Page 72 of The Reaper
“Dean—” I started, but his gaze pinned me.
“You’ve got that look, Meggie. The same one I’ve seen on your face many times over the years. So, go ahead. What’s going on?”
I set my spoon down, fingers tight around the handle before I let it go. If it were anyone else, I could dodge. But this was Dean. He’d been reading me since I was six years old and sullen in a black apron.
Caleb’s hand brushed my knee under the table, steady and silent.
I exhaled slowly. “It’s not work exactly. It’s … something else.”
Dean didn’t blink. “Define something else.”
I glanced at Caleb, then back at my uncle. “I’ve been getting notes. Anonymous ones. Short, weird. First one showed up at the restaurant last week. At first, I thought it was some critic thing. Pretentious but harmless. But now …”
Trish’s brow furrowed. “How many?”
“Three,” I said. “Counting tonight.”
Dean’s gaze darkened. “And you didn’t think to mention this?”
I bristled. “I told Finn. And Caleb.”
His eyes cut to Caleb, hard. “So, you tell him but not me?”
“It wasn’t—” I stopped, choosing my words carefully. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of something that might’ve been nothing. And I thought I was imagining things at first.”
Trish reached for my hand. “What happened?”
The image flashed in my head—streetlights pooling on empty pavement, the salt in the air from the harbor, the faint smell of fried shrimp drifting from somewhere down the block. And the man.
“I was leaving here late. It was quiet, the street was empty. But I saw someone—” My voice thinned a little. “A man. Standing near the benches out front by the harbor. Just … watching.”
Dean’s knuckles tightened around his wine glass. “Did he approach you?”
“No. But it didn’t feel right. This morning, Caleb started installing cameras.”
Dean’s gaze swung to him. “Cameras.”
Caleb didn’t flinch. “Perimeter coverage. Multiple angles outside, motion alerts tied to my phone. Anything moves, I know about it.”
Dean’s tone went cold. “And what are you, exactly? A chef whisperer who moonlights as private security?”
“Dean—” I warned.
“No,” Caleb said, his voice level but firm. “I’m not a chef whisperer. And I’m not moonlighting. Security and logistics are my work. I’m good at it.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “So, you’re telling me my niece is mixed up with someone whose line of work puts him in contact with people who leave anonymous notes and lurk by harbors?”
“I’m telling you,” Caleb said, leaning forward slightly, “that your niece was already dealing with this before I came into the picture. The only thing I’ve done is make sure she’s not dealing with it alone.”
The tension at the table was a live wire, humming under the clink of silverware from the other diners.
Dean’s jaw worked. “That’s noble. But forgive me if I’m not thrilled about the idea of her being connected to anyone who might bring trouble by association.”
My chest tightened. “Dean, this isn’t about Caleb bringing trouble. It’s about him trying to keep me out of it.”
“And how do you know the difference?” he shot back.
The sting of it landed harder than I wanted to admit. But Caleb didn’t react the way I expected—no sharp retort, no puffed-up defense.
