Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 127

A Ticking Time Bomb.

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The drive to the airstrip is quiet, focused quiet, not tense. Liam’s got both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road; Matteo sits up front with the printed maps Nico insisted we take, flipping through them even though we’ve got GPS. Naomi hums under her breath in the backseat, tapping her knife against her thigh like she’s counting heartbeats. Sage’s head rests against the window beside her, eyes open, watching the sunrise stretch orange and gold over the horizon. We pull up beside the hangar where one of Pa’s pilots is already waiting, the small jet prepped and humming. Bags go in, quick checks are done, and in twenty minutes, we’re off the ground. The flight’s only an hour, but long enough for everyone to go over the plan one more time. Nico’s already sorted the hotel: two adjoining rooms were booked under fake names and paid for in cash. When we land, the city heat hits like a wave. We check in fast and lay everything out across the small desk in my room: photos, files, addresses, work schedules, social media posts, everything Nico dug up.

Miguel Romanero. Engineer at a construction–supply firm on the east side of the city.

Lucia Romanero. Runs a tiny second–hand bookstore off the side of their house.

And somewhere between the two of them is Diego, their four–year–old son. Sage’s little brother.

“We need to see them in person,” I say finally, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “See how they act, who they talk to, what kind of people they really are.”

Liam nods. “We’ll take the father. Construction supply shop’s easy enough to blend into. We can pass as buyers looking for material

orders.”

Naomi leans back in her chair, smirking. “And us?”

Sage ties her hair up, that spark already lighting her eyes. “Lucia works at her bookstore most mornings. We’ll go book shopping, get a look around, see what kind of environment the kid is in.”

Matteo chuckles. “Book shopping, huh? Try not to terrify the locals.”

Sage just smirks, slipping a knife into her boot. “No promises.”

We all know what this is, recon. The calm before the storm. By tonight, we’ll know who these people are. And by the end of the week, that little boy will be safe.

The site’s easy enough to blend into. Dust, sweat, and the smell of cut timber waft in the air, it’s the kind of chaos that swallows people whole, which makes it perfect for us. Matteo and Liam walk beside me, both wearing high–vis vests we “borrowed” from the truck. The guys at the gate barely glance up when we pass; three guys looking for a bulk order of building supplies don’t raise alarms. We’re met at the office by Miguel Romanero himself. Early forties, sunburned skin, shirt sleeves rolled up. He’s got the look of a man who’s worked hard all his life, but the twitch in his left eye says something else, like there’s a temper that burns hotter than he lets on.

He greets us with a salesman’s smile. “You boys here for a quote?”

“Yeah,” I say easily, shaking his hand. “Working on a few small cabins out on a rural property. Figured we’d deal direct instead of paying city mark–ups.”

He brightens immediately; money talk always works. He leads us through the yard, talking about materials, pricing, and freight. Matteo keeps him chatting about the logistics while Liam is playing the quiet, curious type who just wants to make conversation.

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A Ticking Time Bomb.

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“Big operation you’ve got here,” Liam says casually. “Ever get time off?”

Miguel chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not much. My wife says I live here more than at home.”

“Wife and kids?” I ask, voice light, like I’m just being polite.

“One kid,” he answers, and for a split second, something in his jaw tightens. “Boy. Diego. Four. Smart little thing.”

He says it like he’s proud, but it sounds like he’s reciting something, not feeling it. The words are stiff and practised.

Before I can push further, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen and mutters, “Excuse me a second, gentlemen,” stepping away.

We keep pretending to browse through timber stacks, but I can hear him, even though he’s trying to whisper. His tone is low, sharp, and angry. “I told you not to call me here. What the fuck do you want me to do about it? You clean it up!”

Matteo’s eyes flick to mine. The muscles in Miguel’s neck stand out like cords. Whoever’s on the other end of that call isn’t getting good

news.

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After a few seconds, he hangs up, rolls his shoulders, and walks back like nothing happened, his face smooth and smile back in place.

“Sorry about that,” he says, voice almost cheerful, like he hadn’t just hissed murder through his teeth into a phone.

Matteo plays it smooth, leaning against a stack of plywood with that easy grin of his. “Trouble with the ball and chain?” he asks, tone teasing. “Sounds like she caught you skipping chores again.”

Miguel’s face cracks, the salesman’s mask slips just enough for something uglier to crawl out. He lets out a bark of laughter, sharp and mean. “Isn’t there always?” he says, shaking his head. “Damn bitches can’t do anything for themselves. Can’t cook, can’t clean, can’t shut

up.”

The air turns heavy. My fingers twitch at my side. It takes every ounce of control not to put him through the nearest stack of drywall. Instead, I force a laugh, low and easy, the kind that sounds just right coming from a man who’s “been there.”

“Ha, yeah,” I say, making myself smirk. “They keep us busy, don’t they?”

He grins wider, completely missing the threat buried under my words. Liam, standing behind me, catches my eye; his expression flickers between disgust and disbelief. Matteo plays along just as well, nodding like he’s in on the joke, but his jaw tightens. Miguel keeps talking, bragging about how much work he does, how tired he is of carrying the weight of the world, while “she just spends my money and complains.” Every word makes my teeth grind harder.

When we finally wrap it up, I shake his hand again, firm enough that he’ll remember it. “Appreciate your time,” I tell him.

As soon as we’re clear of the site, Liam exhales through his nose. “You hear that shit?”

“Yeah,” I say darkly, staring at the ground as we walk back to the car. “I heard it.”

Matteo pulls his cap low. “That man’s a ticking bomb.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, sliding into the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “And when he blows, he won’t even see it coming.”

When we hit the highway, Liam mutters, “That wasn’t normal.”

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A Ticking Time Bomb.

“No,” I say, glancing back at the direction of the warehouse. “But now we know what kind of man we’re dealing with.”

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