I step forward, voice low, sharp enough to slice through the thick air between us. “You broke into my apartment. At one in the fucking morning. While me and my wife were sleeping, and you want me to fucking relax?” I tilt the blade, let the light catch it, let him see exactly how close I am to losing patience. “I’m two seconds from seeing how deep I can cut before you start begging.”

Malerick sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like I’m the unreasonable one.

“I needed to talk to you. Privately.” His gaze moves toward the bedroom area.

I let out a slow, dangerous breath. “You could’ve tried the fucking phone.”

“Yeah, well, I wanted to see if I could break into the place.” He glances around. “Too much security for a guy who just owns a fucking parlor.”

My grip tightens. “That’s none of your fucking business.” My patience thins with every passing second. “What do you want?”

His jaw ticks, like he knows I’m already pissed enough to throw him out. But he still steps closer.

“You know I’m the sheriff, right?” He stares at me like he’s trying to get ahead of whatever reaction he’s expecting from me. “That means I see everything that happens in this town. The reports. The calls. The missing persons bulletins from other counties—and states.”

I stare at him, unamused. “And?”

His jaw locks. “And two days ago, a report was circulated from Miami. A missing woman. Last seen fleeing her home.” He watches me closely, waiting for something. “Henrietta Elizabeth Worthington.”

I don’t react. Not at her name.

Malerick tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Her husband, Winston Reginald Worthington IV, is looking for her.”

Though his name makes my blood boil, I still don’t say anything. I yawn, slow, exaggerated, because the faster he leaves, the faster I can call Sanford. It’s only ten o’clock his time. I’ll have options by morning.

“If that’s all, Mal, I have a long-ass day tomorrow. This town’s gossip? Your job? None of my fucking business.”

Malerick scoffs, but there’s something colder in his expression now. “Well, in the report, he claims his wife is mentally unstable. That she has a history of paranoia, delusions, and violent tendencies. That she’s an addict, too. That she needs urgent medical care.” He holds my gaze, pressing in now. “The bulletin says she might be a danger to herself and others.”

Fucking Winston.

He’s not just trying to find her. He’s trying to erase her. Bury her so deep the law hands her right back to him—trapped, powerless, or worse, locked away for good.

I keep my voice even. “That’s sad, isn’t it?” I shrug, forcing the rage to stay contained, to stay where I need it. “You need help with something, or . . .?”