Chapter 16BOONE #2
Miller sits back, tapping a manicured nail against the arm of the chair. “One last thing. The woman on the phone. You didn’t recognize her voice?”
Rose shakes her head. “No. Not that I could tell.”
“You’re sure? Not at all?” Miller presses.
Her lips purse. “I said no.”
Miller studies her for a second, then nods. “Alright. That’s all we need.”
Rose looks relieved, like she’s been holding her breath this whole time. She stands, crossing her arms over her chest. “You should go.”
I exchange another glance with Miller before pushing off the arm of the couch.
Before we head for the door, I turn back to Rose. “Appreciate your time,” I say, my voice steady but genuine. “I know this probably wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have.”
She presses her lips together. “No, it wasn’t.” A pause. “But…I hope you figure out whatever it is you’re trying to figure out.”
Miller gives her a pointed look. “Oh, we will.”
Rose doesn’t respond, just nods toward the door, a clear sign we’ve outstayed our welcome. I nod once, stepping past her and out onto the porch.
Outside, the morning sun stretches low across the pavement, golden and sharp, but the air still bites with that leftover chill that clings to late spring. I shove my hands into my pockets as Miller falls into step beside me. We don’t say anything until we’re closer to our cars.
“So,” I finally say, glancing her way. “It was a woman who called her.”
Miller lets out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “Yeah. Didn’t have that one on my bingo card.”
I nod, eyes scanning the street, taking in every parked car, every slow-moving vehicle in the distance. “Doesn’t automatically clear Wendell, though. He’s smart enough not to put himself in a position where this can be traced back to him.”
“Which means he’s got someone doing his dirty work for him.
” Miller lets out a long breath. “It doesn’t make sense.
Whoever’s behind this knew it would hit Lark where it hurt.
Who the hell would do this to her?” She shakes her head, more to herself than me.
“I can’t think of a single person in this town who doesn’t love her and Hudson. ”
I glance at her. “Yeah. Me neither.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “Speaking of that, when’s the wedding?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m working on it.”
Miller snorts. “Work faster.”
I shake my head, glancing toward the road again, an uneasy feeling creeping in at the base of my spine. “We need to get to the county clerk’ s office.”
Miller nods. “I’ll meet you there.” She reaches for her car door, then pauses, glancing over at me. “By the way, nice work in there, Special Forces. Almost seemed like you knew what you were doing.”
I smirk. “Almost. You weren’t bad yourself, for a terrifying, borderline unethical investigator.”
She grins. “I do my best.”
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice just enough to make her still. “Hey. Be careful.”
She stiffens. Her grin fades, replaced by something sharp, something focused. “Why?”
I glance around, keeping my voice steady. “I think someone might be watching us.”
She straightens, scanning the street. “Who?”
I shake my head. “Not sure. But check your mirrors when you drive. Look for tails, anything that feels off.”
She nods, her face unreadable for once. “Alright.”
I watch as she slides into her car, the tension in my shoulders not easing even as she pulls away.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I reach for the center console, flipping it open to retrieve the Glock 19 nestled inside.
Compact. Reliable. The sort of gun I carried more times than I could count overseas.
Always loaded, always within reach. I check the chamber, make sure the safety’s still on, and tuck it into the waistband of my jeans.
In the military, you never went anywhere unarmed.
You could be grabbing supplies, headed to a meeting, hell—even sleeping, and you were never more than an arm’s reach from your weapon.
Because the second you let your guard down, that was the second things went sideways.
And if you weren’t prepared? You were dead.
I shake the thought loose, scanning my surroundings before putting the truck in gear.
As I pull onto the main road, my fingers tap against the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors.
I check them often, scanning for anything out of place—same car taking the same turns, something sitting too long at a stoplight .
Nothing.
The drive to the county clerk’s office isn’t far, but I stay alert, instincts kicking in whether I want them to or not. It’s ingrained, second nature, part of me in a way I don’t think I’ll ever shake.
By the time I pull into the lot, Miller’s car is just easing into a spot a few feet away.
Inside, the clerk’s office is exactly what I expect—fluorescent lights, the scent of old paper, and a middle-aged woman behind the desk, already eyeing us like we’re an inconvenience.
