Page 202 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

“He in town?”

Fletcher nods. “Yeah, he’s not working right now.”

I don’t waste time. I grab my phone and step away from the bench, already dialing.

Rex picks up on the second ring. “You miss me already, Calder?”

“Get to the garage, right now,” I say.

There’s a beat. The humor drops out of his voice immediately as he replies, “On my way.”

I hang up and turn back to Fletcher. He’s already shut the laptop. He’s seen enough of it for now, as have I.

Hank looks between us, sensing the shift. “Everything good?”

“No,” I say plainly. “But it will be.”

He nods once, reading the tone right, and goes back to the bolt without pushing further.

We don’t talk much while we wait. Fletcher goes back to the torch, but it’s different now. More controlled. Tighter. He’s working everything out in his head while his hands stay busy.

I linger on the spot longer than I need to, thinking about that one line.

You don’t know her like I do.

That’s not someone guessing.

That’s someone who thinks they’ve got a claim.

Rex pulls in hard a few minutes later, the sound of his truck carrying through the open garage doors before the engine even cuts. The door slams heavily, and a second later, he’s walking inside, his expression tense, eyes narrowed.

Bolt trots in behind him, wagging his tail, completely unconcerned.

Rex’s eyes land on me first, then Fletcher. “What’s going on?”

I don’t answer right away. I just open the laptop and turn the screen toward him.

He steps closer, leaning in to read, one hand braced on the edge of the workbench. I watch his expression shift as he moves through it, his face hardening the further he gets.

“Whoa,” he mutters under his breath. “They’re getting worse.”

“Yeah,” I say. “And they’re not stopping either.”

He straightens slowly, dragging a hand down over his jaw as he exhales. “Same sender?”

“Same.”

“Tracked yet?”

“Not yet.”

Fletcher pulls his gloves off, tossing them onto the bench. “We’re done waiting on guesses. We take it to Pike.”

Rex nods immediately. “Yeah. He’ll get something out of it.”

I’m already moving, pulling up the reply box without giving myself time to sit with it.

Leave it alone. Do not contact me again.