29. Maverick
MAVERICK
HEART SHAPED BOX
“He sent us another message. We’re postponing the press conference until after we assess the crime scene.”
My pacing halts mid-stride in the living room. I pull the phone from my ear and stare at the screen in disbelief, as if Cruz’s words didn’t register.
“What was the message? How did he send it? What’s the crime scene?” I fire off questions in rapid succession, not waiting for answers.
I should be in Rochester. On the ground. Helping. Cruz and the team have kept me in the loop, and I’ve been doing what I can from here, but this turn of events is unsettling. It changes everything. If “message” and “crime scene” mean what I think they do—another body—then our unsub is escalating.
“Slow down, Rhodes,” Cruz chides with a sigh.
I can already see him rolling his eyes, an insufferable smirk on his face. He knows dragging this shit out pisses me off. If you’re going to give me information, give me the fucking information.
“Cruz, get the fuck on with it.”
His tone shifts. “We received an envelope at the station around four this morning. It was sent to me but addressed to you. Inside were two Polaroids. One was of the victim in a grave; the other, a wider shot of the grave fully covered. He wanted us to see the location—she was buried along Silver Creek Lake.”
“Goddamn it.” I pivot toward the sliding doors, eyes locking on Clara as she tosses a ball for Juno in the backyard.
She’s made so much progress. Since coming to Minneapolis—since our talk—she’s been lighter.
Braver. Letting herself exist again. Eating breakfast outside, spending time out there with Juno.
The thought of shattering her newfound peace makes my chest ache, and fuck if I don’t want to protect her from that.
“There’s more,” Cruz says. “I dispatched units to secure the crime scene while I was on my way and called your team to meet me there. That was about three hours ago.” He’s silent for a beat before he adds, “This murder was different from the others. He didn’t stalk the victim; didn’t abduct her or hold her captive.
Sammie’s preliminary report puts the time of death around eleven last night. ”
“Shit. Cause?”
“Snapped neck. She wasn’t buried alive like the others. The victim’s purse was buried with her, too—license ID’d her as Marie Ann Douglas. Rochester local. Background’s running now. Physically, she matches the victim profile. Dark hair, brown eyes. But everything else? Doesn’t match his signature.”
“He’s unraveling,” I mutter. “Clara’s survival threw him off—we knew this. But he’s been without a victim for too long, and he hasn’t been able to get to Clara. I’d bet he saw Marie yesterday and made a split decision. This wasn’t a planned attack.”
“Spencer said the same. But listen—the body wasn’t just a message for us. He wrote on the back of both Polaroids… He meant them for Clara.”
My hand tightens around the phone, the plastic creaking in protest against my death grip.
“Tell me.”
Cruz’s voice is low. “He wrote: ‘You’re mine, Clara. Come back to me and this will stop. Your FBI friend can’t save you, just like he couldn’t save her.’”
I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. “Jesse and Evie been on the scene?”
“They just wrapped up. Heading back to the FBI office now.”
“Good. I’ll call them. And Cruz?” I hesitate. “I want his composite released at the press conference. It needs to go wide. Tell me when; I want to watch it. And keep me posted. If you need me, you say the word.”
“Focus on protecting Clara. That’s your job right now. We’ll take care of it here.”
As soon as I hit ‘End Call,’ I send a text to the team. I hate being this far away, but Cruz is right about needing to keep Clara safe. And there isn’t anyone else I’d trust to do it.
Maverick
Heard about the crime scene and vic. Keep me updated on everything.
Jesse
You got it, boss.
Riley
I'll video conference you in this afternoon. Evie's sorting through the evidence photos and videos now.
I’m staring at my phone, the text lingering on the screen, when I hear the sliding door open. Juno trots in first, tail wagging. Clara follows behind him, but she pauses when she sees me—sees my expression.
“Mav?” Clara steps in front of me. Her deep brown eyes are full of concern. “What’s wrong?”