Miller steps up first, offering her best polite smile. “Hi there. We were wondering if we could take a look at a recent health inspection report?”
The woman barely glances up. “You’ll need to file a request.”
Miller’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s the thing. We’re on a bit of a time crunch, and we were hoping we could just take a quick peek at the original file.”
The woman sighs, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry, but that’s not how this works.”
Miller leans in slightly, her voice dropping to something conspiratorial.
“I totally get it. I do. You’ve got rules to follow, and I respect that.
But here’s the thing—this is actually really important.
We have reason to believe there may have been an error in the documentation, and we wouldn’t want that to reflect poorly on your office.
You know, if word got out that false reports were being filed under your name. ”
I bite down a smirk as the clerk’s shoulders straighten, her expression shifting from irritation to unease.
“I—” The woman hesitates, looking between us.
Miller lays it on thicker, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Of course, if you can’t help us, we totally understand. We’ll just have to bring it to a higher authority and let them handle it. But I’d hate for anyone to get in trouble over something that could be handled quickly and quietly.”
The clerk exhales, looking like she’s regretting every life decision that led her to this moment. She eyes Miller, then me, then huffs out a breath. “Fine. But I didn’t do this. And you better be quick. Follow me.”
I glance at Miller, who lifts a brow but doesn’t say anything, and we follow.
She leads us to a locked room at the end of the corridor, swipes a key card, and the lock clicks open.
The door swings inward, revealing a dimly lit room filled with rows of metal filing cabinets, shelves stacked with labeled boxes, and a couple of old computers buzzing in the background.
The air is thick with the scent of paper and dust, like the room hasn’t been aired out in years.
She steps inside, flicking on a single overhead light that casts a yellow glow. “What exactly are you looking for?” she asks, already moving toward one of the boxes.
“The most recent health inspection report for The Bluebell Diner,” I say, keeping my voice even.
She nods once, kneeling and sifting through a stack of files. Her movements are quick, practiced, like she’s done this a million times. She mutters to herself as she thumbs through folder after folder, the rustling of paper filling the quiet space.
A minute later, she pulls out a manila folder and stands, flipping it open. Her lips press into a thin line. “There it is,” she mutters, tapping a page with her finger. “Time-stamped, signed, and everything.”
I step closer, scanning the page, my gut tightening at what I see.
The real report. The one that never should’ve been replaced.
And right at the top, clear as day, PASS .
Miller, wasting no time, pulls out her phone and starts snapping pictures of each page.
The clerk rubs her temples. “I’m making a stop at the ladies’ room. By the time I get back, you two better be gone or I’m calling security.”
Miller doesn’t look up from her phone. “You are a saint, Deb. Your generosity knows no bounds.”
The clerk—Deb, apparently, according to her name tag—rolls her eyes and disappears down the hallway.
I watch Miller work. “This is illegal, isn’t it?”
She barely glances up. “Relax. We’re not stealing anything. Just taking a look. And if what we’re looking at just happens to be saved on my camera roll for later reference, that’s really just good journalism.”
I let out a quiet laugh but turn my attention to the documents in the folder, flipping through them with careful fingers. Then something catches my eye.
“Wait.” I pull out another page, skimming the contents before angling it toward Miller. “Look at this.”
Miller frowns, leaning in.
It’s another report, this one from a different business entirely—a small diner on the edge of town that shut down last year under suspicious circumstances. The inspector’s signature?
Also Rose Weaver.
We exchange looks.
“That’s not a coincidence.”
Miller nods, her expression hardening. “No, it’s not.”
I flip through the rest of the file, my fingers rough against the aging paper.
More businesses that had shut down without the last year or so.
Small ones, tucked away at the edges of town, nothing with the weight of the Bluebell but still—places people built from the ground up. Places that didn’t stand a chance.
And every single one of them?
Inspected by Rose Weaver.
“Jesus,” I mutter, pulling out another report. This one’s for a hardware shop that shut down eight months ago. The one beneath it is for a bakery I barely remember, and another for a feed store just outside of Summit Springs that lasted less than a year.
Miller doesn’t hesitate—she snaps pictures of each one, flipping the pages back with her free hand like she’s racing against a clock only she can hear.