Page 17 of Matthew
Or was it?
She eyed the delivery guy again. He was cool and calm as he reached for one of the containers and gave it a casual tug toward the edge of the truck bed.
“I can drop ’em near your storage area if that’s easier,” he offered, as if he hadn’t delivered a couple of red flags in broad daylight.
“Don’t,” Callie said, the word cutting clean through the space between them.
The man froze. “Ma’am?”
“I said don’t move those.” Her voice stayed steady, even, but inside, something tightened like a wire pulled too taut.
Near the greenhouse, Nate glanced at her, and Rosie stopped moving. Callie didn’t meet their gazes, but she could feel a ripple of tension that snapped straight through the work rhythm. Employees weren’t hovering, but they’d heard her tone. And in Harland, that meant peoplewatched.
She pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped to call the sheriff’s office. Gabe had told her to call him directly if anything ever felt off.
This definitely qualified.
The driver shifted. Barely a tick, but she saw it. His shoulders drew tight, and his hand wrapped a little too firmly around the edge of the truck’s roll-up door.
Gabe picked up on the second ring. “Bryson.”
“It’s Callie Morgan,” she said quietly, still watching the man. “I’ve got a delivery here that doesn’t check out. No supplier info. No documentation. Driver’s acting…off. Can you swing by?”
“Ten minutes out,” Gabe said without hesitation. “Stay where you are. Don’t touch anything.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” She hung up.
A beat passed.
Then the man closed the truck door, too slowly. Slid the clipboard onto the seat as if he was trying to decide whether to run or talk his way out of this. “If this is a bad time—”
“It is.”
“I can come back.”
“You won’t,” she said, her gaze locked on his. “Because this delivery was never supposed to come here.”
Something flickered in his expression. Not surprise. Irritation, maybe. Or calculation. Then, he climbed back into the cab, turned the key, and backed out in a wide, lazy arc.
Callie didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She stood there, arms crossed, every muscle tight with adrenaline.
The truck rolled away, tires kicking up dust.
She exhaled and pulled out her phone. On instinct, she snapped a quick shot of the retreating truck before it disappeared down the drive. The image wasn’t perfect, blurry edges, a little glare, but the license plate was visible. Barely.
Across the way, Nate wandered closer, glancing between her and the road. “You good?”
“I will be,” she said, not taking her eyes off the bend. “Let the front office know any more surprise deliveries, I want to hear about it first.”
Nate didn’t move right away. “That didn’t look like a standard run. You want me to pull the logs and double-check today’s schedule?”
She gave a short nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Got it.” He lingered a beat, his gaze sweeping the gravel lot as if he might spot a leftover answer. “If that guy comes back, I’ll be standing right here.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t.”
She accessed the photos on her phone and zoomed in on the picture. The plate was Texas-issued. Mud-splattered, but legible.
