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"My ex somehow knew where I was, even though nobody knew where I was going."

The sheriff studies the screenshots carefully.

"Full name?"

I blink.

"...I actually don't know."

That earns me a look.

"I'm serious."

The sheriff laughs.

"Only first name?"

"Peter. He's from Richmond, Virginia."

He writes it down.

“Wait! I know his last name. He mentioned it once to my brother. Peter Pypar.”

The guys try hard to muffle their snickers.

"I'll contact their sheriff's department and see what I can find."

Barnaboa gathers the photographs, the box, and the printed screenshots before heading back toward his truck.

The front door closes behind him, and I blow out a breath and turn toward the kitchen.

"I need a Full Throttle."

Three grown men immediately start moving toward the refrigerator.

Chapter

Fifty-Three

Tripp

I don't sleep.

Neither do my cousins.

I’m still pissed as hell that he touched our omega. If it wasn’t for our guests being on their way, I might walk outside and cross the line we agreed we wouldn't cross.

Around eleven, Briggs heads out to sit on the porch with a rifle across his lap, and claims he’s just being safe. Clint keeps checking on Autumn more than any sane person needs to check on another adult human being. The first time, she tells him she's fine. The second time, she throws a pillow at him. By one in the morning, she's asleep on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her, hair falling across her cheek, one hand tucked beneath her chin. Clint covers her feet because they're sticking out from the bottom of the blanket, then sits on the edge of the coffee table.

Every once in a while, Peter reminds us he's alive… unfortunately.

At two in the morning, he starts yelling about how Autumn belongs to him, and around two-oh-five, Briggs walks off the porch and disappears toward the shed. The yelling stops after that. Briggs comes back ten minutes later, and sits right back down with the rifle across his lap.

I don't even bother asking.

The sky is barely starting to lighten when my eyes finally give up and drift closed. I must sleep for twenty minutes at most, because the next thing I know, Autumn's phone pings from somewhere in the cushions, and every alpha in the room reacts like a gun went off.

Autumn blinks awake, confused for half a second before she reaches around beneath the blanket, produces her phone, then squints at the screen. Whatever she reads makes her sit up straighter.