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CHAPTER SEVEN

A rush of cool evening air carried with it the scent of cedar and leather.

“It’s just me,” Dash called out, his voice low and steady.

I let out a sigh of relief, but Walt’s hand didn’t leave his pocket.

Dash appeared in the doorway like a shadow materializing, dressed in a plain black T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders and jeans that had seen better days.

His badge glinted on his belt and his weapon was holstered—the only signs of his official position.

Gone was the pressed uniform I was accustomed to seeing him in.

If I had to judge by the expression on his face and the set of his shoulders, I’d say his day probably hadn’t been one of the better ones since he’d taken the job as sheriff.

My fingers fumbled with the teacup I was holding, nearly spilling its contents.

The domesticity of him standing there in my dining room struck me with unexpected force, as if the sheriff had momentarily transformed into just a man—one whose presence suddenly made the room feel smaller, more confined.

Despite the exhaustion evident in the slight shadows beneath his eyes, there was a watchful intensity in his posture that made me think of the panthers that sometimes prowled the island’s wildlife sanctuary—economical in movement, deliberate in stillness.

A flush crept across my collarbones, rising up my neck like an incoming tide.

I turned away, busying myself with straightening papers on the table, hoping the dim evening light concealed the color I could feel blooming on my skin.

My body was reacting to him in ways I hadn’t experienced in years—hadn’t allowed myself to experience.

Every sense seemed heightened—the ticking of the grandfather clock suddenly too loud, the bourbon too fragrant, the room too warm.

“How did you get in?” I demanded, letting irritation coat my words to mask the flutter of nerves beneath. I needed the distance of formality between us, needed to remember that he was Sheriff Beckett, not the man whose hands I’d found myself watching when he held his coffee cup earlier that day.

“Parked three streets over, cut through the Wilsons’ backyard, and hopped your fence,” he said with casual confidence, as if scaling fences was standard procedure. He crouched to greet Chowder, who was beside himself with joy. “Your garden gnome with the sailor hat makes a convenient key holder.”

My mouth fell open. “Captain Barnaby? You figured out how to open him?”

“Hey, I watch QVC late at night too,” he said, rising to his full height. “Hollow ceramic figurines aren’t exactly Fort Knox.” In the soft light of my dining room, the angles of his face seemed sharper, more defined. “You might as well leave a key under the welcome mat.”

I wanted to be properly outraged at his intrusion, at the presumption of finding my hidden key.

Instead, I found myself wondering what other secrets of mine he could uncover with that watchful gaze.

The thought sent a ripple of something dangerous down my spine—not quite fear, not quite anticipation, but a disconcerting blend of both.

Patrick had been steady, reliable, safe—his love as comfortable as a well-worn quilt. But there was nothing comfortable about the way Dash Beckett made me feel. His presence was like standing at the edge of deep water, the tension between staying safely on shore or diving into unknown depths.

“Who knew I needed a state-of-the-art security system on my garden decorations?” I retorted, clinging to indignation like a life preserver.

A hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth, a brief crack in his otherwise guarded expression. That small softening of his features shouldn’t have affected me, but it did—like catching a glimpse of something rare and unexpected.

“Oh, honestly,” Bea interjected, eyeing Dash with unabashed appreciation as she passed him a tumbler of bourbon. “The man just scaled a fence in the dark to avoid detection. I’d say that deserves a drink rather than a lecture on garden ornament protocol.”

Dash accepted the glass. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t ma’am me, young man,” Bea said with a delighted shimmy of her shoulders. “I’m still young enough to appreciate the view when it walks through the door.”

Hank barked out a laugh. “The only thing you’re too young for is that centurion cruise that leaves from the harbor next month.”

“Hush, Hank,” Bea said. “If you tell me I look anything but half my age then I’ll start to think all that plastic surgery wasn’t worth the money. And then I’d have married Randolph for nothing. What do you think, sugar?” Bea winked flirtatiously at Dash. “Did he do a good job?”

