I let my gaze drift casually over the patio, over the fence line, over the street beyond. Then I see it. There’s a white van parkedacross the lot at the edge of the street. Not in a spot that makes sense. Not angled like someone’s getting out for a drink.
Just… sitting.
Engine maybe off. Maybe on. The windows are tinted. My blood cools. It could be nothing. Could be a delivery van. Could be someone waiting to pick up a friend.
Could be— I don’t do “could be” when Salem is with me.
Salem tosses another bag and laughs when it bounces wrong. “Okay, I blame gravity.”
Brock grins. “Gravity hates you.”
Shepherd glances at me. “You good?”
My eyes flick back to the van. “Yeah,” I say automatically. But my body is already shifting into protect mode. My hand slides to Salem’s lower back like it belongs there.
She notices instantly. Her smile falters. “Ozzy?”
I lean in, voice low, calm. “We’re leaving.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Why?”
“Just trust me.”
She swallows. Then she nods, because she does trust me now, and that trust is a weight and a gift and I carry it carefully.
I straighten and force a smile toward brothers and their wives. “Hey—this was fun. Sorry, but we’ve gotta head out.”
Brock blinks. “Already? We were about to destroy you completely.”
Salem manages a tight smile. “You already did.”
Shepherd studies my face for half a second, something sharpening in his gaze—like he recognizes the shift. “You need anything?” he asks, quietly.
I give him a small nod of respect. “We’re good.”
Brock claps me on the shoulder like we’re old buddies. “Come back. I like you two.”
Salem’s voice is soft. “Thanks for being so nice.”
Brock grins. “We’re Atwoods. We’re always nice.” He tugs his wife closer.
Shepherd snorts. “That’s a lie.”
We slip away from the patio, Salem close to my side. I keep my stride normal. I keep my head level. We step onto the sidewalk.
Salem’s fingers curl around my fingers. “Ozzy, what’s happening?”
I glance down at her, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I think we might’ve been made.”
Her breath catches. “Made? Like… found?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not. But we’re not waiting to confirm.”
Her eyes flick behind us, panic starting to rise.
I squeeze her hand once. “Don’t look.”
She swallows hard and faces forward, trying to breathe.