24. Wes Osprey
Wes Osprey
Scarlet stares at the flyer on her kitchen table like she can bully it into confessing.
Temporary Bond Relief.
The three words are printed beneath a painted swamp lily, sweet-looking enough for tourists and familiar enough to make me pay close attention. Relief appears in GatorX advertising. I doubt it’s a coincidence.
Honey glances toward the front windows, where rain slides down the glass in uneven tracks. “Junie said the booth was near the old post office yesterday afternoon, no one she recognized working it.”
“Did she buy one?” I ask.
“No. The woman tried to sell her one because Sweet Tooth should have protection on hand for nervous couples.” Honey’s golden-brown eyes move toward Scarlet. “Junie told her the bakery already had three highly caffeinated omegas. She took a picture because she thought it was weird.”
“Over-caffeinated-omega security, love it.” Scarlet’s mouth curves. “Do you have the photo?”
Honey pulls out her phone and passes it to Roman.
I study the image over his shoulder. Pink cloth, mason jars of dried flowers, white thread wrapped around fake stone charms, a stack of folded flyers identical to the one sealed on the table.
There is no vendor name, displayed permit, or face, only a hand with pale nail polish arranging bundles near the edge of the frame.
Roman enlarges the bottom corner. “There’s a crate under the table.”
A shipping label sits near the edge of the photograph, too blurry to read. “Send it to me,” I say.
Honey forwards the image to Roman who opens it on his tablet.
Scarlet sits between us in her sleep shirt, her hair tangled around her shoulders.
Wes’s black shirt is folded beneath one elbow as though it belongs there now.
She’s stopped pretending she’s gathering our things by accident.
The shift is a quiet one, and I find myself cataloging it the way I catalog evidence.
Roman sharpens the photograph. The first word on the label could begin with an M. The rest dissolves into rain blur and shadow.
“Magnolia?” he says.
Scarlet leans over his shoulder. “Maybe.”
Honey studies the screen. “Magnolia Event Florals handles overflow festival flowers when the local growers can’t keep up.”
“Do they sell swamp lilies?” I ask.
“Not usually.” Scarlet enlarges the image again. “They sell event arrangements: roses, peonies, hydrangeas, magnolia branches. The kind of flowers people expect in photographs.”
“Which doesn’t tell us whether the crate belonged to the booth,” Roman says.
“Or whether the word is Magnolia,” Scarlet says.
Roman passes her a honey cake. She accepts it without an argument.
We build a limited plan while we eat. Confirm whether Junie’s image contains anything recoverable. Check festival permits for the old post office area. Ask whether Magnolia Event Florals supplied any materials to temporary booths. Collect a bundle from the rental pack if the bond medic releases it.
No one calls it a supply chain, but the thought is there.
Scarlet pushes her chair back and rises carefully. “I’m showering before we go anywhere,” she says.
Honey points toward the hall. “I’ll protect the baked goods.”
Scarlet glances at me. “Keep her away from my last honey cake.”
“No promises,” I say.
She takes the pastry with her and heads upstairs.
Water starts a few minutes later.
Honey watches me with the shrewd look only a best friend can accomplish. “You two better be good to her.”
Roman’s humor fades.
Honey folds the empty bakery bag with precise, unnecessary care. “Scarlet acts like she’s made of swamp thorns and poor decisions,” she says, “but she remembers every hand that lets go. Don’t become one of them.”
“We won’t,” I say.
Honey studies us, and it feels like an interrogation.
“We’re staying,” Roman says.
Honey nods once, apparently deciding she believes us enough for today.
My phone buzzes. It’s Tom.
I step toward the back door. “Osprey.”
“I’ve got a mess at Cypress Kiss Rentals,” he says. “Tourist pack. Newly courted. Bond distress overnight. The omega stopped recognizing her beta and kept saying she wanted relief.”
My gaze returns to the flyer on the table. “Did she say where she heard the phrase?”
“Not yet. Bond medic’s trying to stabilize her.”
“Look for a protection bundle of some kind. If they used one, preserve the bundle and packaging.”
“They did. We’re on it.”
“Check festival permits for the old post office area. Also see whether Magnolia Event Florals supplied any registered vendors there.”
“Magnolia?”
“A possible word on a blurred shipping label. Nothing confirmed.”
Tom exhales. “I’ll pull the records. Meet me at Cypress Kiss in an hour.”
The call ends. I look toward the staircase.
Honey’s expression shifts from protective to entertained. “Going up?”
“To update Scarlet.”
“Of course.”
Roman keeps working on the photograph, though the corner of his mouth moves.
The upstairs hall smells like steam, rosemary soap, and Scarlet’s warm honeyed scent. The bathroom door stands partly open.
“Scarlet?”
“Come in.”
She stands in front of the fogged mirror in a moss-green skirt and cream tank, her hair falling down her back. A thin black cardigan rests over the edge of the sink beside a silver moon pin. Her eyes find mine in the mirror.
“Tom called,” I say.
Her expression turns serious. “The tourist pack?”
“The omega stopped recognizing her beta. She reportedly kept asking for relief.”
