Page 34 of Love Me Fearless

“It’s a burner. Which means without Marin’s actual phone, the content of those texts isn’t available to us.”

Though I’m a skilled operative, I have zero skills when it comes to this stuff. “Any chance that kid, Troy, is involved?”

Zach turns into the old weigh station and parks next to Mom’s truck. “We really don’t know anything, except that they’re close friends.” He huffs a sigh. “Or were.”

I remember the desperation in Troy’s voice. Almost panic. “Maybe he found out about the unknown guy texting her. Or vice versa.”

“We’re not ruling anything out yet, but Troy has an airtight alibi for most of the day and also last night.”

In other words, Zach and his team are way ahead of me. “Keep me posted?”

He nods, then sends me a curious glance. “Notice you talking to Jeremy Fisher. Are you two still close?”

“Not really. When he left the Air Force and moved home, we sort of lost touch. Why?”

Zach taps on the steering wheel, like he’s thinking. “He tried to get a job with Finn River Sheriff’s Department, but it didn’t work out. I thought you might know why.”

“He worked in security at Travis, but I haven’t really talked to him since he left.”

“Huh.”

I gather my soaking-wet pack from the floor.

“Any updates on your mom?” Zach asks as I reach for the door.

I huff a heavy sigh. “She’s coming home today.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yeah, though she’s supposed to rest.”

Zach grunts. “Sounds like you’re going to have your hands full.”

“Don’t I know it.”

We lock eyes for an instant before I open the door. Zach gives me a wave as he pulls through and exits, speeding off for the station and what will likely be a long night.

Chapter Nine

“Hay delivery is coming Sunday,”Mom says as I escort her to the couch. “And we’ve got to get the zinnia seeds in by this weekend. Unless it snows again. We might have to start them in the greenhouse if this weather?—”

“You realize there’s no ‘you’ in this ‘we’ you keep speaking of, right?” I say, crossing my arms. On the coffee table are books of crossword puzzles and several novels, plus a brown gift bag containing some kind of yarn tangle, the long blue needles poking out of it at odd angles. I’ve vacuumed the house, dusted the couch cushions, renewed our subscription to the cable TV networks that she let lapse two years ago, washed the spare blankets, and stocked up on her favorite snacks…

“I can at least?—”

“No.”

She glares at me.

“Everything you need is right here.” I open my arms to take in the small living room that has also doubled as a seedling sanctuary, baby animal nursery, and a staging area for peach canning, jam making, and pickling.

With a sigh, she slumps into the couch.

“You hungry? I have sandwich fixings, or I could scramble some eggs.”

“This is weird, Rye.”

“I know.” My chest tightens seeing her on the couch when her normal is Mach 9. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”

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