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“Mrs. McCoy’s looking for the sheriff,” Reynolds explained, his tone noticeably cooler toward his colleague.

“Join the club,” Larson said, cutting his eyes toward me. “Seems our fearless leader had more important things to do than explain why someone broke into the evidence room on his watch.”

The hostility in his voice was unmistakable.

“That’s enough, Larson,” Reynolds admonished quietly, his protective instinct flaring briefly as he glanced at me.

Larson’s jaw tightened, but he backed off, turning his attention to me. “What’s your business with Beckett, anyway? Someone file a complaint about those relics you sell?”

“I run a tea shop,” I corrected, forcing a pleasant smile. “If you have questions about my shop you should come in or ask Jennifer. She comes in on Mondays and Thursdays every week like clockwork.”

Reynolds’ eyes got big and he went into a coughing fit, though I could’ve sworn I heard some laughter in there.

Larson colored slightly, and I knew I might have gone too far, which was not at all like me. Proper Southern women weren’t confrontational. But there was something about Larson that just rubbed me the wrong way, and the words popped out of my mouth before they’d barely formed in my brain.

Everyone on the island knew Larson and his wife were trying to “work things out.” But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that wasn’t going to happen as long as his cruiser was parked on the side street of Jennifer Newsom’s home twice a week.

Something flickered across Larson’s face—so brief I almost missed it—but I had a feeling I’d just made an enemy.

Reynolds shifted uncomfortably, giving me an apologetic look. “I’ll tell the sheriff you stopped by. Maybe try back later? Or I can drop by the shop when my shift ends if you need something urgent.”

“You’re the best,” I said, not ready to leave empty handed. I gestured toward the crime scene tape visible in the back. “What happened here? The whole island’s buzzing with rumors.”

Reynolds hesitated, then leaned forward. “Break-in last night. Evidence room hit. Sheriff’s had us all running in circles trying to figure out what was taken.”

“Specifically from the cold case section,” Larson added, watching me closely.

My expression remained neutral, but internally my pulse quickened.

“When will he be back?” I pressed, deliberately ignoring Larson’s bait.

“No idea,” Reynolds sighed, his familiar face showing genuine regret. “But the mayor looked ready to skin someone alive when they left. Never seen him so angry.”

Larson checked his watch with exaggerated impatience. “I’ve got patrol. Reynolds, make sure Mrs. McCoy signs the visitor log before she leaves.” He glanced back at me, his eyes cold. “Department policy. We keep track of everyone who comes around asking questions these days.”

The threat was subtle but unmistakable.

After he left, Reynolds seemed to deflate slightly. “Don’t mind him, Mabel. Larson’s been on edge since the break-in—we all have.”

“Thanks,” I said, turning to leave. “If you see Sheriff Beckett, please tell him I need to speak with him.”

“Will do,” Reynolds promised, already turning to answer a ringing phone. “See you tomorrow for my usual,” he called after me.

“See you then,” I replied, though my mind was already racing ahead to what the break-in might mean.

I hurried back to my car, a sense of urgency propelling me.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed a dark sedan I hadn’t seen before, idling across the street with its engine running.

The windows were tinted, making it impossible to see who was inside, but something about it sent a chill straight down my spine.

“Not a coincidence,” I whispered, my mouth gone suddenly desert dry. The reality of being followed—actually followed—hit me like a physical blow, turning my insides to ice water. This wasn’t some movie thriller. This was my life, and someone was watching me because of a decades-old diary.

The sedan stayed with me for two more turns, and with each one, my heart hammered harder against my ribs until I could feel the pulse in my throat like a trapped bird.

My palms grew slick against the steering wheel, leaving damp prints on the polished surface.

A prickling heat crawled up the back of my neck, while a contradictory chill spread through my limbs.

I forced myself to breathe—in through my nose, out through my mouth—but each breath felt shallow and insufficient, like I was trying to pull air through a coffee stirrer.

“Yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today !” I sang at the top of my lungs, forcing a cheerfulness I didn’t feel. The old tune was my go-to for anxiety, but today the forced optimism only highlighted my fear, sending a violent shiver down my spine.

On a hunch, I took a deliberate wrong turn instead of heading directly back to the shop, my fingers trembling so badly I had to grip the wheel with both hands to steady them.

I checked my rearview mirror without being too obvious.

Sure enough, the sedan pulled out and followed, maintaining a precise three-car distance.

A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach, acidic and insistent.

I swallowed hard against it, tasting bitter fear at the back of my throat.

The familiar streets of Grimm Island suddenly seemed alien and threatening, each turn a potential trap, each intersection a decision that might lead me closer to whoever was inside that car.

My vintage Karmann Ghia, usually my pride and joy, now felt fragile and exposed—a powder-blue target moving through hostile territory.

Heart pounding, I managed to lose the sedan by cutting through the grocery store parking lot and doubling back.

My ears rang with rushing blood, and I found myself checking the mirror every few seconds, flinching at shadows and slowing cars.

By the time I returned to the tea shop, the top of my dress was sticking to my back with cold sweat, and my legs felt rubbery and unreliable as I hurried inside, locked the door behind me, and withdrew to the office where I could think.

Chowder followed and lay down on my toes to show his support, his solid warmth gradually helping to anchor me back to reality.

The break-in, Dash’s abruptly ended call, and now someone following me—it all had to be connected to Elizabeth’s diary. I pulled it from my bag and carefully opened it again, this time focusing on the final entries I hadn’t had time to fully examine earlier.

If anything happens to me, the proof is in the lighthouse. They’ll never think to look where I’ve hidden it. J doesn’t even know. It’s safer that way.

The lighthouse. Elizabeth had hidden something in the lighthouse.

I stood and moved to the window, where I could just make out the distant silhouette of the Grimm Island Lighthouse standing sentinel at the harbor entrance. Whatever secret Elizabeth had discovered—whatever had gotten her killed—the proof was still there.

Waiting to be found.

Whether that would be by me or by whoever had been following me remained to be seen.