The male paramedic glanced toward the window, where the county sheriff was now striding toward the shop, his boots crunching gravel. The man’s uniform was dust-streaked, a holstered pistol hanging at his hip. 

“Your husband, Rafayel Ortiz, called ahead,” the paramedic said quietly. “He reported a vehicle with a specific license plate might be in danger. Told us to ensure your safety… and to keep you away from the motel.” 

Bianca and I shot each other a look. 

“Guess even Ice King has a soft spot for you,” Bianca teased, though her smile didn’t reach her eyes. 

I stared at the paramedic, struggling to process it. Rafayel had done this? ...