Chapter 42
Bridlepath Farm
Back at Bridlepath Farm after the gala, the farmhouse sat quiet beneath the moonlight, the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains stretching dark and endless beyond the pastures. After the noise, champagne, and hollow glamour of the lodge, the stillness of the farm felt like another world entirely.
Before Burke and Caitlin headed to their own place, Burke walked over to Grant’s old mahogany stereo. He flipped through the stack of vinyl until he found what he was looking for.
The needle dropped with a soft, rhythmic scratch, and the soulful, velvet voice of Al Green filled the living room. “Let’s Stay Together” drifted through the house, warm and honeyed.
When the front door finally clicked shut behind Burke and Caitlin, the gulf between Grant and Izzy felt massive.
“The guy on the terrace tonight,” Grant said, breaking the quiet. He wasn’t snarling or snapping. He sounded tired. Sincere. “He was Varga. Florida cartel.”
Izzy, who was unpinning her hair, stopped.
“If I hadn’t stepped out there, Izzy, I don’t know what his play was,” Grant continued, looking at the floor.
“You have to stay on guard. They’ve got you in their sights now.
Maybe they think you know something, or maybe they’re being cautious because you’re close to Cal, but it scared me.
I’ve spent a lot of time looking for ghosts, but those men are very real. ”
Izzy watched him for a long moment, the moonlight catching the midnight blue of her dress. “I didn’t know you could dance like that,” she said softly.
The record finished, and the automatic arm of the stereo lifted. A new disc dropped onto the platter—Otis Redding, slow and mournful. The horns kicked in, low and steady.
Grant didn’t say a word. He held out his hand.
Izzy took it.
This time, there was no rough collision, no marking of territory.
He pulled her close, one hand resting gently at the small of her back, the other cradling her hand against him.
As she leaned in, the faint, sophisticated scent of her perfume—something like warm vanilla and dark plum—clouded his senses, a stark, sharp contrast to the familiar cedar and damp mountain air clinging to his own shirt.
They moved in the dim light of the living room, a slow, swaying shadow.
For a few minutes, there was no cartel, no Hollis, no “Clara Vale.” Just the music, her scent, and the way she fit perfectly against him.
She pulled back an inch, her eyes searching his, a slight moment of connection that felt more dangerous than any warehouse raid. Then, she cleared her throat softly.
“I should go to bed,” she whispered. “It’s been a long night.”
Grant let her go. He watched her walk up the stairs, the blue silk disappearing into the darkness of the landing.
He sat down in the dark, the Otis Redding track fading out. He felt like a fool. He’d spent so much time convinced he was turning into Sam Talley—the man who lost his mind over a woman and never recovered—that he’d pushed her straight into Cal’s arms.
Thinking about it now, it felt embarrassing. He wasn’t Sam Talley. He was a man who knew how to survive, who knew how to keep living even when the mountain tried to break him. He wasn’t going to stop breathing because of a memory.
But as he stared at the empty staircase, the image of her in the library returned. The way she’d leaned into Cal. The way her arms had locked behind his neck. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the regret tasting like copper in his mouth.
He’d finally gotten his head out of his butt, in time to realize the door might already be locked.
* * *
Jackson County Sheriff’s Office
Sunday morning had hollowed out the station.
Burke sat at his desk in a wrinkled uniform shirt, the night still written across his face. The small glass vial sat sealed in an evidence bag at the corner.
The lobby door buzzed.
Tessa Quinn stepped inside, composed, all business. She crossed straight to the desk, picked up the vial, and locked it into a padded case.
“I’m taking this to Asheville,” she said. “But I already know what it is. High-purity Ghost Ice. Vargas’ signature.”
Burke leaned back slightly.
“So the Hub is real.”
“It’s more than real.” She slid a tablet across the desk. “It’s a waypoint. International.”
She tapped the screen.
