Chapter Six
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The sound of an engine cut through the wind just as Griff crouched to pick up another photo. He straightened, turning toward the parking lot entrance as a gleaming silver truck rolled in fast.
It skidded slightly on the pavement, the tires spitting small stones before jerking to a stop.
Everett Langston climbed out before the engine finished ticking down.
Late fifties, tan as leather, white teeth too perfect not to be capped.
His jeans were designer, the kind with the artful distressing, and his pearl-snap shirt was fitted tight across a chest that probably saw more spray tan than bench press.
His hair was dyed just dark enough to not look natural, and his belt buckle was the size of a saucer.
He looked like an aging country music star who hadn’t realized the stage lights had dimmed years ago.
Griff disliked the man on sight.
Everett slammed the door and stalked across the lot toward them, eyes locking onto the photos scattered like landmines. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he barked, voice rising over the wind.
Griff stood his ground. Lily, beside him, didn’t flinch.
“These were already here when we arrived,” she said, calm but firm.
Everett’s eyes dropped to the nearest photo. The one in Lily’s hand. His face went red as the image sank in—him and Hannah, caught with his hand in her shirt, her face tilted toward his, lips parted.
He cursed under his breath, jaw tightening as he grabbed a handful of the pictures from the ground. Another gust tore one from his grip, but he didn’t chase it.
“Son of a bitch,” Everett muttered, staring at the photo like it had just ruined his life.
Which it perhaps had.
Griff watched him carefully. Not just the anger. The panic. The calculation. The way Everett’s gaze flicked between the photos and them, already trying to figure out what came next.
Everett’s shoulders rose and fell with a few sharp breaths. Then he straightened his shirt, smoothed a hand down his chest, and forced his mouth into something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“They’re fake,” he said, voice low now, almost smooth. “Obviously fake.”
He stepped toward Lily, reaching for the photo she still held. “Let me see that.”
Lily didn’t move. Her fingers tightened around the image. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small evidence bag, sliding the photo inside without a word.
Then she crouched, started gathering the others.
While he kept watch around them, Griff followed suit, moving to intercept Everett before he could grab more. He took the ones clutched in the man’s hand, sliding them from his grip with deliberate calm. Everett didn’t fight him, but his jaw flexed hard enough to crack teeth.
“What the hell are you going to do with those?” Everett snapped. “They’re fake. This is some kind of sick prank. You think I’d be stupid enough to—”
“We’ll send them to the lab.” Griff cut in, voice even.
Everett sneered. “So some tech can waste time proving the obvious?”
Griff met his eyes. “They’ll determine if they’re fake. And they’ll check for prints.”
Everett’s nostrils flared. He glanced around the lot like he was checking for witnesses, then snapped, “I’ll see about those going to the lab.
” He pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up in his hand.
“Even if they’re fake, I don’t want some tech getting off on this kind of smut.
It’s disgusting.” He punched in a number, muttering, “I’m calling my lawyer. ”
Griff didn’t respond. Neither did Lily.
They kept working.
The wind had scattered the photos into bushes, under the edge of a parked truck, and halfway down the sidewalk. Griff moved with quiet efficiency, retrieving each one, sliding them into evidence bags. Lily worked beside him, methodical and silent.
Some of the images were more than suggestive. They weren’t just flirty or foreplay. They were graphic. Clothes pushed aside, angles caught in the grain of low light. They didn’t look posed. Didn’t look staged.
Whoever took them had been close. Or had a long lens and a purpose.
Griff slid another into a bag and glanced toward Lily. Her face was unreadable, but her grip on the bag was tight.
Everett paced near the front of the building, phone to his ear, his voice rising into clipped, furious tones.
Griff tuned him out. Whatever Everett said wasn’t going to stop what came next. These photos were evidence now, and if they were indeed unaltered, then it proved Everett had lied when he’d been questioned about Hannah’s murder and said he had hardly known her.
Lily bent to pick up the last photo, catching it just before the wind took it. She straightened, holding the image between two fingers like it might burn her.
She glanced at it, then handed it to Griff with a muttered, “I don’t know whether to blush or gag. He’s old enough to be her father.”
Griff took the photo, slid it into a fresh evidence bag. He couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
When their eyes met, the humor in hers flickered into something else. Something low and quiet and real.
