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“I said you could use that room.” He pointed toward the door. “I did not say you could come into this office. I did not say you could go through the family’s things. Their photos are personal. They’re none of your business.”

He expected her to blanch, or blush, or apologize profusely.

Instead, she sat back and squared her shoulders. “Said the guy going through all their personal things.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer the question. It was none of her business.

“If you want to find their killer, I’d think you’d welcome help.”

“I don’t need your help.” He set the box he’d carried upstairs on the desk and held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

“Or is the real reason you’re upset because you’re one of them?”

He froze. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw your photograph.”

“Mine?” Pulse racing, he prayed she didn’t hear the worry in his tone.

This was not okay. This interloper could not know who he really was. Nobody could. That would ruin everything.

It would put Forbes in danger.

Worse, it would put Brooklynn in danger.

“Are you going to deny it?”

Think, Ballentine.

The most recent of those photos would be nearly twenty-five years old. He’d only been eight when his family was murdered.

He could fix this.

“Show me.”

She eyed the books on the floor but didn’t move to pick them up until he settled on the chair beside her.

She grabbed the album on top of the pile.

They were scrapbooks, the photos glued into place, many with captions.

Handwritten by his mother.

Another gut punch.

Brooklynn turned the pages quickly, and he tried not to see the images of his parents and Rosie as she passed them as if they didn’t matter.

Finally, she stopped. “There.” Her tone was gentle as she pointed to a photograph. “Tell me that isn’t you.”

He braced himself.

And looked at the photograph.

It’d been taken in the adjoining room on Christmas morning. Their decorated tree stood in the background, and though most of it was out of the picture, he could practically smell the spruce.

Tasha, Rosie’s calico kitten, was in the foreground playing with discarded wrapping paper.

Dad was seated in his recliner.

Rosie was behind the chair, bending low enough to fit in the frame.

Eight-year-old Forbes stood beside his dad, whose arm was wrapped around his waist.

They were all three smiling at the camera, at Mom.

He let the image settle, breathed through the pain that felt as acute as a physical blow, and considered his answer carefully.

When he was sure the truth wouldn’t show on his face, he looked up. “It’s not me.”

Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She licked her lips, seemed to be trying to figure out how to get him to come clean. “I didn’t realize there was a second child.”

“He wasn’t home at the time of the murders.” Another lie, one that’d been repeated a thousand times. Only a single cop had known the truth. “He’d gone to his grandmother’s.”

“Just tell me the truth.”

“I’m telling you everything.” Everything it was safe for her to know, anyway.

This was a secret he’d kept for nearly twenty-five years. He’d promised he’d never tell.

He wasn’t about to betray Grandmother because of a too-attractive brunette who couldn’t mind her own business.

“I’m related to the Ballentines.”

There.

That was true without being the whole truth. “Which is why I’m determined to figure out who killed them.”

Her eyebrows rose in perfect mirrored question marks. “You’re related ?”

He tapped the photograph. “There’s a resemblance, but it’s not that strong. I mean, I know what I looked like as a child, and that isn’t it.”

The lies were stacking up like bricks, hopefully creating an impenetrable wall.

“Have you met him?” Brooklynn asked. “He is your relative, after all.”

“After the murders, he disappeared. Our grandmother sent him away. She changed his name. She won’t tell anyone where he is, not even me.”

Brooklynn started to say something, then must’ve thought better of it.

She didn’t believe him, that was clear. But he wasn’t going to confirm her suspicions.

“I’ve been given permission to go through the family’s things,” he said. “You haven’t. If I can’t trust you?—”

“I found something you might find interesting.”

“I doubt there are any clues in the family photo albums.”

She set the top one aside and picked up the one she’d been perusing when he walked in.

These weren’t family photos, he realized. In fact, he’d never seen this album before.

“The picture on the bookshelf made me curious,” she said, turning page after page.

As she flipped through the pages, he saw mostly adults, some posed, some caught mid-conversation. They were at events—dinners, meetings. Some showed outdoor gatherings downtown or at the small town common.

Her remark registered, and he looked at the photo on the bookshelf that she’d indicated earlier. It was a posed shot of his parents, probably taken a few years before their deaths. It had a brownish background, the kind one would find in a studio. “What’s special about that picture?”

“The photographer. Arthur Whitmore.”