“I went through Vance Varga’s manifests overnight. The two men at the gala—the ones watching Izzy? Top lieutenants out of Miami. They don’t travel unless something matters.”
A chair shifted quietly along the wall.
Scout Wilson sat there, one ankle hooked over his knee, arms loose—but nothing about him relaxed. He’d been in the room longer than anyone realized. He was staring at the tablet screen, processing the logistics data with a tracker's precision.
Tessa didn’t acknowledge him. She didn’t need to.
“The original operation here went dark around 2000. Near RICO exposure. Everything shut down.”
A swipe.
“Then, about ten years later, Varga rebuilds it. Cleaner. Quieter.”
Burke’s voice stayed low.
“And he comes back here.”
A single nod.
“Because it already worked.”
Grant pushed off the doorframe.
“What does that mean?”
Tessa looked between them.
“It means something happened on that ridge in ’99 that should’ve blown everything open… and didn’t.”
Stillness settled in.
“The local sheriff investigated,” she said. “A woman disappears. And the whole thing gets contained.”
Scout’s jaw tightened, his posture remaining unyielding.
Grant looked away briefly.
“You’re saying they came back because of him.”
“I’m saying Vance Varga doesn’t gamble,” Tessa replied. “He uses places that hold. Small towns. Limited oversight. Predictable responses.”
A beat.
“And Jackson County already proved it could be managed.”
Burke didn’t move.
Grant shifted his focus.
“And Cal.”
Tessa exhaled.
“Callum Hollis doesn’t show up anywhere. No shell companies. No manifests. No bleed.”
“Or he’s buried deeper,” Grant said.
“Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe he doesn’t know what his father built.”
That hung there.
Burke leaned forward.
“What about Clara Vale?”
This time, Tessa didn’t answer right away.
She pulled a thin folder from her case and set it on the desk.
“Clara Vale reports something she shouldn’t have seen,” she said. “Remote ridge. Night activity. Aircraft where there shouldn’t be any.”
Scout’s posture didn’t change—but his eyes sharpened.
“She gives a statement. Sheriff opens a file.”
Tessa tapped the page.
“And then—nothing.”
Burke’s voice dropped.
“Nothing, how?”
“No escalation. No outside tasking. No follow-through that I can find.”
Grant frowned.
“And she disappears.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Burke’s eyes stayed on the file.
“You think she ran.”
Tessa gave a slight shrug.
“Walkaway is what the report says.”
Scout spoke for the first time.
“People don’t walk away from everything.”
Every eye in the room shifted to him.
He didn’t move under it.
Tessa nodded once.
“No. They don’t.”
Burke looked up.
“So what are we looking at?”
Tessa met his eyes.
“Best case? She got scared. Took money. Left.”
Grant didn’t buy it.
“And worst case?”
Tessa didn’t soften it.
“She saw something valuable enough to get her killed.”
The room went still.
Scout’s jaw flexed once—barely there.
“And your read,” Grant said.
Tessa closed the folder.
“My read is that men like Varga don’t leave loose ends.”
A beat.
Neither Burke nor Grant spoke, but it sat there anyway—
Why didn’t he push it?
Grant’s gaze shifted, something harder settling in.
“They hit the cabin,” he said.
Burke looked up.
Grant held his eyes.
“They didn’t look around. They tore it apart.”
Scout nodded once.
“Looking for something.”
“Or making sure it was gone,” Grant said.
Silence again.
Burke straightened slowly.
“You think it ties back to her.”
“I think they wouldn’t be up there if it didn’t,” Grant said.
That landed. Hard.
Grant pushed off the doorframe, stepping fully into the room now.
“And if they’re circling that again…”
He looked at Burke.
Then at Tessa.
Then back.
“…then whatever happened to Clara Vale—”
A pause.
“—is gonna happen to Izzy.”
No one argued it. Scout’s gaze flicked once to Tessa—quiet, steady—then back to Burke. Burke didn’t hesitate.
“Then we shut it down,” he said.