The air shifted.
He felt it, sharp and hot under the cold wind. That unwanted, inconvenient heat between them flared again, sudden and unwelcome, the kind that tightened things low and made a man think of everything but evidence bags and crime scenes.
Griff cursed himself silently and looked away. Now was not the time. But the tension lingered, pulsing just under the surface, refusing to be ignored.
The low purr of an engine broke the uneasy silence, and Griff turned toward the entrance of the lot as a sleek, dark blue luxury sedan eased into a space near Everett’s truck. It was the kind of car you didn’t see much in Outlaw Ridge. Polished, quiet, expensive without needing to shout about it.
The driver’s door opened, and Catherine Langston stepped out.
She moved with a kind of effortless poise, her blond hair swept back into a twist, pearl earrings glinting in the morning light. She wore a tailored cream coat, heels too sharp for the cracked pavement, and the kind of expression that could turn a room cold.
Former beauty queen. That’s what people said.
But what struck Griff wasn’t her looks. It was her eyes, icy and sharp. Hard as steel.
Everett lowered his phone, his voice shifting to something that sounded like forced charm. “Catherine. Didn’t expect you in this early.”
Griff caught the flicker of tension behind his smile.
Everett cleared his throat, gesturing vaguely to the lot. “Someone vandalized the property. Left a bunch of fake photos scattered out here. I’ve already called our attorney.”
Catherine didn’t answer him.
The woman walked straight toward Lily and Griff, her heels clicking on the pavement. She didn’t reach for anything, but her gaze dropped to the photo Lily still held, now sealed in a clear evidence bag.
The image left nothing to the imagination.
Everett. Hannah. Both faces visible. Both bare-assed naked and with Everett going doggy style on Hannah.
Catherine stared at it, her expression unreadable. She lifted her head, glanced slowly around the parking lot, then turned her gaze back to Lily.
“Let’s take this inside,” she said. Calm. Cool. Not even a flicker of emotion in her voice.
Catherine didn’t wait for Everett to catch up. She moved across the lot with brisk, purposeful steps, heels clicking with every stride. Without a word, she pulled a key fob from her coat pocket and unlocked the office door.
Griff followed, his attention split. Not once had Catherine looked around the parking lot. No glance to the hedges or the street, no sign of concern that someone might still be watching—or that the person who had scattered those photos might still be nearby.
He looked up at the building’s facade.
No exterior security cameras.
Everett had the cash to put cameras on every corner, but there wasn’t a single one Griff could see. Either arrogance or avoidance. Either way, he made a mental note to check for neighboring businesses that might have footage.
They stepped inside.
The warmth hit first, followed by the quiet hum of recessed lighting and the faint smell of expensive coffee. The lobby was all clean lines and polished surfaces. Neutral tones, leather seating. The kind of place meant to impress clients without trying too hard.
The receptionist desk sat just inside the entrance, sleek and empty.
Griff gestured to it. “Who works here?”
Everett, still hovering near the door, muttered, “Holly Duran. She’s not due in until ten.”
Catherine didn’t wait. She led them down a short hallway, heels muffled by plush carpeting, and opened the door to a private office. Not Everett’s.
It was hers.
The space was as precise and elegant as the woman who owned it. Clean white walls, matte black trim, a desk of dark oak with nothing out of place. A bookshelf lined one wall, filled with awards and financial reports. A glass case displayed framed photos—charity events, ribbon cuttings, fundraisers.
Catherine stepped behind the desk, gesturing to the chairs in front of it without sitting. Griff took one. Lily the other.
Everett lingered by the window, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Everett crossed his arms and leaned against the windowsill, his eyes on the parking lot outside even as he spoke.
“The photos are a prank. Annoying, sure, but harmless.”
Griff shifted in his seat, his voice even. “Maybe not harmless. Someone is targeting Deputy Oliver. And now Rhett Hale’s been shot. Both have ties to the original murder investigation.”
Everett let out a short, annoyed huff, like the entire conversation was wasting his morning. But Catherine’s gaze sharpened. She was watching Griff now, not dismissing a word.
“I assume the photos will be tested,” she said.
“They will,” Griff replied with a nod.
“They’re fake,” Everett snapped again, louder this time, but no one acknowledged it.