Forbes lifted the frame and peered at the tiny gold logo in the bottom corner. AW Photography.

“ He was my mentor.” Brooklynn pointed to a photograph in the album of a bunch of men and women posed shoulder to shoulder in two rows. There was a line of windows on one side of the room. Ornate crown moldings told him this wasn’t some bland meeting room.

“A lot of the people in these pictures are locals who’ve been in Shadow Cove as long as I can remember.

This”—she tapped one of the faces—“is your…is Charles. Your uncle, I guess.” She flicked her gaze to Forbes, but he didn’t reply.

“I recognize him from the other album. Thought you might want to know some of his acquaintances.”

Forbes had already spotted his father. He leaned closer to the book, but he didn’t recognize a single person in the photograph. “Who are they?”

Had Brooklynn come across a real lead?

Had one of the people in that photo been involved in the smuggling scheme? Had one of them been behind his family’s murders?

Brooklynn tapped a face in the back row, a tall middle-aged man with a square chin and a receding hairline. “That’s Graham Porter. He owns the Wadsworth Inn, that big beachside hotel south of downtown.”

Forbes remembered seeing the place. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow had been born in Portland, which explained the name.

“How long has he owned it?”

“As long as I can remember.”

The name was familiar. “Didn’t he need you for something yesterday?”

“I called him back this morning. We’re on the Old Home Days committee together.”

“Did he ask where you were? Was he overly curious?”

She considered the question, then shrugged.

“He did ask where I was, but I don’t think he really cared about the answer.

His booth will sell lobster rolls, and so will Logan’s—he owns Webb’s Harborside.

Graham wanted me to tell Logan he’d have to offer something else.

” She shook her head. “As if everyone should bend to Graham’s will. ”

“Was he surprised that you refused?”

“Maybe? I can’t believe he even asked. Since Logan signed up before he did, I suggested the Wadsworth could sell something else.”

Maybe Graham was more interested in Brooklynn’s location than he’d let on. Maybe the lobster roll situation was an excuse to try to figure out where she was. “Go on.”

The man beside Graham was a few inches shorter and considerably older. “His name was…Johnson or Jackson. Something like that. He passed away a few years ago.”

“What did he do for work?”

“No idea. All I ever saw him do was drink coffee and yell at the TV over the bar at the Salty Dog, but I guess he probably owned a business at one point.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I guess because most of these people do, or did, if my memory serves.”

The next person looked even older, and Brooklynn didn’t know his name or his profession. Then came Forbes’s father.

“Did he own a business?” she asked. “Charles Ballentine?”

“Yup.”

Forbes didn’t offer more, though it surprised him that Brooklynn didn’t realize Forbes’s father was the founder of Ballentine Enterprises, which built industrial properties all over New England.

Forbes remained the largest single shareholder and held a seat on the board, even though he only attended meetings as a voice on the phone. Nobody knew Forbes Ballentine was the same person as the historian called Ford Baker.

Maybe the caution was no longer necessary, but the people who killed his family had done it for a reason. Grandmother feared Forbes could be their next victim.

Dad stood beside a tall, elegant woman.

“That’s my mother, Evelyn Wright.”

“Oh.” Forbes studied the blonde, who was probably around the same age as Brooklynn was now. She was tall, like her daughter, but very slender where Brooklynn had curves Forbes should try harder not to notice. “You have her eyes.”

“So they say.”

Whereas Evelyn had a sort of elegant, regal beauty, Brooklynn’s beauty seemed more natural, as if it emanated from her very being.

And there was a thought he’d keep to himself. “Did your mother own a business?”

“She was an interior designer, though I think she mostly did it for fun. She was involved in a lot of clubs and events in town, though, back then.”

He tapped the man beside Evelyn. “Your father?”

“No. Dad’s not in the picture.”

“Did he own a business?”

“Not back then. He worked for the government.”

That information pricked a memory.

We know you’re working with the government. We need a name.

That was it.

Just one line, uttered by one of the murderers just moments before Dad was shot.

What had Dad said?

Forbes couldn’t remember. But his heart thumped as if he’d hit on something important.

Was it possible Brooklynn’s father had been involved? “What did he do?”

She sat back, her head tilting to one side. She studied Forbes as if she couldn’t figure him out.

“What?” he demanded.