36. Maverick
MAVERICK
RIVER
She’s still asleep when I wake. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but I can see her clearly—soft, peaceful, and so fucking beautiful. Her dark brown hair is a mess around the pillow, and her lips are pursed slightly as if she’s in the middle of a dream.
I can’t look away.
I study every inch of her face, memorizing every detail as if I’ll need to recall it in perfect clarity one day.
Because I will. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.
I loved Heather, but this feeling? Nothing comes close.
And I haven’t let myself think too hard about what happens when this is over.
When the case ends. When she regains her freedom.
Will she decide to continue her life in Rochester? Where would that leave me?
Coming home last night and finding her waiting up for me made me realize exactly what I want. Her . I want to come home to her every night. Just the thought of not waking up next to her, of not falling asleep with her in my arms, knocks the air from my lungs.
“I feel you watching me,” she murmurs, her voice small, sleepy, and impossibly sweet. She doesn’t even open her eyes.
I lean in, nuzzling her cheek and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper. “Good morning, sunshine.”
She blinks at me, the corners of her lips tugging into a smile. “Mmm, good morning. What time is it?”
“Early. We don’t have to get out of bed yet.”
“Oh, good.” She nestles closer, tucking herself into my side, fitting against me perfectly.
Draping an arm over her waist, I soak in the heat from her bare body. In this comfortable silence, I can feel her chest rise and fall with each breath—the concerto of our heartbeats in perfect symphony.
“Tell me about your dreams. The coffee shop with a bar,” I say after a minute.
She looks up at me, brows furrowed. “How did you know about that?”
“Tamara mentioned it. Will you tell me?”
“I pretty much live for coffee,” she starts, a soft smile gracing her lips.
Her gaze drifts to my shoulder, settling on the scar.
She traces absent circles with her fingertips before continuing, “I’ve always wanted my own coffee shop.
When I started bartending at The Pour House, I realized how much I loved it—getting to know the customers, the music, the liveliness… ”
Her voice trails off as though she’s envisioning the scene. I wait.
“Coffee shops always close early—at least, the ones I like, anyway. So, I thought it’d be nice to have a coffee shop that’s open late, with a bar on one end. I imagine a cozy area with bookshelves and couches… and a stage on the other side. Live music. Poetry nights.”
She smiles up at me then, full of wonder and hope, and my heart squeezes. I want her to have everything.
“Tamara and I talked about yoga nights. She’d lead the classes, then top up with some stiff drinks.” She nuzzles her face into my chest. “It’s a pipe dream.”
Before I can respond—before I can tell her it’s not a pipe dream—she asks, “Did you always want to be an FBI agent?”
I pause, considering my words. “I knew I wanted to be in law enforcement… I spent years as a police officer. When I became a detective, I worked closely with the FBI to solve a few cases. A spot opened up at the Minneapolis field office, and I took it. I don’t regret it.”
What I don’t tell her is that, while I don’t regret this path I’ve chosen, I’m not sure how much longer I can walk it.
The death. The darkness. The danger. If Clara were taken from me because of this career, it would destroy me—reduce me to dust, swept away by the weight of her loss, the weight of my failure.
Right here, right now, if she asked me to toss my badge aside and help her chase her dream… I’d do it in a fucking heartbeat .
She hums, then leans back just enough to look up at me.
“What is it?” I ask, keeping my voice quiet.
“I… I have something to tell you.”
I meet her eyes. “Then tell me.”
She swallows and holds my gaze, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if it’s too soon, but… All I know is... I love you, Maverick Rhodes.”
For a second, all I can do is look at her, stunned by the force of those words.
I lift my hand, catching her chin between my thumb and forefinger. “Do you know why I call you sunshine ?”
She shakes her head, a slight furrow in her brows, the edges of her pouty lips turning down.
“In that hospital, despite everything you’d been through, you shined so damn bright. You didn’t even know it. Your strength. Your fire. The way you kept fighting.” I brush my thumb against her lower lip. “You are the only light in my darkness, Clara. I love you.”
She leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth, then wraps herself around me—her arm around my waist, her leg tangled with mine, her head tucked beneath my chin.
In this moment, my universe narrows to a single point of light, and nothing else exists. Just her. Just us.
Early morning air fills my lungs and cools my sweat-soaked skin. My feet strike the concrete in a steady rhythm; Juno effortlessly keeps pace beside me .
God, I needed this run. Needed to burn through the endless frustrations of this case and the looming meeting with the mayor. I’m on edge—every fiber of my body is strung tight, threatening to snap. Nothing can go wrong.
I savor the fire in my muscles, letting it fuel me and push me closer to home.
By the time Juno and I make it back, the sun’s climbing, and each breath I take burns something fierce.
Juno trots in front of me, tongue lolling, tail wagging like he knows exactly what’s waiting inside. Who’s waiting inside.
The scent hits me as soon as I open the front door—eggs, bacon, and toast. I step into the kitchen and find Clara at the stove, looking like a damn vision.
Barefoot with her hair thrown in a small, messy bun.
She’s wearing one of my sweatshirts, and suddenly, I don’t want to see her wearing anything else.
She glances over her shoulder and smiles, bright and soft and home all at once.
“Perfect timing,” she says. “Breakfast’s almost ready. And your water is right there.” She nods toward the tall glass on the island, filled with ice and beaded with condensation.
