Lucas’s POV
“She’s here.”
John’s words hung in the hot, stale air of the SUV, pulling my gaze to the house like a magnet. There, pulling into the gravel drive in a beat-up old sedan, was a woman who matched the photo perfectly—late forties, dark hair tied back, sharp features softened by years and worry.
Maria Jackson.
She glanced around nervously as she parked, like she could feel eyes on her. My heart kicked up a notch, thudding hard against my ribs. This was it. After all the dead ends, the frustration boiling inside me like lava, she was right there.
“Don’t move yet,” I whispered, binoculars pressed to my eyes. “Let’s watch. See if she’s alone.”
John nodded, silent. We sat there, engine off, sweat trickling down my neck from the Texas heat seeping through the cracked windows.
