Page 71 of The Reaper
Trish chimed in, her laugh bright as she teased Dean about his tendency to over-salt everything.
Meghan relaxed, her smile softening, and I felt myself ease, the earlier scrutiny fading under the warmth of the table.
Finn kept the wine flowing, never hovering too long, his grin quick as he refilled glasses, the perfect wingman for the night.
We laughed, traded stories, the clink of cutlery and glasses weaving a rhythm that felt almost normal. Meghan talked about her test menu, the way she’d agonized over the lavender-honey panna cotta, and Dean nodded, impressed, his pride clear. Trish asked about my travels, keeping it light, and I gave her enough—vague tales of dusty roads and long flights—without spilling the shadows.
Meghan’s foot brushed mine under the table, a subtle touch that sent a spark up my leg, her eyes catching mine with a heatthat promised more later. For a moment, it was peachy, the kind of night that could make you forget the notes, the threats, the weight of Dominion Hall’s secrets.
Then dessert arrived—panna cotta, creamy and delicate, flecked with lavender, a gold leaf shimmering on top. I reached for my spoon, ready to dig in, but my eyes flicked to the hostess stand out of habit, a reflex from years of scanning for threats.
And there it was, plain as day—a folded note, cream-colored, sitting like it owned the place.
My gut clenched, but I tried not to freeze, not to react, keeping my hand steady as I gripped the spoon. Meghan’s eyes followed mine, sharp as ever, and I saw the recognition hit her, her face paling, the warmth draining.
She rose with a grace that belied the tension, excusing herself with a murmured “be right back,” and walked to the hostess stand, snatching the note before striding to her office with purpose, her shoulders set like she was heading into battle.
Dean and Trish didn’t notice, caught up in a story about Dean burning a batch of cornbread at a Savannah cookout, their laughter filling the space. I forced a chuckle, pushing my chair back.
“Excuse me. Time to find the little boy’s room,” I said, keeping it casual, and followed Meghan, my pulse kicking hard.
How the hell had someone gotten past our web of security? The cameras, the locks, the live feed on my phone—nothing had tripped, no alerts, no signs. I needed to see that note, find out what it said, and figure out who this bastard was, slipping through cracks I thought I’d sealed.
I moved through the dining room, the soft glow of candles flickering, the air thick with the scent of vanilla and wine. Meghan’s office door was ajar, and I pushed it open, finding her standing at her desk, the note unfolded in her hand, her face a mix of fury and fear.
“Another one,” she said, voice low, handing it to me without meeting my eyes.
I read it, the words cold and sharp:Your table’s ready. No RSVP needed.
Same handwriting, same paper, same smug precision.
My jaw tightened, anger flaring hot. Someone had walked in, during service, past Ryker’s cameras, past my watch.
“This ends now,” I said, voice rough, already pulling my phone to check the feed. Nothing. No motion, no shadows, just the quiet hum of a restaurant at rest. How?
Meghan’s eyes met mine, her strength still there but edged with something new—fear. I’d find this bastard, tear them apart, and keep her safe.
But the question burned: who was playing, and how had they gotten so close?
22
MEGHAN
When we stepped back into the dining room, the warmth and candlelight felt almost foreign. Like we’d walked into a photograph of the evening, but I couldn’t quite convince myself I belonged in it. My heart was still thudding from the note, from the way Caleb’s jaw had gone hard enough to cut glass when he saw it.
Dean was mid-story when we returned, his voice rumbling over the clink of silverware and the soft murmur of other tables. Trish was laughing—really laughing, head tilted back—at something about a boat trip gone wrong.
But when his eyes found mine, Dean stopped mid-sentence. It was like a switch flipped. The warmth in his expression cooled, sharpening into the look I’d seen my whole life when he knew something was off.
“You okay, Meggie?” he asked, voice low but direct.
I gave the easy answer, the one I’d practiced a hundred times in kitchens and dining rooms. “Fine. Just work stuff.”
His brow arched. “During dinner?”
Trish glanced between us, her smile fading into quiet concern. Caleb pulled out my chair for me like nothing was wrong, but I could feel the way his body was angled—between me and the rest of the room, protective without looking like it.
Dean leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “What kind of work stuff takes you both away from the table in the middle of dessert?”