“Thank you, sunshine,” I breathe, pulling in a slow inhale through my nose to settle the post-run adrenaline. I stop at the counter, grab the glass, and down it in one go. “Smells good. Where do you want to eat?”
Some mornings we eat inside. Others, we take it out to the patio. I always let her choose—whatever makes her feel most at ease .
“Outside,” she responds, tilting her chin and pursing her lips in that silent, unmistakable request for a kiss.
I’m more than happy to oblige.
In two strides, I reach her and press my mouth to hers—gentle but lingering. “I’m going to grab a quick shower,” I murmur against her lips. “Then I’ll help bring everything out.”
“I can handle it. Worry about your shower, my love. You stink,” she teases, a playful grin overtaking her face.
I don’t miss the way she called me my love , or the way it wraps around my heart. Unable to help myself, I lean in, grazing my lips along the nape of her neck.
“You mean I smell like a man,” I growl near her ear.
Then, I give her ass a quick swat and head for the bathroom, grinning as she squeals and calls after me.
True to her word, Clara had breakfast ready on the patio table.
We eat in a comfortable quiet. Juno sprawls in the grass nearby, belly-up and useless after the run.
The weather is starting to turn as we head deeper into fall, but the crisp air is refreshing, and the heat of the sun offers just enough warmth to keep the chill at bay.
Clara’s sock-adorned feet rest in my lap beneath the table, her toes occasionally brushing against me. She cradles her cup of coffee like it’s something sacred, holding it close with both hands.
Halfway through my second cup, my phone buzzes on the table.
I glance at the screen. Arlo. I swipe to answer and bring it to my ear. “What’s up? ”
His voice cuts through the morning calm. “Finally got a hit on the shell corporation that owns the warehouse. ASE Anvils Corp. Don’t know what made me think of it, but I ran the name through a scrambler. It’s an anagram, Maverick.”
I sit up straighter, my brows pinching together. “An anagram for what?”
“ASE Anvils… Lisa Evans.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Nope. Lisa Evans was the mayor’s aunt. She died about twenty years ago. Came from money; her husband was a politician who passed a few years before her.”
I exhale, running a hand down my face. “Why the hell would he name a shell corp after his dead aunt?”
“Good question. I’ll keep digging. Something’s off.”
“Yeah, I feel it, too. Thanks, Arlo. See you at the office.”
I end the call and set my phone down, finishing the last of my coffee.
Clara watches me carefully. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I sigh. “The warehouse you were kept in... It’s owned by a shell corporation.” I reach down, curling my hand around her foot and gently squeezing. “Arlo got a lead, but it’s raised more questions than answers.”
My thumb glides along the arch of her foot, repeating the motion to soothe both her and myself. I won’t keep anything from Clara, but the mention of the warehouse, the mayor, any of it… it weighs heavy. Especially when I have to leave her again.
She doesn’t respond, but the scowl on her face says enough .
“Tamara coming over today?”
“She is,” Clara says with a nod. “She should be here soon.”
“You want me to wait until she gets here?” I ask. The idea of her being alone in Minneapolis while I’m two hours away makes me uneasy.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. You need to get to work. I’ll be fine, my love.”
I squeeze her foot one last time, then ease her legs off my lap and stand. Leaning down, I press a kiss to her forehead, then to her lips, lingering just a second longer.
Together, we clear the patio table, carrying the dishes and leftovers inside.
“Weekend patterns make sense now,” Spencer mutters, staring at the calendar and timeline projected on the wall. “His position as mayor doesn’t exactly afford him free time during the week. But the weekends? That’s when he can disappear.”
We’re looking at everything—each piece of evidence, each crime scene—with a new lens.
The warehouse. The timelines. The gaps. The victims.
All of it shifts into grim clarity, with the mayor at the center.
“He had the time to make the commute to his victims. Hours in either direction,” I add, jaw tight. “He had the resources. He just had to make it back by Monday morning. ”
Arlo clears his throat, typing rapidly. “Pulled footage from Revolution Coffee the day Marie vanished. Mayor walked out with her at 4:28 in the afternoon.”
“This is what we need,” Riley says, her voice carrying a hint of excitement. “We can place the mayor with the victim. Place him leaving with her. Now, we just need to get his DNA to confirm he killed her.”
The door swings open, and Cruz storms in, his face as dark as a thundercloud. He lifts an evidence bag containing a sheet of paper, walks up to the table, and throws it down.
Hard.
“Fucking message,” he spits.
We all freeze.
Cruz locks eyes with me, voice sharp and low. “It’s a letter. For Clara. He sent it to the precinct.”
I swear under my breath and reach for the letter, sealed in the bag. My blood percolates as I take in each word.
“Any prints?” I ask, voice gruff.
“None,” Cruz says.
I stare at the letter for a beat before tossing it onto the table as though it held something toxic.
“Fuck. How long until the meeting?”
“Two days,” Spencer answers.
Too fucking long.
The second I walk through the door, I know something’s wrong.
The house is quiet. Too quiet .
Clara’s on the couch, exactly where she was when I came home last night—but she’s not watching TV. She’s not reading.
She’s not even moving.
She looks like a statue. Frozen. Still. Staring blankly ahead.
Juno is curled in her lap. His ears flick once in my direction, but he doesn’t move either.
“Sunshine?”
Nothing.
I round the couch slowly, and that’s when I see it.
An unfolded letter sits on the cushion next to her. Black ink scrawled across white paper in familiar writing.
Fuck.