Page 88 of Wildflower and Whiskey
Becket:Black SUV cruising service road. Slow. Tinted windows. Didn’t make out plates.
The dots bounced for a second.
Becket:Copy. We’re aware. Stay visible. Don’t engage. Patrol at the river bend will log it.
“You think it’s someone who shouldn’t be here?” Cooper asked casually, like we were talking about the weather.
“Maybe,” I said.
He made a face. “I miss the little problems in life, like my hair not cooperating in the morning.”
Despite the tension I was feeling, I laughed. Cooper was a funny guy. I took one more scan through the camera feeds, checking the front porch at my house, the kitchen door, and the back deck. I also checked the driveway cam Dad insisted on mounting that morning at dawn. Everything was clear. Elyna had texted a photo fifteen minutes ago of Braden in a onesie with cereal dried on his cheek. Everything was fine. Normal.
I forced myself into tasks. Signed off two purchase orders. Checked the bright tank carbonation. Answered a question about our fall menu and whether we would bring back the Maple Ale braised short rib poutine. By late morning, customers began to drift in; locals who knew our tap list by heart, out-of-towners snapping photos of the barrel wall.
By noon, my phone buzzed with a motion alert at the kitchen door. My heart skipped a beat as I checked what caused the alert. A shadow skimmed the deck and kept going, turned out to be a cat I’d seen twice now. I huffed, then let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. If the worst thing on that camera today was a cat with boundary issues, I’d take it. I was pulling a list for a distributor when my phone vibrated again, this time it was a different tone. House chime. Kitchen door open, then shut. A quick text from Elyna followed, like she knew the chime had turned my spine to wire.
Elyna:Package on the step. No logo. Bringing it in.
No logo?
Me:Don’t touch it. Back away. I’m calling Becket.
Her dots popped, disappeared, popped again.
Elyna:Too late. It’s inside. Just a box. I didn’t see anyone.
My thumb was already sliding to call. “Pick up,” I muttered.
She did on the second ring. “It’s just cardboard,” she said, voice steady but thinner than it had been this morning. “No return address.”
“Put it on the table and step back,” I said, walking fast toward the back. I pointed to the door and nodded to Dominic that I was leaving.
“Okay, relax,” she answered. I could hear Braden babbling somewhere near her feet. “Phoenix. . .”
“I’m two minutes out,” I said. “Do not open it.” My voice was sterner than I meant it to be, but I couldn’t believe she was telling me to relax with how tense she had been these last several days.
A beat passed and then she said, “Okay.”
I hung up and made a second call to Becket. “We got a delivery,” I said the second he answered. “No markings. It came to the kitchen step. She already brought it inside.”
“I’m two minutes away from you,” he said. I heard the cruiser’s siren in the distance. “Tell her not to touch it. I’ll bag it.”
I didn’t run to the house. I drove like a man who’d blow a tire if he hit gravel wrong, forced every muscle into a version of calm that would not help if I arrived panting and half blind. The lane to my house felt longer than the two hundred meters it was. The porch light sensor flicked to life. The camera caught my shoulder and sent me my own face, which was proof of the good job I’d done installing everything.
Inside, Elyna stood next to the table with Braden on her hip, his fingers playing with the strap of her tank top. The box sat like a stupid, ordinary brown box.
“Hey,” I said, voice quiet on purpose. “You did good.” I felt bad for snapping moments before, and I didn’t want her questioning her decisions.
Her eyes met mine, sturdy and steadfast. That was the thing about Elyna, she was brave in the places no one watched. She set Braden in the high chair and kissed the top of his head once, long enough to breathe him in. I stepped between the boy and the box without thinking, and went to the sink to wash my hands,because procedure sits in the bones if you were raised by Pierre Thorne.
Patrol lights flashed through the kitchen window. A heartbeat later, Becket and another officer came through the mudroom, gloves already snapped on.
“Morning,” Becket said in that voice he used when he was an officer of the law and not my brother. “Let’s take a look.”
He crouched down, his eyes scanning without touching. “Tape’s common. No grease rings underneath. Box is light, based on how the cardboard’s holding shape.” He glanced up at me. “You moved it?”
“I did,” Elyna spoke up. “From the porch to the table. One trip.”
