Chapter 12
More spring weather arrived in the morning as Laurel hopped out of Huck’s truck, a light rain drizzling the earth and releasing the fresh, sharp scent of pine and damp soil.
The snow in town had finally melted, although the jagged peaks surrounding them remained dusted with white.
Higher in the mountains, winter clung stubbornly, refusing to relinquish its hold.
Maybe it never would. And that was fine by her.
She liked the view. Something about the distant frost made the world feel clean, untouched by the messes she spent most of her days sorting out.
Huck shut his door and crossed around to meet her in front of Staggers Ice Creamery, his steps sure despite the slick ground.
They’d had a quiet night together, and she’d slept well. “Thanks for inviting me to stay last night,” she said, meaning it.
He looked down at her, his gaze steady, expression softening.
Today, he appeared strong and broad, wrapped in a flannel shirt that stretched over shoulders built for endurance and hard work.
The gray mist hanging in the air framed him, making the bourbon color of his eyes appear calm and mellow.
His facial muscles were relaxed, and his thick, dark hair had grown out a little longer than usual.
She wondered how often he remembered to get it cut, if at all.
He’d shaved the sharp, rugged line of his jaw, but she knew from experience that by midafternoon he’d have a five o’clock shadow, stubborn stubble determined to reassert itself by three o’clock. The thought amused her.
“What do you think about moving in with me?” he asked, his voice gruff as he opened the door for them.
She blinked, caught off guard by the question, her brain still groggy from the warmth of his bed and the rare luxury of sleep uninterrupted by nightmares or phone calls.
She’d been moving forward on her plans to build the barndominium on her mother’s property.
The blueprints were rough but coming together—something small but solid, efficient and functional.
She enjoyed living with Deidre, even if her mother’s brand of nosiness tended to veer into interrogation territory.
Still, her own space sounded nice. A place that was hers, maybe theirs, but that was a different sort of commitment.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, because honesty was easier than trying to wrap the answer up in polite evasion.
Huck swallowed. “We were making plans to move in together just a month ago.”
“Yes, but I was pregnant with your child. We both decided that was the best path for the baby.”
He looked away, a flicker passing through his eyes before he met hers again. “I understand that. But I think we should still make plans to move forward. With the two of us.”
She held his gaze, thinking through every scenario. It wasn’t stubbornness; it was survival. She’d never lived with a man before. Not really. Her last boyfriend had been, as Kate would put it, a jackass. The sort of man who couldn’t understand her dedication to her job.
But Huck was different. He understood the long hours, the unpredictability. He wasn’t threatened by her work because he had his own life, his own duties, his own frustrations to wrestle with. But he wanted something solid with her. That much was clear.
Often, their cases did cross paths, which could create a sort of conflict. More logistical than personal, though it could still scrape raw if left unchecked. But that had paled in comparison to what was best for the baby and the family they had been trying to form.
Now, there was no baby and no family. Just two people trying to pick up the pieces of what they’d been building.
She saw the hope in his eyes, a quiet determination that refused to be brushed aside. Huck didn’t do halfway. Not with his work, not with his feelings. And not with her.
The realization tightened her chest, but she forced herself to breathe through it. Focus. Process. Evaluate. The same methodical approach she applied to everything else, even when her emotions wanted to claw their way into the equation.
She’d made her life about duty and loyalty. To her job, her family, her principles. But Huck was asking her for something more. And maybe it was time she started figuring out what she really wanted.
“Just think about it. All right?” Huck’s voice remained steady.
“Of course I will.” Thinking about everything was what she did best. Weighing probabilities, considering angles, analyzing risk. But it was different when the subject of examination was her own life.
She left him in the vestibule, scanned her ID against the plate with a quick swipe, the small beep confirming access.
As Huck disappeared into his office, probably planning to pore over the stacks of files he kept like an unintentional barricade against the rest of the world, the outside door swung open behind her.
“Oh, wait, wait. Agent Snow, wait a second.”
The voice was familiar. She turned partially, keeping her hand on the open door to shut it at any moment.
Tim Kohnex strolled inside, his dog trailing behind him.
Kohnex was an ex-basketball player in his fifties, tall enough to make her feel like a kid.
His frame was wiry now, the kind of lean that spoke more of obsessive running than the muscle he’d once built on the court.
His gaze fixed on her with the sort of intensity that made most people back away.
“I think you’re here to see Captain Rivers at Fish and Wildlife.” Laurel’s hand remained on the door, fingers tight against the cool metal.
“No, I’m meeting him later at the church,” Kohnex said, his words quick, jumbled, as if he’d been rehearsing them. “But I wanted to talk to you. I need to warn you.”
