Chapter 5
Eleanor’s House
By Friday, Sylva had leaned all the way in.
Banners fluttered across Main Street. MYSTERY MOUNTAIN WEEK: Vanished in the Valley. Ghost tours, “last known sighting” walks, pop-up booths selling haunted mountain merch—every scrap of old folklore had been rewired to fit the disappearances.
Tourists lingered on courthouse steps, taking photos where Lauren Pierce had once walked and where Sara Parker had been found.
The spotlight had settled. And it wasn’t leaving.
That evening, Eleanor shut off the treadmill and stepped into the quiet of her house.
The dogwood in her front yard had bloomed fully now, white petals luminous against the darkening sky.
Gas lanterns flickered on either side of the porch, warm and steady—the white brick ranch glowing like a Lowcountry ghost.
People liked to say Charleston had followed her to the mountains.
She hadn’t corrected them.
The doorbell rang.
She checked the time.
Deck. Of course.
She didn’t look through the peephole.
Sweat still damp on her skin, she crossed the living room, muscles pleasantly loose from the run, hair down, black sports bra and charcoal leggings clinging to a deep, healthy pink bloom along her shoulders and throat.
She opened the door.
And stopped.
Reid Calloway stood on her porch.
Dark hair pushed back carelessly, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened, jacket gone. He looked less like a District Attorney and more like trouble.
His eyes didn’t just meet hers; they swept down—a slow, weighted pass that tracked the sheen of sweat at her collarbone, the bare strip of skin above her waistband, the curve of her waist—before snapping back to her face.
A quick, sharp flicker of awareness flared in his pupils.
He covered it fast.
Too late.
The air between them had already thickened, smelling of his expensive, woodsy cologne.
Heat climbed her throat. For the first time since opening the door, she became acutely aware of exactly how little she was wearing. Every inch of exposed skin felt suddenly too exposed. She curled her fingers around the edge of the door, resisting the instinct to reach for a hoodie.
She did not step back.
“Well,” he said evenly, his voice dropping a half-octave, “this is an unexpected advantage.”
“Home-court advantage,” she said, her voice steadier than her pulse. “What can I do for you, Mr. District Attorney?”
He lifted the folder.
“Exhibit disclosures. Figured I’d drop them off before you accused me of withholding evidence in front of Judge Harlan.”
A small corner of her mouth lifted. He never softened arguments for her in court.
She would’ve despised him if he had.
“Come in.”
He followed her toward the kitchen, his presence filling the hallway. In court, her blonde hair was always pulled back into a smooth, deliberate ponytail—controlled. Tonight it fell loose down her back, pale and silver in the low light.
The kitchen opened out, all clean lines and warm wood, white cabinets, stone counters catching the last of the evening light. Art on the walls. A view of the dogwood through the window.
Reid let out a low whistle.
“Nice place,” he said, taking it in. “Maybe I should’ve gone defense instead of prosecution.”
She glanced back over her shoulder. “Oh really? Why’s that?”
He let his gaze travel across the room again, then back to her.
“Then I could live like this,” he said lightly. “Very nice.”
“Well, it’s not too late,” she said. “You could always switch sides.”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“Oh, and give up the moral high ground?” He shook his head. “Never.”
He looked at her then—really looked at her.
“Maybe you ought to come over to the cheap seats with me,” he said.
Her brows lifted. “Why would I do that?”
“You might sleep better at night.”
She held his gaze for a beat, then reached into the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water.
She twisted the cap, the plastic giving with a soft crack.
“I sleep just fine,” she said.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’m sure you do.”
She tipped the bottle back and took a long, thirsty drink.
A thin trickle slipped from the corner of her mouth, tracking a slow path down the line of her throat, disappearing beneath the edge of her sports bra before she caught it with the back of her hand.
Desire hit him hard and fast. The “closing argument” charm he usually wore like armor felt suddenly thin.
“Water? Beer?” she asked.
He hesitated, gaze lingering on the pulse beating gently at the base of her throat.
“Beer.”
She reached in and tossed him one without looking.
He caught it cleanly, forearm flexing, tendon and muscle shifting under skin dusted with dark hair.
“Nice throw.”
“Don’t underestimate me,” she said, that glint in her eyes he’d learned to respect.
“Counselor,” he said softly, stepping a fraction closer, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The air shifted.
The distance between them was negligible now.
She could smell the crisp bite of beer on his breath.
