Chapter 23
HARPER
Isat on the sectional in Connor's den, my body curled into the corner cushions like I could make myself small enough to disappear into the furniture.
Chester was at my feet, his golden head rested on his paws while his dark eyes watched me with that uncanny awareness dogs had when their people were falling apart.
The soft fleece blanket that Connor kept on the back of the couch was wrapped around my shoulders, smelling faintly of him.
But even wrapped in softness and tucked away in Connor's house with people who loved me surrounding me like a protective barrier, I couldn't stop shaking.
Sheriff Davies sat in the leather armchair across from me with his notepad balanced on one knee.
His weathered face was serious in that way that meant he brought bad news dressed up as progress.
He'd been talking for the past ten minutes, his gravelly voice explaining developments in the investigation, connections they'd found, evidence that was mounting into something that should have felt promising after how much they struggled to find anything before.
But the words kept slipping through my mind like water through a sieve, like my brain had developed holes where information used to stick.
I'd catch pieces, something about Morgan, security footage, records, but couldn't seem to string them together into coherent meaning, couldn't make the puzzle pieces fit into a picture that made sense.
Connor sat next to me, close enough that his thigh pressed against mine and even through the blanket his body heat seeped through layers of fleece.
One hand rested on my knee, squeezing gently with every important point Davies made, like he was trying to anchor me to reality through touch alone.
Grounding me. Reminding me I wasn't alone.
Because I did feel alone, like I was trapped in my own head with spiraling thoughts I couldn't escape, thoughts that circled like vultures waiting for me to finally collapse.
It had been three weeks since the boutique was destroyed.
Three weeks that felt simultaneously like three days and three years, like time had lost all meaning in the aftermath of watching everything I'd built reduced to glass and torn fabric.
Days had blurred together in a haze of insurance phone calls that went nowhere and evidence documentation that proved nothing and nights where I woke up gasping from dreams of shattering glass and hands grabbing me in the dark, pulling me under.
We'd done exactly what Connor said we would.
We'd gone home that first day and he'd let me fall apart in the safety of his house where no one could see, where I could cry until I couldn't breathe and scream into pillows and break down completely without an audience.
Then the next morning when I'd been numb enough to barely function, when the tears had finally stopped because I'd run out of them, we'd tackled the insurance claims together.
I'd been right about the timeline, unfortunately.
Six weeks minimum before they'd even begin processing the claim, the adjuster had said with the kind of professional sympathy that meant he'd delivered this news before.
Six weeks of limbo where my business sat dark and empty on Main Street like a corpse, revenue stopped completely, bills still coming due with the relentless regularity of things that didn't care if you were drowning.
Connor had suggested gently, carefully, like he was afraid I'd shatter if he pushed too hard, that I just stay home for a while. Take time to recover. Let him handle the financial pressure while I focused on healing, whatever that meant.
So that's what I'd done. Or tried to do, anyway.
We'd spent two days cleaning out the boutique, and those had been the worst days of my life aside from the fire itself.
Sorting through damaged merchandise with hands that shook, salvaging what little could be saved which wasn't much.
We ended up throwing away thousands of dollars of destroyed inventory.
Connor and Jaxon had boarded up the front windows with plywood, covering the wreckage from the outside and hung a sign on the door that said it was closed for renovations.
The whole town knew what had really happened, of course. The lie fooled no one when half of Main Street had seen the Sheriff's vehicles that morning, and had watched me being led to Jaxon's Jeep looking like I'd been hit by a truck.
But it was easier than admitting the truth. Easier than hanging a sign that said I was closed because my business had been destroyed by someone out of spite. Now the boutique sat dark and empty, a ghost of what it had been. A monument to my failure.
The thought that circled constantly like a shark I couldn't escape was when the next shoe would drop.
The possibilities were endless, and my brain helpfully provided them in vivid detail during every waking moment and most of my nightmares.
Would they come to the ranch next? Do what Silas had threatened and burn Connor's barn with his horses screaming inside?
Would they grab me off the street when I finally worked up the courage to go back to town?
Beat me into submission in some alley? Kill Connor the next time he drove anywhere alone because I'd been too stubborn to give them what they wanted?
The fear was constant, a living thing that had taken up residence in my chest and refused to leave.
“Harper?”
Connor's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts like a lifeline I wasn't sure I deserved.
His hand moved from my knee to cup my cheek, turning my face gently toward him with a touch so tender it made my throat tight.
His brown eyes were concerned, searching mine like he was trying to find me in whatever dark place I'd retreated to.
“I'm sorry,” I whispered, blinking back to the present like I was surfacing from underwater.
The den came back into focus, its warm wood paneling, the stone fireplace, the afternoon sunlight streaming through windows that overlooked pastures where horses grazed peacefully, oblivious to human disasters. “I was thinking.”
Understatement of the fucking year.
“It's okay, but you need to hear this, sweetheart.” Connor's voice was gentle but firm, the voice he used when he needed me to listen. His thumb brushed across my cheekbone in a touch meant to ground me in the present. “Davies has important information.”
I nodded, forcing myself to focus on the sheriff instead of the catastrophic futures my mind kept conjuring like my personal horror movie on repeat. “I'm listening. I'm sorry.”
“It's alright, Ms. Walsh.” Davies' expression was sympathetic in that practiced way that said he'd seen trauma before, had probably dealt with victims in shock more times than I wanted to know about. “I understand this is difficult. But what I'm about to tell you is important.”
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders and nodded again, digging my nails into my palms to keep myself present. Focus. Be here. Listen to the words instead of the fear.
“As I was saying,” Davies continued, his voice measured and calm in that deliberate way people used when they were trying not to spook you, “we've been looking into the possible connection between these men and Morgan Ashford. And we think we may have found something concrete.”
My heart rate picked up, adrenaline flooding my system in a rush that made my hands shake. Connor's hand returned to my knee, squeezing hard enough that it almost hurt.
“A few days before Silas came to the boutique and threatened you,” Davies said, flipping through his notepad with the careful precision of someone building a case, “Morgan's work computer at the county records office accessed detailed information about your ranch.
Property records, tax assessments, building layouts, security information that isn't typically public. The kind of detailed data someone would need if they were planning,” he paused, choosing his words carefully like they were landmines.
“Planning something against the property.”
The words hung in the air like a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I couldn't breathe properly. Morgan had been researching Connor's ranch. Right before Silas threatened to burn it down. Right before someone broke in and left blood on Connor's floor.
Oh God.
“Why would she need that information?” I asked, my voice coming out stronger than I felt, steadier than it had any right to be. “What reason would she have to be looking at ranch property records?”
“That's just it, she wouldn't have a reason.” Davies leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his expression grave.
“Her job doesn't involve reviewing private property information unless someone specifically requests it through official channels. And there were no work orders, no official requests for this data. She accessed it on her own, off the books, outside her normal job duties.”
“So she was feeding them information,” Connor said, his voice hard in a way I rarely heard, tight with barely controlled anger. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his stubble. “She was helping them target us.”
“That's what it looks like, yes.” Davies flipped another page in his notepad, and I had the sudden irrational urge to rip it from his hands and throw it in the fireplace.
“We also pulled security footage from multiple businesses along Main Street from the night of the boutique vandalism.
We couldn't get positive identifications of the individuals who actually entered the boutique because they were wearing masks and hoodies, kept their heads down like they knew where the cameras were, but we did capture something interesting.”