The silence in the room was a physical thing, a suffocating weight that pressed down on my shoulders and stole the air from my lungs.
It was made of dust motes dancing in the single beam of the desk lamp, the faint hum of my audio equipment, and the ghost of my sister’s laughter.
But most of all, it was made of the glossy, damning photograph lying between us on the scarred wooden table.
Nash hadn’t moved in ten minutes. He sat opposite me, his large frame folded into one of my flimsy chairs, his gaze fixed on the image.
Not on the grainy figure of Julian Devereaux, his face twisted in a snarl as he loomed over Hannah.
Not even on my sister, her expression a mixture of defiance and fear at the edge of the cypress swamp. Nash’s eyes were locked on the third person.
The shadow in the uniform. A young, unmistakable Deputy Ben Carter.
My Ben. The boy who’d given me my first kiss. The man who’d held me while I sobbed.
The sheriff who had looked me in the eye and promised, promised, he would find justice for Hannah.
A raw, ragged sound tore from my throat, half-sob, half-gasp. Nash’s head snapped up, his stormy gray eyes finding mine.
The hard planes of his face were etched with a grim understanding that offered no comfort, only a shared darkness.
“He knew,” I whispered, the words like swallowing glass. “All this time. He knew.”
“He was a kid, Callie,” Nash said, his voice a low rumble. “A rookie deputy. The Devereauxs own this town. He was probably scared out of his mind.”
“He let her die,” I countered, my voice rising, shaking with a fury so potent it felt like it might burn me up from the inside.
I shoved back from the table, the legs of my chair screeching against the floorboards. I started pacing the small confines of my podcast studio, the cluttered space suddenly feeling like a cage.
“He stood there in the shadows and watched Julian Devereaux threaten my sister, and he did nothing. He said nothing. For ten years, he let our family break apart, let my parents wither from the not-knowing. He held my hand at her funeral, Nash!”
The betrayal was a living entity, coiling in my gut. It was worse than just discovering the killer.
This felt like a second murder—the murder of memory, of trust, of the last shred of innocence I had left.
Nash rose and moved to block my path, his presence filling the room, solid and unyielding. “I know. It’s unforgivable.”
He didn’t offer platitudes. He never did. He just stated the grim truth, and in a twisted way, I was grateful for it.
My frantic energy suddenly coalesced, sharpening into a single, terrifying point. An idea, cold and clear, bloomed in the wreckage of my grief.
“The Founder’s Day Gala,” I said, my eyes finding his. “It’s this Saturday.”
A frown creased his brow. “What about it?”
“The Devereauxs host it. It’s their crown jewel event. The entire town, anyone who matters, will be there. Drunk on free champagne and self-importance.”
I stopped pacing, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “He’ll be there. Julian. Preening like the peacock he is, safe in the center of his family’s power.”
Nash’s eyes narrowed, tracking the frantic, dangerous energy sparking in my own. “Callie, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking he’s arrogant,” I said, the plan solidifying, taking shape with every word.
“He’s unstable. He got away with murder, and he’s been flaunting it ever since. People like that, they can’t resist a captive audience. They need to gloat.”
“Get to the point.” His voice was tight, a warning.
I took a deep breath.
“I’m going to be his captive audience. I’ll get him alone, corner him. I’ll wear a lavalier mic, stream it live to my podcast feed. No edits, no delays. Just his voice, his confession, broadcast to thousands of my subscribers before his father’s lawyers can even file a motion.”
The silence that followed was more profound than before. Nash stared at me as if I’d just suggested we fly to the moon.
Then, his expression hardened into pure, undiluted fury.
“Absolutely not,” he bit out, each word a chip of ice.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind? This isn’t a podcast episode, Callie. This is a murderer. A man who beat your sister to death and threw her in a swamp. You can’t just walk up and poke the monster.”
“It’s the only way!” I shot back, jabbing a finger toward the photo.
“The D.A. won’t touch this. It’s a grainy, ten-year-old picture. Devereaux’s lawyers will bury it, claim it’s doctored, claim Ben was there to break it up. But a confession? A live confession, broadcast for the world to hear? There’s no burying that.”
“And what happens when he realizes you’re recording him?” Nash took a step closer, crowding me against the soundproofing panels on the wall.