Rage and guilt war within me, and I can barely speak. Can barely move. After a long pause, I finally meet her gaze.
“He’s killed again.”
The blood drains from her face, paling her golden complexion. I watch as she regains composure, straightening her spine and pulling her shoulders back—like steel forged under fire.
“What happened?”
I tell her everything. All of it. Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. She dips her chin and swallows hard, closing her eyes. The minute action is a beacon, a silent call for Juno as he nestles into her side like a shield .
And the sight of it breaks something in me, sending waves of inadequacy through my body.
I spin and hurl my phone at the wall. It hits with a heavy thud, cracking the drywall and bouncing to the floor, the screen still glowing.
Regret slams into me instantly. I’m a fucking fool.
I move toward her, hands raised. “I’m sorry, sunshine?—”
She flinches. She doesn’t back away. But she flinches.
Fuck.
Slowly, I pull her into my arms, giving her every second she needs to pull away.
She doesn’t.
She melts into me, and I bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in like she’s the only thing keeping me upright. “I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just—fuck—I’m so angry. At myself. If I’d caught him, Marie would still be alive.”
Clara pulls back, her touch featherlight as she cups my face. The way her fingers stroke my beard with affection makes my throat tighten.
“Maverick Rhodes,” she says, voice fierce despite the softness of her touch. “Don’t you dare.”
I start to speak but she silences me with a finger pressed firmly to my lips.
“No. I’m talking. You’re listening. You haven’t failed anyone. Do you understand me?”
I can’t look her in the eye. I stare at her throat instead and nod, obliging her request—her demand—that I let her speak, even if I don’t believe a damn word she’s saying .
“Hey. Look at me.” She waits until our eyes lock before continuing.
“You are the reason I’m not drowning in that dark abyss I woke up in.
I don’t want to imagine where I’d be—who I’d be—if you hadn’t been there.
You saved me, Maverick Rhodes. Over and over.
You’re the steady presence that keeps me grounded, keeps me safe.
You are not a failure. Marie’s death is not your fault.
That’s on him. Heather’s death is not your fault; it’s the bastard’s who hit her and ran.
I need you to understand that. Tell me you understand. ”
My chest caves in under the weight of her words. Her belief in me. Tears threaten, burning behind my eyes. I blink fast in a poor attempt to will them away.
When her fingers swipe beneath my eyes, something inside me snaps—an overwhelming urge to feel her in my arms. It’s like a siren’s call I can’t resist. Instinct takes over, and I pull her in, one hand on her hip, the other sliding in her hair.
With a tenderness I didn’t know I possessed, I tug gently, guiding her face to mine.
There’s no hesitation when I claim her mouth, no room for doubt—just certainty and the undeniable need to feel connected to this woman. Her lips part for me, soft and yielding, and the kiss deepens—turning desperate and all-consuming.
When she moves against me with matched urgency, I tighten my grip in her hair, holding her steady as I slide my tongue into her mouth. The taste of her undoes me. I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted—needed—anyone like this. Not ever.
She lifts a leg around my hip, and I take the cue without question.
I hoist her up, pressing her body flush to mine.
Her arms wrap around my neck, her legs around my waist, locking in place as I grip beneath her thighs.
The position aligns us perfectly—her warmth against the ache I’ve been carrying. For her.
I nip at her bottom lip before softening the kiss, our breath mingling, heavy with want and unspoken promises.
“Mav,” she breathes, resting her forehead against mine.
“I know, sunshine.” My voice is thick and hoarse, barely audible through the loud beating of my heart.
“No,” she says with more certainty. I start to lower her, but she tightens her legs around me and shakes her head. “Bedroom. Take me to the bedroom.”
I lean back just enough to meet her gaze, to read her—to really read her. “Are you sure?”
Her eyes don’t waver, her voice conveys her strength and confidence. “Take me to the damn bedroom, Maverick Rhodes.”
I told her she’d always know it was me—holding her, touching her, worshiping her.
Who the hell am I to say no now?