15. Hunter
Hunter
Blue and red lights strobe across the siding of the lake house, cutting through the dark like a warning. The music from Big Joe’s is still echoing in my head when I step under the crime scene tape.
Chris stands near the porch, hands on his hips, breath fogging in the cold.
“Well, aren’t you looking fancy tonight, Detective,” he teases.
“You’re hilarious.”
“Seriously, though, did I miss a memo or what?”
“Nah, Sutton and I were on a date.”
“Good for you two.” His smile stretches from ear to ear as he hands me a flashlight. “Hell of a night for this.”
“Yeah,” I say, scanning the area. “You could say that.”
The narrow window beside the front door has been forced open, the latch splintered and the frame bent outward. Glass litters the porch, scattered in jagged pieces that catch the light.
“Neighbor called it in,” Chris says. “Says he saw a flashlight inside around nine, but didn’t think much of it until he saw the window busted in.”
I crouch by the window frame and run my flashlight along the wood. Until now, most of the suspicious calls have been for vehicles and odd activity, not signs of a break-in. This time’s different. Maybe these guys are slipping up.
“Don’t touch anything until we can dust for prints.” I motion to the window casing.
We step inside. Chris goes left, and I head toward the back of the house.
“You smell that?” Chris calls.
The smell hits me then. Sharp. Not stale like a house that’s been closed up for weeks. “Maybe it’s cleaning supplies.”
I step fully into the kitchen only to find that it’s been ransacked.
Cabinet doors hang open, the sink is cluttered with empty blister packs of cold medicine, boxes torn open, and lithium battery casings split on the counter, the insides stripped.
Coffee filters, faintly stained pink, are wadded up near the trash.
“Definitely not cleaning supplies,” I say quietly.
I move toward the small laundry room. Brown boxes are stacked against the wall.
It can’t be coincidence that they have the same dimensions as the ones we saw at Magnolia Road.
I nudge one open with the toe of my boot, but it’s empty.
The bathroom fan hums faintly overhead. The window’s cracked open despite the cold.
I step back into the kitchen and glance around again. Nothing is missing—no electronics, no TVs. “They weren’t looking for valuables.”
Chris leans against the counter. “Then what were they looking for?”
“My guess? A place to work.” I rub my hand on the back of my neck. “Off-season properties. Minimal traffic. Easy in, easy out.”
Chris scans the room again. “Seems like a lot of risk for a temporary setup.”
“Exactly,” I nod. “They left no equipment behind. No storage. Nothing here to suggest they planned to stay long.”
“So, what? This was some kind of a satellite office?”
“It’s the only thing that makes sense. All of this.” I gesture around the kitchen at the haphazard mess. “They used the place, cleaned out what they could, and moved on.”
Chris snorts. “Guess they didn’t count on a nosy neighbor.”
I nod once. “Which means we haven’t seen the main site yet.”
The words settle heavily between us. My hand drifts to my pocket, remembering the folded slip of paper I found, Daley written in rushed ink. It could be nothing. But it doesn’t feel like nothing.
“You good, man?” Chris watches me.
“Yeah.” I’m not. I should be walking entry paths in my head. Building timelines. Instead, my mind drifts somewhere it shouldn’t. Back to the dance floor and the way Sutton looked at me.
Every night. The words echo at the worst possible time.
I drag a hand down my face and force myself to refocus. “The crime scene unit is on their way,” I say as Chris moves toward the doorway. “Let’s bag what we can before we turn the scene over to them.”
I step onto the porch, scanning the tree line. The lake beyond is black and still. Looking back at the house, at the broken window, at the hollow dark inside, I know someone’s building a lab. And I hate feeling like we’re already a step behind.
A few hours later, Chris peels off toward the station, and I head in the opposite direction, tires humming against the asphalt. The drive back to Sutton’s house is quiet at nearly midnight.
Part of me wants to turn around and keep circling the lake, to continue working the case. But most of me knows exactly where I’d rather be.
The lake disappears in my rearview mirror, swallowed by trees and darkness.
The suspicious calls we’ve recently had run through my mind. Every time, it was the same—clean entry to off-season houses, nothing damaged or stolen. Everything left in a way that suggested squatters.
But tonight . . . The broken window flashes in my mind. The chemical smell lingers in my nose. Something has changed.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake what I’m missing loose.
