Page 57 of The Reaper
He shook his head once, firm. “It wasn’t me.”
The certainty in his tone cut through me, solid and unshakable. Whatever else Caleb Dane was, he wasn’t the one who had left that note. Him being here with me now—open, present—put the suspicion to rest. And somehow, knowing it hadn’t been him left me both relieved and unsettled all over again.
“It was left where?”
“Right there.” I pointed to the hostess stand. “It wasn’t here earlier. I’ve been in and out of this space all night. I would’ve seen it.”
His eyes darkened as he scanned the entry, then the restaurant beyond it. “Doors locked?”
“Yes. But the staff just left twenty minutes ago. It could’ve been anyone. One of them, maybe.” I heard the denial in my voice, how fast I was trying to explain it away. But it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.
Caleb moved past me, checking the latch on the front door, the windows, the side exit by the kitchen. Every motion was deliberate, methodical.
“I don’t like this,” he muttered.
“I don’t either.”
“Someone got close enough to leave this while you were here. That’s not casual. That’s professional.”
I swallowed. “I thought I was imagining things when I felt watched. I brushed it off. But now …”
Caleb turned toward me, the muscles in his arms taut under his shirt, his stance shifting. “Do you have cameras?”
I shook my head, hesitating. “The other night by the benches—near the seawall—I thought I saw someone. Actually, I’ve wondered if it was you. Like the note, I wanted to believe it was you. But I couldn’t be sure.”
His eyes softened, though his jaw worked tight. “It wasn’t me by the benches. If I’d been that close to you, I wouldn’t have just stood in the shadows. I would’ve walked right up and spoken to you.” His hand brushed mine, deliberate, grounding. “You’re too damn beautiful for me to pretend otherwise.”
Heat climbed my neck, conflicting with the chill running my spine. “Did you ever see me … before you came to dinner?”
“I did.” He didn’t flinch. “From your upstairs window one night. I admit that. I couldn’t stay away. But out there, by the benches? That wasn’t me.”
The air between us thickened, a strange mix of relief and unease. Whoever had been watching me that night—it hadn’t been Caleb.
“Cameras?” he asked again, his tone serious.
“Only in the kitchen and back prep area. Nothing out front.”
“We’ll fix that tomorrow.”
“You sound like you’re moving in.”
“I’m making sure you’re safe. If someone’s targeting you?—”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I said too quickly, but even as I spoke the words, I didn’t believe them.
Caleb stepped in closer, the note still clutched in his hand. “This wasn’t meant for the restaurant. It was meant for you.”
That truth sank into me with a cold, slick weight.
“I didn’t want to overreact,” I said, softer now, ashamed. “I’ve worked so hard to build Promenade. I can’t afford bad press or to seem paranoid. I thought?—”
“You thought wrong,” Caleb said sharply, then caught himself. His voice gentled. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
He moved again, silent and confident, disappearing into the shadows of the restaurant like he’d done it a hundred times, like the place was a terrain to be cleared.
I stood frozen, arms wrapped around myself, goosebumps chasing down my arms despite the warm air.
He returned a moment later. “No signs of forced entry. I’m just glad I showed up when I did.”