“You don’t scare easily,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the small kitchen. He didn't touch her, but his hand moved—a slow, deliberate reach that ended with his knuckles just barely grazing the stone counter inches from her hip. He was boxing her in without ever laying a finger on her.
“I don’t scare at all,” she countered. Though the lie felt thin, his gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes, tracking the way her breathing had picked up again.
“Everyone scares,” he murmured. “The smart ones just don’t show it.”
He wasn’t teasing.
For a moment, the banners and the headlines, the cameras and comments, all dropped away.
There was just the low glow of the kitchen lights and the magnetic pull of a man who was supposed to be her enemy.
If he stepped forward—just an inch—she wasn’t sure she would stop him. She leaned in without meaning to, the angle deepening the curve of her cleavage in the low kitchen light. His eyes darkened, his hand twitching on the counter as if he were seconds away from bridging the gap—
The front door opened.
“Lass, ye left your—”
Deck stopped mid-stride.
He didn’t just take them in; he took in the space between them. His eyes flicked to the beer in Reid’s hand, then to Eleanor’s bare midriff. He didn’t move, but he seemed to double in size, filling the doorway, physically blocking the exit to the living room.
“Well,” Deck said, his voice like grinding gravel. “This is cozy.”
“Declan,” Eleanor said, straightening.
“District Attorney,” Deck replied, not looking away from Reid. “Saw the green Jag at the curb. Figured either ye’d taken up with a rock star… or the DA.”
Reid didn’t bristle. If anything, his mouth curved a little more.
“Rock star, huh?” he said. “I’ll take the promotion.”
Deck’s brows lifted. “Oh, I don’t know. Rock stars get things thrown at them when they botch the chorus. You lot just file an appeal.”
Reid laughed, genuinely this time.
“I’m starting to think you like me, O’Rourke.”
Deck snorted. “Ye’d know it if I didn’t.”
Reid tipped his beer slightly in Deck’s direction.
“Noted,” he said. “I’ll try to stay on the right side of the bouncer.”
“Good plan,” Deck said. “He’s got a mean right hook.”
Eleanor shot Deck a look that was half warning, half affection.
“That’s enough,” she said. “Both of you.”
Reid’s eyes flicked back to her, amused.
“I’ll see you in court,” he said. “Or somewhere less formal. Eventually.”
He lifted two fingers in a lazy salute.
Deck did not return it, but the corner of his mouth betrayed the smallest twitch.
Reid held Eleanor’s gaze for one beat too long before walking out.
Reid
The air had cooled by the time he reached the curb.
He slid into his 1969 Jaguar E-Type. He’d rebuilt it himself—every bolt, every wire. He liked things he could fix. He liked things he understood. Things that made sense once you got beneath the surface. He turned the key.
The engine purred.
As he pulled away, the porch light caught the rear plate:
VERDICT.
In the front window, Deck stood watching. A protective old shadow.
Reid respected that.
He also found it, inconveniently, a little bit charming.
It didn’t change the math.
He smiled as he shifted into second and pulled away from the curb. Eleanor Harper wasn’t a case to be solved or an argument to win. She was a wildfire, and he was starting to realize he’d rather watch than put her out.
This was going to get very interesting.
Lila Grant — Later
By the time the evening settled, the courthouse steps had emptied.
Lila stood across the street from the white brick ranch, watching the gas lanterns flicker.
“Last one on the right,” Micah said, tapping the GPS.
Lila lifted her phone, snapping a shot of the house.
“B-roll?” Micah asked.
“Maybe,” Lila said.
Then the front door opened.
A man stepped out.
Tall, dark-haired, tie loosened at the collar, confidence in every step.
Micah frowned. “Wait. Is that—”
Reid Calloway crossed the porch, headed toward the curb.
Toward a dark green vintage Jaguar.
The headlights swept across the street as he pulled away. For one brief second, the custom plate caught in the beam.
VERDICT.
Lila glanced down at the screen of her phone.
There he was. The District Attorney of Sylva. Walking out of Eleanor Harper’s house after dark.
Slowly, she smiled.
“Oh,” she said softly. “That’s beautiful.”
Micah glanced over. “You want me to post it?”
“No.” Lila slipped the phone into her pocket. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
Her eyes stayed on the taillights disappearing down the street.
“Because right now, it’s worth more than anyone knows.”
She glanced back at the white brick house.
“Good,” she said softly. “Now let’s see what happens when people start talking.”