Scarlet’s fingers still in her hair. “Do we know whether she used that flyer or bought from the old post office booth?”
“No.”
“Whether the bundle caused the episode?”
“No.”
“Whether Magnolia supplied it?”
“No.”
I move closer until I stand behind her. “Tom is checking permits and vendor contracts. We’re meeting him at the rental.”
She nods, but concern gathers beneath her scent.
I set one hand at her waist. She leans back into me without hesitation, and the ease of it does funny things to my chest.
“You all right?” I ask.
“I will be.” Her eyes stay on mine in the mirror.
“That woman is going to look at her pack and see strangers. We don’t know what state she’ll be in when we arrive.”
“No.” Scarlet covers my hand with hers. “But maybe I’ll be able to help.”
I bend and kiss the side of her neck, slow enough to feel her soften beneath my mouth.
My hunger stirs at the scent of her skin and the memory of how she tasted this morning.
For one sharp second, I want to lift her onto the counter and take another taste before we leave.
The want is vivid enough that I let my mouth linger at her pulse until it passes.
There will be other mornings.
She turns her head and meets my mouth. The kiss is warm and unhurried, a slow dance of tangling tongues and sliding lips. Scarlet kisses me deeply, and just when I’m starting to rethink my decision about not tasting her, she draws back just far enough to speak.
“You came upstairs to deliver information.”
“I did.”
“You look distracted.”
“I am.”
Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth. “By the investigation?”
“No.”
The corner of her lips lifts. “Oh.”
I kiss her once more before stepping back. “Finish your hair,” I say. “Then come show us how the old post office catches foot traffic.”
Scarlet reaches for the hair tie beside the sink. “That almost sounded like a request.”
“I’m adapting.”
“Slowly.”
When she returns to the kitchen, her hair is braided over one shoulder, and the moon pin holds her cardigan closed.
Roman sets fruit beside her plate. “Three bites before criminal activity.”
“I ate before my shower.”
“Honey cake isn’t fruit.”
“It contained emotional nourishment.”
Honey points at Roman. “He’s right.”
Scarlet looks around the kitchen. “This alliance has become oppressive.” Her complaint carries no real hostility. She takes the fork and eats.
I set my phone beside Roman’s tablet. “Tom wants us at Cypress Kiss in an hour.”
Scarlet studies the photograph again. “You think the booth and the rental complaint might be related?”
“Possibly.”
“Because of the word relief?”
“It’s possible,” Roman says.
I hand her a marker. “Show me the route.”
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine, and the contact lingers naturally before she turns toward the town map.
“The old post office sits behind the festival overflow lots,” she says. “Tourists walk past it from Cypress Kiss Rentals when they head toward the square. An unregistered booth there could catch people before they ever reach the official vendor rows.”
We leave the house after Honey extracts promises that none of us will forget lunch. The rain has eased by the time we reach the old post office.
The booth is gone.
Junie saw it yesterday afternoon, so that doesn’t necessarily mean we missed them by minutes.
They may only work the heavier tourist hours, or they may have cleared out before the official vendors began setting up this morning.
Either way, a booth selling unregistered bond relief has disappeared before we could question anyone running it.
Four square marks remain on the damp pavement where table legs recently stood. Pink tape clings to a lamppost, and trampled petals collect in the rain gutter below it. Scarlet bends toward the crushed blossoms without touching.
“That one isn’t local,” she says.
Roman photographs the gutter. “Do you know what it is?”
“Not damaged like that.” She straightens. “Could come from any florist or grocery supplier. I can’t tell from what’s left.”
We photograph the table marks and collect loose petals separately.
Behind the post office, half-covered by wet cardboard near a trash bin, we find a wooden crate. The label is torn, but enough of the printed name remains to read clearly.
Magnolia Event Florals. A smaller sticker below that reads Sample Stock. The word before sample has been smeared away.
Roman crouches beside it. “That confirms the crate came from Magnolia.”
“But not if the booth used it,” I reply.
“Or what was inside when it arrived,” Scarlet says.
I photograph the crate before touching it. Inside are broken dried stems, white thread, grit from cheap stone charms, and damp cardboard carrying a faint sweet chemical odor that sits below the wet wood and old rain.
I bag each material separately.
Across the alley, a woman raises her phone and appears to be recording.
Scarlet sees her. The muscles in her shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t shrink or cover her face.
I step beside her rather than in front, close enough to block part of the camera angle without pulling her out of the scene.
My knuckles touch the back of her hand, and she links her smallest finger through mine for one second before releasing me and turning back to the evidence.
“Let them see me working,” Roman says. He holds up a sample vial. “Which petals first?”
“Swamp lily. Then marigold. Keep the pale blossom separate.”
The woman continues filming. Scarlet continues directing the collection.
By the time we return to the truck, mud streaks the hem of her green skirt. She rubs at it absently while Roman labels the final bag.
“Relief still bothers me,” she says.
I start the engine. “Why?”
“Because protection promises safety. Relief promises an escape from pain.” Her gaze meets mine in the mirror.
“Relief is consistent with language used in prior GatorX advertising,” I say.
We have more trails to track and yet no answers.