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No. This was the better choice, even if it involved breaking and entering, or…well, just entering. Probably a misdemeanor at worst, not that Maury would press charges.

The woman was a friend to her family, and the last thing Brooklynn wanted was to put a target on anyone else’s back.

A few minutes later, she slid the book out of the stacks and carried it to the table in the center of the room, bending over it because she didn’t want to risk the noise of a chair scraping across the floor.

She flipped from page to page, certain the distinctive seagull logo was in here, somewhere. She remembered seeing the outline of it floating in the pungent developing chemicals at Arthur’s lab. She could visualize it hanging from clothespins in his old darkroom.

She skimmed past the town’s first church, complete with a bell tower and steeple, and the forties-era World War II monument in the town common.

Photos of old buildings had captions explaining when they were built and who’d first owned them.

There was an animal pen made of stacked rocks, where early settlers would put sheep and cows at night to protect them from predators.

She turned to photos of the harbor and the text explaining the fishing enterprises that had built the town. She studied the boats, thinking maybe the logo was painted on a side or decorated a sail.

But no.

The next page’s picture displayed downtown from the grassy area that ran along the middle of Center Street.

The next photo had been taken from the sidewalk.

In the foreground was the hanging sign advertising Arthur’s gallery.

The camera was aimed down the hill toward the cove, so that the other shops’ signs looked layered like bricks.

The picture had been taken in springtime, and flowers overflowed from pots and window boxes.

At the time, she’d been so proud of the photo. She’d needed to borrow a ladder to get it just right. Now, she saw all the things she’d done wrong. Even so, it was visually impressive.

Wait.

She leaned closer and peered at the top sign.

Arthur Whitmore Photography.

To the left of the words was a seagull logo.

No. It couldn’t be.

She pulled out her phone and checked the picture she’d snapped of the doodles in Charles Ballentine’s ledger and files.

They were the same, right down to the seagull’s beak and the way it interrupted the circle surrounding the bird.

It couldn’t mean anything. Of course it couldn’t. Arthur couldn’t have had anything to do with the murders at the Ballentine Mansion.

He’d been a sweet, tender man, a Christian who’d go out of his way to help.

He wasn’t a smuggler or a killer. No way.

But…but why else would Charles have drawn the exact same logo, over and over?

A logo that had been changed so long ago that Brooklynn had forgotten all about it.

What could it mean?

Rather than worry over it here, she returned to the stacks. Back when she’d worked on her art project, she’d researched the history of Shadow Cove. There was a book somewhere about the Ballentine Mansion.

She skimmed the titles, hoping to find it. Hoping maybe there’d be information in it that could help Forbes.

His name still felt foreign.

She was so focused that she didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.

She stepped away from the bookshelves an instant before the door opened.

“…lucky that you were there. Just help me get set up, and you can…” When Maury saw Brooklynn, she gasped and froze.

“What’s wrong, Grandma?”

Though Brooklynn couldn’t see Owen, she heard the alarm in his voice.

Maury’s eyes were wide. She covered her chest with one hand and exhaled. “Good heavens, dear. You scared me to death.” Her surprise shifted to worry. “I didn’t hear you… How did you get in?”

“Grandma, this stuff is heavy.”

“Oh.” She stepped out of the way, and Owen hauled two cardboard boxes into the room.

He stopped when he saw her. “Brooklynn? What are you doing here?”

She picked up the book she’d left lying on the table and held it against her chest like a shield. “Can I help?”

He dropped the boxes on the table. “What’s going on?”

She considered making up a story, but what would explain her breaking in? She had to tell them the truth.

“You didn’t see me,” she said.

Maury’s eyebrows lifted.

Her grandson’s lowered.

“I mean, obviously you did.”

“You look terrible, dear.” Maury moved closer. “Are you ill?”

Brooklynn still wore the old-lady makeup. She laughed, the sound forced. “It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s just… I needed to get into my apartment, but I didn’t want to be seen.”

Owen said, “You think makeup will keep anyone from recognizing you?”

“With a wig and cane…” She shrugged. “I didn’t have a lot of choices.”

“Okay.” Maury’s word was drawn long. “Why are you here?”

“For this.” She wiggled the book in her arms. “I don’t know where my copy is. I’m sorry I scared you. I came in through the attic. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I’d have preferred to give you permission than have you give me a heart attack.”