It took effort not to roll her eyes, but the urge still flared.
She’d picked up that unfortunate habit from Kate’s girls, sassy teenagers who weren’t shy about expressing their disdain.
Not that they aimed it at her, but it was impossible not to absorb some of that attitude when she spent time with them.
“I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want to speak with you.”
He threw up his hands. “I am psychic, you know. Whether you believe me or not.”
“I do not,” Laurel said flatly. She’d dealt with enough con artists and self-proclaimed prophets to know the signs. Kohnex wore his madness with pride, like some kind of badge that excused his lack of boundaries.
He continued undeterred, his words tumbling out faster. “I had a dream about you the other night.” His eyes were wide, too bright. “It’s imperative that I speak with you.”
Laurel pivoted fully, planting her feet and putting her body between him and the door. No way was she allowing him up into her office. “Mr. Kohnex, I’ve asked you not to contact me.”
“I haven’t.” He spread his hands like a preacher delivering a sermon. “I’m running into you. That’s all.”
She glanced at her watch. “You have thirty seconds.”
He took a breath, relief flooding his expression. “The shooting the other day at the courthouse. I think that bullet was meant for you. Not Abigail.”
Laurel’s spine stiffened, her body instantly on alert. “That was a trained sniper.”
“Yes, but you look so much alike. Don’t you understand?
” Kohnex’s voice rose, his hands gesturing wildly like he could somehow shape the air between them into something coherent.
“From a distance, someone who didn’t know could mistake her for you.
I can feel the danger coming. Somebody wants you dead.
It’s a dark, oily, desperate anger that’s coiled and coming for you. ”
A thread of unease curled in her stomach, tight and unwelcome.
Not because she believed him, but because there was a logic buried somewhere in the manic pitch of his words.
From a distance, the resemblance between her and Abigail could be striking, especially to someone who hadn’t spent time around either of them.
“Your thirty seconds are up,” she said. She wasn’t about to let him see the doubt working its way through her mind.
“Just . . . be careful.” His shoulders slumped. “Please.”
Laurel glanced at her watch. “Don’t bother me again.”
Kohnex hesitated, a flicker of hesitation passing across his face before his features settled into something she almost wanted to label as pity. The sudden shift made her stomach clench, not with fear but with irritation.
“I also had a dream about the two of you,” Kohnex said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He wants something from you that you can’t give.”
“Excuse me?”
“He needs more.” Kohnex’s gaze bore into her, all fervor and sincerity. “He’ll always be unfulfilled with you. I’m so sorry to say that, but the wind never lies to me. Please, listen to me.”
She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. The gall of the man, to presume he knew anything about her relationship with Huck. About what either of them needed. And yet, his words needled her, probing old insecurities she’d kept buried under layers of professionalism and cool detachment.
Laurel had read about con artists who specialized in cold reading—spotting micro expressions, seizing on the smallest hint of hesitation, and spinning it into something that felt like truth.
It was an art form, really. A twisted, manipulative art form.
But it worked. Maybe Kohnex was better at it than she’d given him credit for.
The thing was, he’d hit on something real. Huck had asked her to move in with him. Asked her to build something with him beyond a night here and there or the tangled mess of cases that too often dictated their lives. She didn’t know if she could give him what he wanted.
But there was no way Kohnex could’ve known that.
“I just want what’s best for you,” Kohnex insisted, his voice lilting into something that might have sounded poetic to the right audience. “When the wind talks, one must listen.”
She gave him a short, curt nod. “Let me know if the wind says anything about the upcoming game between the Mariners and the Dodgers. I’d like to wager a bet on that.
” Before he could retort, she turned on her heel and shut the door behind her.
The heavy click of the latch was more satisfying than it should’ve been.
The stairs up to her office creaked underfoot, their groan a familiar sound that did little to chase away the unease prickling at the back of her neck. Kohnex’s words were ridiculous. Complete nonsense. Yet they itched at her skin like a rash she couldn’t quite ignore.
The idea that someone could be gunning for her instead of Abigail wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. That sort of mistake happened. The shooter might’ve hit the wrong target. But Abigail had enemies. Not Laurel. Not the kind that aimed snipers at courthouse steps in broad daylight.
And that other comment, about Huck . . . Laurel shoved the thought aside before it could take root. Huck was solid. Steady. The kind of man who didn’t need games or manipulation to say what he meant.
But Kohnex had managed to find the concern that lurked in her mind when she was awake at three a.m., staring at the ceiling and doubting herself, like any human. Kohnex had been trying to bother her, and she wouldn’t let him.
That didn’t mean he was wrong.