Chapter 37 Lure
Lure
Scout
Scout settled into his personal Jeep Wrangler a few houses down from Darcy’s cottage on Oak Street. He hadn’t brought the cruiser—too obvious. Tonight was surveillance.
Burke’s face came to mind—the happiness he carried when he was around Darcy, and the shadow of worry that had settled once they realized someone was watching her. Scout intended to put an end to that worry, and soon.
Night pressed in on Oak Street. Porch lights glowed at Darcy’s, while the corner streetlight flickered, throwing a sickly strobe across the backyard.
So far, it had been quiet—ordinary neighborhood traffic: a pizza delivery for the Wilsons, a jogger cutting home, then stillness as the houses buttoned up for the night.
Scout took a slow sip from his dented thermos, the bitter coffee anchoring him. He flipped open his battered notebook with a thumb; paper was steady, real—never glitched, never crashed, never crumpled under courtroom cross-examination.
Out his window, a gray cat glided along the fence, tail curving through the air like a question mark. He’d seen Burke rattled before, but never like this—the kind of worry that came from caring too much.
The slam of a distant screen door jolted his focus, followed by the drone of a dryer buzzer bleeding into the summer hush. It was all about reading the neighborhood—once you did, you caught the slightest ripple of change.
He marked the time when Mrs. Wilson’s porch light clicked on and off twice—a goofy little neighborhood-watch signal she swore was subtle and everyone on Oak pretended not to notice. Bless her heart. People like the Wilsons kept this street stitched tight.
Then Scout noticed it. A silver Toyota Tacoma rolled past, heading for the end of the block before turning left.
Two minutes later, it crept back by, slower.
Shielded by his Wrangler’s dark tint, Scout studied it carefully.
The truck parked five cars down from Darcy’s backyard.
No plate visible, just the gleam of silver under the streetlight before it vanished into shadow.
A prickle ran across the back of Scout’s neck.
The tag light was out; he couldn’t read the plate.
Could be nothing—but his gut said different.
The Tacoma’s engine idled low and rough, the kind of sound that crawled under your ribs.
Smoke curled from a cracked window—cigarette, or nerves.
The driver sat there for more than two hours. Waiting. Watching.
Scout forced himself to stay put. He wanted to approach, but if this was the guy, he needed to know where he went and who he was.
Inside Darcy’s house, the lights finally blinked off—she must be turning in for the night. Out front, Deputy Sara Parker’s cruiser rolled by on her routine check, headlights sweeping the cottage.
The Tacoma shifted into gear, easing away from the curb. Scout grabbed his radio and keyed his mic.
“Sara, where are you?”
“Just pulled back out onto Main,” Parker answered. “Why?”
“A silver Toyota Tacoma just left from behind Darcy’s house. Slide in behind him on Maple. Don’t spook him. See where he goes.”
“10-4,” Sara replied, her voice steady. “On it.”
Sara
Sara eased onto Maple Street, headlights low, trailing far enough back not to raise suspicion. The silver Tacoma rolled ahead, steady and deliberate. She kept her breathing even, hands loose on the wheel, every nerve alive. Easy, Parker. You spook him, you lose him.
At the edge of town, the truck pulled into the lot of Hotel Sylva. Sara stayed casual, drove past without hesitation, but her eyes flicked quick enough to note the stall: third from the corner, tucked under a broken lamp. The driver didn’t get out.
She passed the office slowly. Flyers curled in the display rack—Trout Fest, a church barbecue up Cullowhee way, fall-color drives. The clerk inside—radio murmuring—barely looked up. She didn’t stop, just rolled on through, circled back onto the main road, and pulled over two blocks down.
Sara made a mental punch list for morning: swing by the office, ask nicely for the exterior-cam footage, get a consent form signed, and if the clerk balked, loop Burke for a formal request. Half this job was keeping it quiet so the right people kept talking.
Keying her mic, she called softly, “Tag secured. Sending it your way.”
Scout jotted the plate number into his notebook: rental pool—Charlotte. He ran it through dispatch—confirmed pickup at Asheville Regional. Smart. Harder to trace.
He thumbed a message to Sara: Bring coffee in the morning. Request footage for the last forty-eight hours on the front lot and office. If he balks, I’ll sign the request.
Scout exhaled, tension easing at last. They had him. The game had shifted. The danger wasn’t circling anymore—it was already here.
Evan
Behind the wheel, Evan watched the rearview. The glow of headlights had tightened his nerves for half a mile. Cruiser. He was sure of it. For one sharp heartbeat, his hand hovered near the gearshift, ready to bolt.
But then the patrol car rolled right past, never even slowing.
A smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned back, tapping ash into the dark. Small-town cops. Predictable. Undertrained.
He’d played this game before—in bigger cities, with hunters sharper than these. None of them touched him. Sylva wouldn’t either.
Still, he checked the mirror again—habit or paranoia, even he couldn’t tell which—and cracked the window, letting smoke drift into the night. Tomorrow, he’d get closer.
With a cheap hotel pen, he drew a map on a napkin: Oak Street here, the back lane there, the museum up the hill, Lucy’s on Main, Hotel Sylva on the edge.
He drew arrows where he’d seen the patrol car go and dotted the places most people didn’t look—alleys, service doors, the cut-through behind the antique store.
Same game, different town. The trick’s always the same: make yourself part of the scenery until the scenery opens doors.
Burke
Back at the station, Burke shut down for the night, exhaustion heavy but instincts sharper than sleep. One last loop, he told himself.
He slipped down the front street, headlights grazing Darcy’s cottage—dark, peaceful… but not enough.
Circling to the back, Burke rolled past slowly. Scout’s Wrangler was tucked deep in the shadows. As Burke lowered his window, their eyes locked.
Burke gave the slightest nod—an unspoken bond, forged in grade school, hardened at the academy, tested on nights when their lives depended on each other.
Scout dipped his chin in silent reply. No words were necessary.
Burke drove home lighter. Darcy was safer tonight—not because of the badge, but because Scout was there. Still, unease lingered beneath the calm. Safety, he knew, was only ever temporary—especially when danger had already learned her name.