Page 122 of Secrets Along the Shore

“I’m running sims with a guy in the UK. They’re seven hours ahead, so you got lucky.”

“I’ve got a job for you, if you’re up for it.”

“Always am,” he answers, his bravado practically dripping from the phone. “Go.”

“I’m sending a photo of a necklace and a basic description of the person wearing it. I need to know who she is.”

“That’s it? Bet.”

I had to Google Gen-Z slang after my first conversation with Goat to understand half of what he said, including that in this context, “bet” means “you bet.” Most of the time, I still feel like I should pull out a translation app when I’m talking to him.

“The quicker the better.”

“I got you.”

“Okay, thanks.” I hang up, hopeful Goat will work his magic and find us a name faster than the lab will.

I return to Tasha and Sheriff Vickers. “I might have something for you before the DNA results come back. As soon as I know something, I’ll shoot it to you.”

My phone buzzes and I check the text. It’s from James.

See you in an hour :)

I groan, my shoulders sagging as my heart hits the ground.

I am the worst fiancée ever.

CHAPTER

SIX

Not only does James understand,but he asks if there’s anything he can do, and offers to go by my house, grab Bilbo and take him to the park.

I picked a good one.

I’m jealous of both James and Bilbo. I’d much rather be with them, tossing frisbees and soaking up the sun-kissed nature under the pines at Willow Peak State Park. Instead, I’m buried under a mountain of notes and files in the drab District Attorney’s office. Along with Tasha, I'm studying everything collected over the past two years, hoping to make a case against Kurt Fogerty for this new murder by Monday.

Another murder. Another young woman’s life ended too soon at his hands. Another family destroyed by grief.

Normally, the D.A.’s office wouldn’t be involved in a case until after the sheriff’s department finishes gathering evidence and hands it over for prosecution. But this is an unusual situation—essentially an extension of the cases already turned over to the D.A.—requiring the entire law enforcement machine to rally from the beginning.

Which is why we’re huddled around her desk, sorting through everything, organizing all the information about Fogerty’s movements over the last two years. That way, when Keith Gold gives us a time of death or anything else that offers a foothold—or Goat reaches out with an ID—we can start locking this down.

I've run the basics of the victim’s description to see if there's a match for a missing person. There isn’t. That doesn’t guarantee she isn’t local—it’s possible no one’s reported her disappearance. Chances are, though, she isn’t from here. While that’s good news for the community, it widens the net and makes our job harder.

I don’t mind the tradeoff. I don’t know if this place can handle another Aria.

The remnants of our Cobb salads from J.J.’s Cafe sit in open foam boxes, abandoned in one of the few spots available on the crowded desktop. I only managed half, and Tasha even less. Something about murder tends to curb my appetite. I’m taking a slurp on the straw in my tea when Tasha huffs.

“I hate this,” she says. “I feel so useless.”

“We’re just in a holding pattern,” I say. “As soon as we get?—”

Like it heard us talking about it, the phone on her desk rings and we jump in sync. Tasha’s hand smacks the speakerphone button to answer.

“Hello?” we say in unison.

The choral response must have confused the caller, because he replies with, “Uh…I was trying to reach A.D.A. Clay's office?”