Page 70 of Tides of Change
A cold dread settled over me as I wrenched open my door, my Glock already in hand. My breath puffed in the chilly, damp air as I scanned the street, and my pulse hammered.
Nothing. Not a single shadow out of place. Finch was gone.
I approached the porch warily, setting off the motion-activated security fixture. The bright light illuminated the item left behind—a book. One of Ethan’s hardcovers. My fingers flexed around my weapon before I exhaled and slid it into its holster. I forced myself to stay methodical. I pulled out Ethan’s phone, snapped photos from multiple angles, then slid on a pair of nitrile gloves and carefully picked it up.
Had Finch been at the event? Had we missed him in the crowd?
I flipped open the cover. My breath caught as my gaze landed on the inscription:
To Theo—Good luck with your book! Ethan
The date beneath it was from last spring.
A fresh unease slithered through me. What did that mean?
I needed answers.Now.I rang Ethan’s doorbell.
After a few moments, he appeared, bleary-eyed and disheveled, his curls tousled from sleep. He blinked, and then his eyes sharpened, hope lighting them. “Did you catch him?”
Failure sat like a boulder on my chest, and I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep,” I confessed.
His expression flickered—disappointment, then understanding. “Oh…” His voice softened. “I get it. You’re exhausted.”
I didn’t deserve this kind, forgiving man.
I lifted the book. “He left another ‘gift,’ but I don’t know what it means.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed. “One of my books?”
I nodded. “And it’s signed. Dated last spring. It says, ‘Good luck with your book.’”
Ethan stepped back, gesturing me inside. “Come in. I’ll take a look.”
The warmth of his home enveloped me and chased away the chill that had settled under my skin. I could feel the coming storm in my bones.
“Want some coffee?” Ethan asked, already heading toward the kitchen.
I followed him. “Love some.”
He popped a pod into the machine as I re-read the inscription and tried to make sense of it.
Ethan leaned over my shoulder, his nearness a steadying force. “So, Finch came to one of my book signings. But I can’t make sense of what I wrote on the title page. Did he mention abook he’d written? Had I read it in the writers’ group and just…forgotten?”
The coffee machine burbled. Ethan grabbed the full mug and placed it on the counter beside me, the rich scent filling the kitchen.
I bagged and tagged the book and called for a deputy. I took a grateful sip of the hot brew while we waited. I’d hear from Sarge in the morning about my involvement, and my gut clenched. I was walking a razor-thin wire and could fall off at any moment.
Ethan brewed a second cup, added a splash of creamer—pumpkin spice—then stirred it absently, lost in thought.
I studied him. “Why does he think you stole his voice?”
Ethan spread his hands. “I don’t know.” His tone was heavy with frustration. “I wish I knew what motivated him. Maybe it would help.”
I shook my head and set my mug down. “We’re not dealing with someone rational.”
Ethan sighed. “No, we’re not.”
Silence stretched between us, but it was filled with the weight of what we didn’t know—and what we feared was still coming.
