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From there, it was more of the same. Some people clammed up entirely. Others danced around my questions with the kind of well-practiced Southern charm that was both infuriating and oddly impressive. A few were just curious about what a woman like me—big-city podcaster, fast-talking and sharp—was doing sniffing around.
But one thing was clear: the Danes weren’t just a family. They were a shield. And no one wanted to be the one to poke holes in that protection.
Which meant I needed to go straight to the people who had no choice but to answer.
The law.
The Charleston County Sheriff’s Office was an old brick building just off King Street, the American flag flapping lazily in the sticky morning air. Inside, the cool blast of air-conditioning hit me first, followed by the scent of cheap coffee and the low hum of police radios crackling behind the front desk.
The deputy on duty—a man in his late forties with a shaved head and a no-nonsense air—barely spared me a glance.
“I’m looking for Sheriff Joe Christel,” I said, slipping my press credentials onto the counter. “Claire Dixon.The Unseen.”
That got his attention.
His gaze flicked from my ID to my face, his expression unreadable. “Sheriff’s a busy man.”
“I’m sure he is,” I said smoothly. “But I only need a few minutes.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to type something into his computer.
“The explosion at Folly Beach,” I pressed. “Surely he has something to say about that.”
A long silence. Then, finally?—
“The sheriff’s not here.”
Bullshit.
I folded my arms, tilting my head. “So you’re telling me the highest-ranking law enforcement official in this county just isn’t here at—” I glanced at my watch, “—nine-thirty in the morning?”
“That’s right.”
I sighed through my nose, fighting the urge to bang my head against the counter.
The sheriff wasn’t just busy.He was untouchable. A man whose loyalty wasn’t to the public, but to the Danes.
Figured.
I tapped my fingers against the counter, weighing my options. I could keep pushing, try to press one of the deputies, or I could regroup and find another way in. Neither would get me what I really wanted—answers.
And then there was Marcus.
My jaw clenched just thinking about him. Arrogant,cocky, built like sin and probably twice as dangerous. He was the kind of man I hated on principle. The kind who walked through the world knowing it bent to his will. The kind who could ruin a woman in bed and walk away without looking back.
Not that I’d thought about that last night. Except I had.
I’d tossed and turned, my mind racing with leads and dead ends, and somewhere in the mess of it all, my thoughts had drifted to the way he looked at me, the way he said my name, the way I just knew he’d be the kind of lover who wouldn’t bother asking, who’d just take.
A warm pressure began to build between my legs.
In another life, where I wasn’t investigating a fucking explosion and he wasn’t him, we’d have a wild time. A reckless, no-strings, set-the-bed-on-fire kind of time.
Too bad this wasn’t that life.
I exhaled sharply and turned to leave when a voice cut through the air, low and edged with something that wasn’t quite boredom, but wasn’t far from it either.
“You looking for real answers or just the kind that sound good on your podcast?”