His scent—cedar and something uniquely, intensely him—filled my senses. “What do you think he’ll do to you, Callie? The bait in your little trap?”
“That’s why he’ll do it! He’ll think I’m just some silly girl with a crush, nosing around a story that’s too big for her. His ego won’t let him see the threat until it’s too late.”
“His ego is what makes him dangerous!” Nash’s hands came up, gripping my shoulders. His touch was firm, desperate, not meant to hurt but to anchor me, to make me see reason.
“I will not let you walk into that viper’s nest alone to get yourself killed.”
The heat of his palms seeped through the thin fabric of my shirt, a stark contrast to the icy resolve in my veins. I looked up into his face, into the fierce, protective storm in his eyes.
It was a look no one had given me in a very long time. It wasn’t pity. It was a raw, possessive fear.
Fear for me. And it almost broke me.
Almost.
“He took my sister, Nash,” I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears.
“Ben stood by and let him. They all covered it up. The lies have been strangling this town, strangling me, for a decade. I am not asking for your permission. I’m doing this.”
His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering along the sharp line. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
The air between us crackled, the argument shifting into something else, something deeper and far more volatile.
The danger of the plan, the adrenaline, the raw emotion—it all swirled together, pulling us into a vortex.
“You’re the most stubborn, reckless woman I’ve ever met,” he growled, his voice a low vibration that resonated deep in my chest.
“Then you know you can’t stop me,” I challenged, my chin lifting.
For a long moment, we stood locked in that stalemate, the tension stretching taut. I could feel the thrum of his pulse through his fingertips.
I could see the battle raging in his eyes—the instinct to lock me in this room until the gala was over, and the dawning realization that I would find a way out.
That I would go, with or without him.
Finally, with a curse that was more of a surrender, he let out a harsh breath. His grip on my shoulders gentled, his thumbs stroking over my collarbones in a gesture that was shockingly tender.
“Fine,” he said, the word ripped from him. “Fine. You go. You be the bait.”
Relief, sharp and dizzying, washed over me. “Nash—”
“But you’re not doing it alone.” His eyes were burning, pinning me to the wall.
“If you walk into the darkness, I’m walking with you. I’ll be your shadow, Callie. He won’t get within five feet of you without me being closer. I’ll have eyes on you every second. You’ll wear an earpiece, I’ll be on the other end. You give me a code word, one word, and I’m pulling you out, consequences be damned. Is that understood?”
My breath hitched.
This wasn’t just an agreement. It was a vow.
A promise forged in the face of death, and it was the most terrifyingly intimate thing I had ever experienced.
The danger of facing Julian Devereaux suddenly seemed matched by the danger of standing here with Nash, his body a breath away from mine, his promise echoing in the space between us.
“Okay,” I breathed, the word barely audible. “Okay.”
His gaze was intense, searching mine for any sign of hesitation. Seeing none, he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
His hand slid from my shoulder, up my neck, his calloused thumb coming to rest at the corner of my mouth. My pulse leaped, a frantic, wild thing against his skin.
“Promise me, Callie,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that made my knees weak. “Promise me you’ll stick to the plan. That you won’t do anything stupidly heroic.”
His thumb traced the line of my lower lip. It was a touch that was both a comfort and a brand, a claim laid in the quiet of my studio.
The fight had drained away, leaving behind this raw, aching current of awareness.
The air was thick with unspoken things, with the terror of what we were about to do and the undeniable force pulling us together.
“I promise,” I whispered.
That was all it took.
He closed the final inch between us, his mouth capturing mine.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was fierce, desperate.
It was the culmination of weeks of simmering tension, of shared secrets and guarded emotions. It tasted of his frustration, my grief, and a mutual, desperate need to feel something other than fear.
His other hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against mine, staking a claim.
I moaned into his mouth, my hands coming up to grip his forearms, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a collapsing world.
This was more than a kiss. It was a pact sealed in fire.
It was his promise not to let me face the darkness alone, and my acceptance. It was reckless and consuming, and in that moment, I didn’t care.
For the first time in ten years, I wasn’t entirely alone in my fight.
When he finally broke the kiss, we were both breathless.
He rested his forehead against mine, his ragged breaths ghosting across my swollen lips. His gray eyes, now dark with emotion, held mine.
“Saturday,” he said, his voice rough. “We end this.”