Page 82 of Chaotic Curse
“You’re not going to go look for trouble, are you?”
I pause.“Of course not.”
“Uh-huh.”She doesn’t sound convinced.
“I swear I’m not doing anything unsavory.Scout’s honor.I just have some work that can’t wait.”
“Fine.I’ll get Natalie now.”
“Thanks.You’re a lifesaver.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.You owe me.”
“Indeed I do.Love you.Bye.”
“Love you too.I’ll text you when I’ve dropped the car off.I’ll leave the keys somewhere Dani will find them.”
She ends the call.
Thank God for Raven.
I scribble a quick note and leave it on the nightstand on Daniela’s side of the bed.
Sweetheart,
I have some errands to run this morning.You’re welcome to hang as long as you want or go home if you’d rather.Raven is bringing your car over.The code to the front door is 5791 so you can lock it behind you if you leave.
Hawk.
I slide my phone into the pocket of my jeans, throw a T-shirt over my head, and leave quietly, closing the door.
My housekeeper doesn’t work on Sundays, so Daniela will be alone.
She’ll be safe in my home, as I have excellent security.
I walk out to my truck.
Thoughts race through my head.The flowers that were delivered to Daniela at the hospital.Specifically to Eagle’s room.They’re still in the backseat of my truck.I have to have them analyzed.I also need to check those security tapes as soon as I can, but I already know who’s behind it.I quickly take the flowers inside and set them on the kitchen counter.I’ll deal with them later.
Jordan is the only one who knew we were at the hospital.Who also knew—and I have to figure out how—that Eagle had OD’d.
While it wasn’t Jordan himself who delivered the flowers, someone must have done it at his behest.
I return to the truck, get in, and take out my phone while sitting in the driver’s seat.I click on my search engine to access voter records.
I find Jordan’s and quickly program his address into my map app.
He lives in a small house near the culinary school in an Austin suburb.It’s early yet, so I drive to the address, switching the station to my favorite country rock.
The music eases into the day with the warm twang of steel guitar and the steady, unhurried rhythm of a snare drum.A male voice sings about dirt roads, second chances, and Sunday grace.
It’s country rock at its gentlest, where the electric guitar hums low under the harmony, and every chord seems to carry the smell of strong coffee and fresh biscuits.Between songs, the DJ’s voice is mellow, almost reverent, talking about family, faith, and the quiet joy of a Sunday morning.
I arrive at the small home in the Austin suburb.It’s unassuming—single-story brick, the kind of place that hides behind drawn blinds and a neatly trimmed yard.
Now what?
I can’t go knock on the door.Jordan will recognize me.I need to wait until he comes out, but it’s Sunday, so I could be waiting a while.
