to Charlotte. "Squirt, why don't you run and get cleaned up and dressed? I’m pretty sure you’ve got puppies to tend to. "
"But my pie—"
"I'll put it in the oven for you," Liv promised. "Go on."
Charlotte went, but not before shooting Harris one more suspicious look that would've done Kenny proud.
Once she was gone, Mike’s smile stayed fixed but his eyes went hard. "Was there something specific you needed, Mr. Hendricks? Kitchen doesn't usually open for guest access until breakfast service starts at seven."
"Just getting an early start on the day." Harris's own smile was just as false. "Didn't mean to intrude."
"Of course not." Mike held the door open. "Breakfast will be ready in about forty-five minutes. Feel free to enjoy the porch in the meantime."
It wasn't quite a dismissal, but it was close enough that Harris got the message. He nodded to them and left, boots still squeaking.
The second the door closed behind him, Liv's knees almost gave out. She gripped the edge of the counter, pulling in air that felt too thin.