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Jon had brought along a replacement combination-style lock for the door to Oliver’s unit.

He had set aside a couple of boxes containing financial records and he loaded these into the back of his car.

“Why are you taking those?” I asked.

“I need to show something for my search warrant,”

he said.

“Financial records might at least reveal some unusual activity that could be related to an illegal drug business.”

Twice I had to tuck the envelope I had in my pants back in to secure it, as it kept creeping up whenever I bent over.

As I settled back into my seat in the car, it was pushed up once again and I barely had time to stuff it back into place before Jon got in.

Our return ride was silent for the first few minutes, but even though talking about my desire to get my hands on Oliver’s computer now made my face flush hotter than a tin roof in the August heat, thanks to Devon’s offhand comment, I was determined not to let the matter drop.

“Please let Devon have a crack at Oliver’s laptop,” I said.

“Our forensic guys can look it over the same way Devon can and determine if there’s a cloud account,”

Jon argued.

“If they find pictures, I can print them off and show them to you.”

“Have these ‘forensic guys’?”—I made air quotes to go with the last two words—“done anything with Oliver’s laptop yet?”

Jon let out another weary sigh, and when I glanced over at him, I saw his tongue was patrolling the inside of his cheek.

I took that to be a sign of annoyance, but whether it was with me or with his “forensic guys,”

I couldn’t tell.

“They looked at it,”

Jon said.

“They saw that it was password protected and then didn’t pursue it because it didn’t seem relevant to the events at hand.”

“Yeah, you told me that before.

So why not let Devon have a crack at it? He can wear gloves and handle things in whatever way you say in order to protect it as evidence.

You can even stand over his shoulder and watch what he does if you want.”

I had no idea if Devon would allow that, but I was desperate and grabbing at straws.

“Let me think on it,”

Jon said, and I decided to let it go for the time being since this mild concession was at least some form of progress.

We rode in silence for the next twenty minutes until I realized that he’d veered off the main highway and was headed into Sturgeon Bay.

He seemed to sense my question, negating my need to ask it.

“I want to drop these boxes off at the sheriff’s department,”

he said.

“They’ll need to be marked and stored as evidence and they have more room for that than I do on the island.”

We pulled into the parking lot of the sprawling Justice Center a few minutes later.

It was a little after seven, but despite the late hour, the place was busy.

In addition to housing the sheriff’s department, the Justice Center was also home to the Door County Circuit Court, several victims’ services offices, some lawyers’ offices, and the county jail.

I offered to carry one of the boxes in for Jon, but he stacked them up and hoisted them on his own.

“Thanks, but I got it.

I’ll be back out in a bit.

It might take me a half hour or so.

Maybe you can walk Newt while you wait.”

His comments felt dismissive, but he had a valid point when it came to Newt.

If I couldn’t take him inside, I didn’t want to leave him in the car in the late-summer heat, even if Jon was willing to leave it running with the air on.

There were too many things that could go wrong.

Instead, I leashed Newt up and walked him across the parking lot to a grassy area, where he proceeded to lift his leg and stake out several claims.

I felt the envelope of pictures at my back, scratching me and threatening to fall out of my pants.

After some adjustments, the situation was only mildly better, and I considered just taking the whole thing out and confessing to Jon what I’d done.

“How about this Jon Flanders fellow?”

I asked Newt as he sniffed a bush and then lifted his leg for the umpteenth time.

Newt looked at me and then went back to sniffing.

“I mean, he seems really nice, doesn’t he? But I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship again.

I’m still raw and bleeding from the last one.

And with Jon living on the island, it’s going to be hard, though that distance might prove to be a good thing.

It can help slow things down, you know?”

Newt looked at me again and then walked over and pushed his head against my hand.

“Morgan?”

I hadn’t realized Jon was back.

“Over here,”

I said, waving, and then Newt and I hurried over to the car.

Once we were settled inside, Newt leaned over the front seat and gave the side of Jon’s face a sniff and a big lick.

“Good grief,”

Jon said, wiping a palm down his cheek.

