Chapter 22
Lucas
The photo of Maya and me sits on Sheriff Morrison's desk like evidence in a murder trial.
I resist the urge to crumple it and throw it across his office.
Instead, I lean back in the uncomfortable plastic chair and watch Tom study the image with the kind of methodical attention that makes me grateful he's on our side.
"Bastard doesn't know when to stop." Morrison adjusts his reading glasses. "This angle suggests he was positioned across the street, the alley between Henderson's hardware and the old print shop."
My jaw clenches. "How long do you think he's been back in town?"
"Hard to say. Could be since the assault incident, could be longer.
" Tom sets down the photo and pulls out a manila folder thick with documentation.
"Pierce was served with a restraining order.
No contact with Maya. Stay away from Willowbridge.
No surveillance. That unsigned festival text wasn't enough proof, but this?
" He taps the photo. "Surveillance evidence with his digital signature? Much more incriminating."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a surge of protective anger. "So you can arrest him?"
"If we can find him. Pierce is smart. No local motels and no car sightings since yesterday." Morrison leans forward. "Festival's next week. If he's planning something, that's when he'll strike."
The thought of Evan disrupting the festival—Maya's first official public appearance as my girlfriend—makes my hands curl into fists. "What do you need from me?"
"Your cooperation with additional security measures. And Maya's." Tom leans forward, his expression serious. "We need her to understand how real this threat is."
"She knows," I say. Maya's been putting on a brave face, but I can see the fear she's trying to hide.
"Does she? Because this guy's ramping up. The photo proves he means business, he's getting bolder. Men like Pierce don't just give up and go home. His ego is bruised and he has resources."
"So what's the plan for the festival?"
"Extra deputies, both uniformed and plain clothes.
Security cameras at all entrances and exits.
We'll have his photo distributed to every volunteer and vendor.
" Tom stands up, moving to a large map of downtown Willowbridge pinned to his wall.
"But here's what I need you to understand—with crowds that size, festival chaos, multiple entry points, it's impossible to guarantee one hundred percent security. "
The admission fills me with dread. "You're saying he could get to her."
"I'm saying we need Maya to be smart about this.
Stay close to you or other trusted people.
Don't wander off alone. Be aware of her surroundings.
" Morrison turns back to me, and his expression is sympathetic but firm.
"And Lucas? You need to be prepared for the possibility that this doesn't end quietly. "
I know what he's not saying. That I might have to protect Maya myself. That if Evan gets close enough to hurt her, the law might not be fast enough to stop him.
"I understand," I tell him.
I walk back to the bar with Morrison's warnings echoing in my head. When I push through the front door, the sight that greets me makes me pause.
Maya sits at her corner table, laptop open, but she's not alone.
Mrs. Henderson has claimed the opposite chair, both women bent over a massive spreadsheet, talking animatedly about vendor coordination.
June's perched on a stool she's dragged over, a notebook in her lap, while Harper leans against the table with her arms crossed, clearly in full planning mode.
"No, if we move the craft vendors to the south side, we get better foot traffic flow from parking. See?" She turns the laptop so the others can see whatever diagram she's created.
"Maya, you're a genius," Mrs. Henderson declares, clapping her hands together. "I've been organizing this festival for twelve years, and I never thought of mapping the traffic patterns like this."
The sight of Maya fully integrated into the festival planning committee, being praised for her contributions—it does something to my chest that has nothing to do with the threat hanging over us and everything to do with watching the woman I adore find her place in my world.
"How's it going over here?" I ask, approaching their makeshift war room.
Maya looks up at me with bright eyes and a smile that could power the whole town.
"Lucas! Look at this." She spins the laptop toward me, and I see an incredibly detailed festival layout with color-coded sections, traffic flow arrows, and what appears to be optimization algorithms. "I've been working with Mrs. Henderson to restructure the vendor placement for maximum efficiency and customer experience. "
"It's remarkable," Mrs. Henderson adds, beaming at Maya. "She's increased our projected revenue by fifteen percent just by rearranging the booths."
"Not just that," June chimes in, consulting her notebook. "She's created a social media campaign that's already generated twice as much engagement as last year's entire promotional budget."
Pride swells in my chest as I watch Maya blush at the praise. This is what she was meant for. Not some soulless corporate job in Seattle or Portland, but this. Using her skills to build something meaningful for people who appreciate her.
"And Lucas," Harper says, fixing me with one of her knowing looks, "Maya's been fielding calls from local businesses who want to hire her for consulting work. Apparently, word's gotten around about her festival website and digital marketing work."
"Really?" I look at Maya, who's trying to downplay Harper's announcement but can't hide her excitement.
"It's nothing major," she says, but her eyes are sparkling. "Just a few small projects. The library wants help with their online catalog system, and Dr. Matthews wants a patient portal for his practice. Local stuff."
Local stuff. As in, reasons to stay. Roots being planted. A future being built right here in Willowbridge.
I lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in her scent and feeling something settle in my chest that's been restless for weeks. "I'm proud of you."
"We all are," Mrs. Henderson says firmly. "Maya, dear, you're the breath of fresh air this town needed."
***
The warm bubble of domestic bliss bursts a few days later when my phone rings at 7 AM. Sheriff Morrison.
"Lucas, I need you and Maya to come down to the station," Tom's voice is grim. "We've got overnight security footage from the festival grounds you need to see."
Twenty minutes later, Maya and I are standing in Morrison's office, watching municipal security camera footage that makes my blood run cold. Clear as day on the surveillance footage, a figure moving through the partially constructed festival booths at 3 AM.
Same dark jacket and baseball cap, but this time he's not observing. He's methodically walking the grounds. He's photographing booth locations, checking sight lines, testing tent stability.
"Bastard," I mutter, watching him pause at the main stage area and pull out what looks like a measuring tape.
"Lucas, what is it?" Maya's voice is tighter now, fear creeping in despite her attempt to stay calm.
Morrison turns the monitor so Maya can see the screen clearly, and I watch the color drain from her face as she recognizes Evan's distinctive build and movement patterns.
"He's scouting the festival grounds," Morrison says, his voice professionally controlled.
The footage shows Evan spending nearly twenty minutes examining the layout, paying particular attention to exit routes and areas with limited visibility. When he finally leaves, he does so through the back alley, the same route that would take him past my bar.
"This was taken six hours ago," Maya whispers, staring at the timestamp. "He was here, right outside, while we were sleeping."
The thought of him being that close to her while she was vulnerable makes every protective instinct I have roar to life.
Morrison scrolls through more footage. "Multiple clips over three days show surveillance. He's mapped the entire area, documented patterns, recorded foot traffic timing during setup."
"He knows everything," Maya says, her voice barely audible. "The festival layout, where all the blind spots are."
"That's enough." I turn to Morrison. "What's our next move?"
But Maya stands up, her brown eyes blazing like I've never seen before. Not with fear, but fury.
"No, Lucas. Look at me." She waits until I meet her gaze. "He wants us scared. He wants us to cancel, to hide, to let him control our lives." Her chin lifts in that stubborn way I love. "I'm not giving him that satisfaction."
"Maya—"
"I'm going to that festival," she says firmly. "We're going to that festival. Together. As planned." Her voice drops to something fierce and determined. "He doesn't get to steal this from us."
Looking at her—my brave, brilliant Maya—I feel something shift inside me. She's right. We've come too far to let some sick bastard dictate our future.
"You're right," I tell her. "He wants us scared. I refuse to let him get his way."