Page 23 of Lavender and Lightning

My stomach tightens at the serious tone of his words, but I follow him out to the lot behind the shop. In the light of day, Lydia’s car looks even worse than I remember. Her entire driver’s side is caved in, the windows shattered. The windshield itself is cracked from one side to the other, and it sits almost on the ground on that side, the axel having snapped. And the passenger’s side isn’t much better, the distinct shape of the utility pole dented into the rear quarter panel. Henry leads me around to the rear passenger wheel well, crouching down and looking at something. I mirror his position, pulling out my phone to shine my flashlight into the shadowy area.

“Did your girl have trouble keeping track of her car?” Henry asks suddenly.

I look at him with raised brows. “Not that I know of,” I reply slowly, unease settling in my gut.

“Well, someone wanted to. Cuz the inspector and I found that,” Henry says, dropping his voice and pointing up into the wheel well.

I follow his finger, my stomach dropping out from under me. I spot the blinking red light in the darkness before I shine my light on the little black disc. It’s about the size of a half-dollar, stuck to the upper inside of the metal frame. The light blinks again, and I sit back on my heels, fingers flying as I type.

Me: You didn’t low jack Lydia’s car, did you?

I wait for a response, heart hammering. I’m about to send another message when the reply comes through.

Lex: No. Rhett would have my head if I tried something that invasive. Why?

Me: I’m at Henry’s and there’s a tracker on the car. And I think it’s still active.

Lex: That motherfucker.

Lex: Don’t touch it. I’m going to call Ted and see what we can do.

Me: If Seth did this, we need to find out when. How much does he know?

Lex: We’ll figure it out. Get home. Lydia’s there by herself. Rhett had a client emergency he had to deal with.

I shove my phone back into my pocket, getting to my feet. Henry groans as he stands, too, looking at me expectantly.

“What did the insurance say?” I ask with a heavy sigh.

“Oh, it’s totaled. But we both knew that. What’re y’all gonna do about the...” He trails off, nodding at the wheel again.

“Nothing for right now. I’ll let you know more when we have a plan,” I explain with a frown.

Henry and I walk back to the garage, parting ways after a few minutes of small talk. My mind races as I consider the implications of the GPS tracker on Lydia’s car. Depending on when it was placed there, Seth could know where she’s been for work, where she lives. I climb back on my bike and let my thoughts swirl, considering the darker implications of this discovery.

By the time I pull into my lower-level garage and park, I’m full of unease. I’m still lost in my thoughts as I make my way upstairs.

“Fucking bitch!”

The sudden vicious shout makes me jump, my attention going to the kitchen where I find Lydia standing at the island, glaring at the floor.

“You okay?” I ask quickly, crossing to her.

She nearly jumps out of her skin as she whips around to face me, eyes wide. When her eyes meet mine, I feel that little whooshing in my gut that has become so familiar. Her stare is so disarming, emotion written in those green irises as if they were neon signs. And right now, once the fear passes, I only see sadness and frustration.

“Yeah. Just…”

She motions to the floor in front of her and I round the island to inspect. There’s a broken plate on the floor, two pieces of toast and a jar of peanut butter completing the crime scene. I bend down and start cleaning without hesitation.

“Sorry. I didn’t—yeah, sorry.”

Lydia’s grumbled apology pulls my attention up to her face. She’s leaning back against the counter, fiddling with the strap to her sling. She’s not looking at me, but her expression is dark and distant.

“Shit happens, Lydi. Did you yell ‘Opa!’? You can’t break a plate without doing that,” I counter with a little chuckle.

She rolls her eyes, scoffing harshly. “It’s just a fucking sandwich. I shouldn’t be breaking the china over a sandwich.”

I gather the sizeable pieces and toss them in the bin before turning back to her. She looks ready to punch someone or cry, her expression shifting rapidly between the two extremes. Her face is pale, and her hands won’t stay still, balling into fists and relaxing over and over again. She still won’t look at me, but the way her shoulders slump inward, like she’s trying to be as small as she can, sets off a warning bell. I’m silent for a long moment as I weigh my options. Lydia is unlike any other omega I’ve ever met, and so unlike my sisters that I almost don’t know what to do. My instinct is to comfort, to make her the sandwich she clearly wants. But the anger that flashes across her face stops me. There’s something else going on here.

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