He sounded exasperated but he was smiling.

I looked at Newt, who was doggy grinning at me, tongue lolling.

I get it, You approve.

I reached back and gave him a scratch behind his ears.

“I signed out the laptop,”

Jon said once we were underway.

That was so unexpected, and he uttered it so nonchalantly, that the significance of it escaped me momentarily.

When it did hit me, I clapped my hands with glee.

“Will you let Devon take a look at it?”

“Under the right circumstances, yes.

He’ll have to do it the way I say, though.”

“I’ll make sure he does.”

“I mean it, Morgan.

You haven’t shown yourself to be a great follower of rules so far.”

Well, he had me there.

I thought about the envelope of pictures still tucked away in the waist of my pants and looked away so he wouldn’t see me blush.

“I promise to try to behave.”

If he noticed that I was only promising to try as opposed to actually doing it, he didn’t let on.

After a brief period of silence, Jon said, “What really happened in New Jersey?”

Wow.

That one came out of left field, and just when I was starting to feel a little good about things, too.

I stalled, giving myself time to decide if I was ready to discuss this topic.

“What did your uncle tell you happened?”

He gave me a mocking look.

“Answering a question with a question? You don’t expect that to work on a cop, do you?”

“I expect it to give me some time to decide if I want to discuss the horrific and terrifying murder of my parents at the hands of someone who is still out there,”

I snapped back.

Jon’s smug smile disappeared in a blink. “Sorry,”

he said.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Did your uncle tell you that he thinks I killed them?”

I heard the angry shrillness in my voice and apparently Jon did, too.

“Maybe now isn’t the best time to discuss this,”

he said quietly.

“Maybe not,”

I snapped back.

Newt, sensing my rising level of anxiety, put his head over the seat, resting it on my left shoulder.

The gesture instantly calmed me.

“I won’t bring it up again,”

Jon said.

“But if you ever want to talk about it, I’m willing to listen.”

I said nothing, my head turned to the side window, watching the scenery go by.

“And for what it’s worth, my uncle doesn’t think you killed your parents.”

“Yeah, well, he sure had a funny way of showing it.”

“I think he was skeptical of your story in the beginning because of the evidence.

All good cops have to keep an open mind when it comes to witness statements.”

I said nothing, keeping my eyes focused out the side window.

“Aren’t you worried that this guy might come back for you?”

“Not really,”

I said, a half-truth.

“He has nothing to gain by killing me now and having me as a possible suspect took some of the pressure off him.

Besides, if he’d wanted me dead, he could have waited until I came back to the campground and done me in the same way he did my parents.”

“Have you—”

“I really don’t want to discuss this now,”

I said, fighting back tears as flashes of terrifying, heartrending memories flitted through my mind.

Damn Jon Flanders anyway!

The remainder of our trip was made in silence, a thick barrier of tension and emotion creating a seemingly impenetrable wall between us.

When Jon pulled into my store parking lot, I got out without a word, happy to escape and thinking I was out of my mind to entertain the idea of a serious relationship again.

But as I let Newt out of the car, Jon said, “Mind if I come in for a bit? Or have I worn out my welcome with you? We can look over the stuff in the box and take a run at the laptop if Devon is here.”

I’ll say one thing for Jon Flanders; he knew my weak spot.

It was a few minutes after eight and the store was still open for another hour.

My stomach rumbled embarrassingly loud.

“Devon is here.

Are you hungry? I can fix us something to eat,”

I said, a somewhat indirect answer to his question.

He looked immensely relieved, and I hoped he had a better poker face when he was questioning criminals because right now he was easier to read than a children’s book.

“I’m ravenous,”

he said.

“And I’m willing to cook, if you’ll let me.”

It seemed Jon Flanders knew more than one of my weak spots.

I’ve always loved the idea of a man cooking for me.

But I feared Jon was developing into an unexpected squall—a brewing storm that posed a deadly threat to my already bruised and battered heart, meaning he might well have been my own personal Porte des Morts.

Maybe it was time to batten down the hatches.