“I didn’t think anybody would be here.”

“We have a meeting. If you’re that interested, you really should join?—”

“What’s the holdup?”

The words came from the stairwell, quickly followed by Graham Porter, whose shiny bald head reflected the overhead lights.

“You said you’d be gone two…” His words trailed as he caught sight of Brooklynn.

“Hey, you’re back. I didn’t realize. Have you had a chance to move my booth at Old Home Days? I refuse to share space with?—”

“I can’t talk about that right now.” She needed to get out of there before the rest of Shadow Cove traipsed through. To Maury, she said, “Can I borrow this book? I promise I’ll return it.”

“Of course, dear. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Nope. Just this.” She backed toward the interior staircase, then had a thought. “Do you remember a logo in town? A seagull surrounded by a circle?”

Graham’s chest puffed out. “At the Wadsworth, we’ve never strayed from our original logo.” It was a silhouette of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, which they probably ought to stray from, but she didn’t say so. “It’s about tradition,” Graham continued, “and honoring those who’ve?—”

“Right.” Brooklynn cut him off before he started one of his legendary lectures. She shifted the book under her arm, pulled out her phone, and showed Maury the photo she’d taken of Charles’s drawing. “Is that familiar at all?”

“Sure, sure. Arthur used that logo until he changed it to that stylized A. If you ask me, the seagull was better, but it was similar to another one in town. I don’t know if he was asked to change it, or?—”

“Whose logo?” Brooklynn usually wasn’t rude, but getting into a conversation about history with the president of the historical society wasn’t likely to be brief.

Maury tapped her upper lip. “Hmm. It was a boat, wasn’t it?” She directed the question at Graham. “I remember seeing it by the docks.”

He stepped forward and peered at Brooklynn’s screen. “The charter company,” he said. “We at the Wadsworth used to recommend them to our wealthier patrons from time to time.”

Brooklynn’s heart thumped. A charter company would own plenty of boats that could smuggle goods.

To Brooklynn, Graham said, “You should talk to Taggart or Prescott. They owned it.”

By Taggart, he couldn’t have meant Lenny. To clarify, she asked, “Leo?”

“Ayuh,” Graham said, “I think Ian owned a share. They closed up shop in the early two-thousands. Their families go back.”

Didn’t all families around here? She used to think of her town as one big family.

Now it felt more like a spiderweb, everyone connected to everyone else, the silky fibers hidden until they trapped the innocent.

She shook off the creepy notion.

At least she had a lead, one that didn’t point to her old mentor. “Thanks, you guys. I’ll let you have your meeting.” To Maury, she said, “I apologize again. I’ll explain everything when I can.”

Carrying the book, Brooklynn turned and reached for the knob, but a voice stopped her.

“Don’t forget your backpack.” Owen held it out to her. “Where are you going?”

He’d been observing so quietly that she’d forgotten he was there. She took her bag. “Thank you.”

“Delaney’s worried about you,” Owen said. “Is there anything I can do to help? Can I take you somewhere or?—”

“Thanks for asking. I’m fine, really.”

“You have a safe place to stay? It’s not safe there.” He nodded in the general direction of her apartment.

“Yup.” Or she would, as soon as she figured out where it should be. Alyssa’s, maybe. She could hole up there.

“You let me know if you need a ride.” He stepped forward and wrapped her in a hug, whispering, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I will.” Her eyes burned with tears. She hardly knew Delaney’s boyfriend, but that didn’t stop him from offering her comfort.

Brooklynn stepped back and ducked into the stairwell and scooted up the stairs.

All she’d wanted was to get in and out without being seen, and instead, she’d bumped into three townspeople. As kind as all of them had been—especially Owen—she couldn't shake the thought that Ford—Forbes—believed Shadow Cove residents might be involved with The Network.

Their information about the seagull logo lent credence to his theory.

Were her friends and neighbors…criminals? Maybe killers?

As Brooklynn made her way back to her apartment, she prayed. Protect the innocent, Lord. Let Maury, Owen, and Graham not tell anybody they saw me. Keep them safe. Keep the whole town safe. And if any of them are involved in this terrible smuggling operation, expose them.

Almost against her will, she added, Keep Forbes safe and help him find what he’s looking for .