The cab of my truck still smells like Sutton’s perfume. Vanilla with a soft floral undertone. It clings to the fabric of the seat where she sat earlier, laughing about the costumes we picked.
I grip the steering wheel tighter.
Normally, I can turn the job off. But tonight, the image of the shattered window won’t stop bleeding into the image of her standing in front of me on the dance floor.
Every night.
Her words echo again. For once, the weight of the job doesn’t feel like it’s all mine.
The porch light is on when I pull in to the driveway. Just like she promised.
A warm light glows through the downstairs window from the kitchen. Her quiet signal that if I need to talk, she’ll listen.
I sit there for a second, engine idling, watching the warm glow. The house looks quiet.
The tension from the lake still sits heavy between my shoulders. I roll my neck, forcing myself to let it go.
Inside, the air is warm and familiar. I set my hat on the entry table, unholster my sidearm, and lock it in the small, temporary safe I put near the coat closet. I step out of my boots and walk upstairs. Straight from one role to another.
Her bedroom door is cracked open. I push it wider and step inside.
She’s asleep on her side, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, hair fanned across the pillow. The lamp on her nightstand casts a soft glow over her shoulder. Something tight in my chest loosens. I click the light off, then gently run the back of my fingers down the curve of her cheek.
I unbutton my shirt, slide my jeans off, and walk to the bathroom. Last thing I want to do is come to bed smelling like the real world. I stand under the shower spray, the water warm against my skin, letting it relax the muscles in my back.
When I return to her bed, she’s rolled over, the blankets trapped beneath her hip. Her scrunched-up nightgown reveals her upper thigh.
I stand there longer than I should. Looking at her. Making sure she’s real. That this isn’t another daydream I’ll have to wake up from.
“You gonna come to bed or what?” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
The mattress dips as I lie down next to her. She stirs, barely awake, and shifts toward me without opening her eyes. Her body fits against mine like it’s always belonged there.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I whisper against her skin. “Go back to sleep.”
She hums softly and relaxes fully into me. I wrap my arm around her waist and press my face into the curve of her neck.
Tomorrow, the case will still be here.
Tonight, I just want this.
Sunlight slices through the blinds, hitting me square in the face like it’s mocking me for sleeping this late. I groan, rolling onto my back, but the sheets cling to my skin, damp with sweat. The air feels heavy and stale, like it hasn’t moved all night.
I blink against the brightness, my body aching. Every muscle reminds me just how late I stayed up last night. Chris and I spent hours on the scene, desperate to find some kind of answer, some kind of clue.
I stretch out my arm, reaching for Sutton, but all I find is the cool emptiness of her side of the bed. My chest tightens, and I call out, “Sutton?”
No answer.
I sit up in bed, still groggy, and glance at the clock on her nightstand.
Damn it. I should’ve been up hours ago. I drag my hand down my face, rough stubble catching against my palm, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The floor is warm under my feet, and the familiar scent of fresh coffee drifts into the bedroom.
“Sutton?” I call out again as I walk downstairs and into the kitchen. There’s still no answer, but as I walk into the kitchen, a note by the coffee pot catches my eye.
I know you need sleep. I’m at the house if you need anything. X
I smile. What is she up to now? What started as a simple remodel has turned into something else entirely. Not that I’m complaining. It brought her to me.
In a few minutes, I’ve whipped up an omelet, which I slam down along with a cup of coffee.
I tear through another shower and dress quickly.
I’m putting on my boots when my phone buzzes on the dresser.
Logan appears on the screen. Logan and I were academy buddies.
He settled in Eagle Falls, just 120 miles from Suncrest Valley, so we’ve stayed good friends and sometimes collaborate on cases that affect both our jurisdictions.
“Hello,” I say.
“What’s up, man?”
“Nothing much. Just headed to meet Sutton at my house.” I step into my boots, grab my keys, and head out to my truck.
“Headed to your house? Aren’t you at your house?”
“Nah, I’m staying with Sutton for a few days while she works on our house.”
“Whoa, whoa—” his voice ratchets an octave higher. “When the fuck did your house become our house?”
I laugh. Guy never misses a thing. Probably why he’s one of the best detectives in Eagle Falls now.
I start the truck and back out of the driveway. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, but not enough time. What’s up?”
“Heard about the potential lab.”
“Word travels fast.”
“We’ve been running into similar calls over here.”
My senses instantly perk. “Tell me more.”