“Bea!” Deidre admonished, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’ll embarrass him.”

“I don’t embarrass easily,” Dash said, taking the empty seat next to me.

He settled beside me, and I breathed in the scent of sandalwood and something more masculine.

My hands suddenly felt clumsy and too large, the distance between our elbows measured in molecules rather than inches.

After ten years of carefully maintained solitude, I’d forgotten how to navigate this particular form of proximity—the consciousness of another person occupying your space, breathing your air.

“Where have you been all day?” I asked, focusing on the blueprints rather than the barely there brush of his sleeve against mine as he leaned forward.

The innocuous contact shouldn’t have registered, certainly shouldn’t have sent a current across my skin like static electricity, but my body seemed determined to betray me in new and mortifying ways.

“Your call cut off mid-sentence this morning, and no one’s heard from you since. ”

The humor in his eyes vanished, replaced by something harder, colder. When he spoke, his voice was controlled in a way that suggested he was carefully measuring each word.

“Mayor Cromwell and some of his friends on the city council have been taking turns trying to question my investigative priorities,” he said, swirling the bourbon in his glass without drinking it. “Seems they think I orchestrated the break-in to drum up drama. They forget I don’t answer to them.”

“Did you?” Bea asked bluntly.

“Bea!” Deidre admonished.

“What? We’re all thinking it.” She turned to Dash without an ounce of shame. “Did you stage the break-in to cover taking the diary?”

“No,” he said firmly, meeting her gaze. “The hidden panel where I found the diary was left open, so they know it’s gone. Then they ransacked the room to make it look like part of a larger theft.”

“How bad is it?” Hank asked.

“Bad enough. Evidence from three cases gone, filing cabinets ransacked. Professionally done—no prints, security cameras disabled.” Dash’s eyes found mine. “They’re looking for the diary.”

“I was tailed today,” I told him, watching his expression darken. “Dark sedan followed me after I left the station this afternoon.”

His jaw tightened. “That changes things. You’re not safe here alone.”

“I’ve got Chowder,” I said, as the dog in question rolled onto his back at Dash’s feet, stubby legs waving in the air. “He’s very intimidating once you get past the ridiculous snoring and pathological need for belly rubs.”

“I can see that,” Dash replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he obliged Chowder with a quick scratch. “He’d definitely strike fear into the heart of any intruder with carryout food.”

I smiled despite myself. It was almost disorienting how quickly he could shift from intense to charming and back again. The room felt warmer with him in it, and I wasn’t sure if that was comforting or concerning.

“So,” I said, clearing my throat and tapping the papers on the table, “Now that we’re all caught up on break-ins and threats, we should probably talk about why we’re really here. Elizabeth’s last diary entry mentions the lighthouse. We need to search it.”

“The lighthouse is county property under Coast Guard jurisdiction,” Dash said. “We can’t just walk in.”

“Well, technically…” Deidre began, then stopped when we all looked at her. “I may have a key.”

“You what?” I asked, nearly choking on my bourbon.

“I’m on the historical preservation committee,” she explained. “We have access for documentation purposes.”

“That’s…convenient,” Dash said slowly.

“I think the word you’re looking for is illegal if we use it without authorization,” Hank pointed out.

“Only if we get caught,” Bea countered cheerfully.

“No one is breaking any laws,” Dash stated firmly. “I can get us access officially. I’ll file the paperwork for an evidence search.”

“That could take days,” Walt objected. “And it would alert whoever broke into the station.”

“I have a better idea,” I said, the plan forming as I spoke. “The historical society is hosting a fundraiser tomorrow night. Lighthouse tours are part of the package.”

“We’d all need tickets,” Dottie pointed out.

“I have tickets,” I said. “Patrick served on the board. They still send me invitations every year.”

“That could work,” Dash conceded. “But it’s still risky. The entire island social circle will be there.”

“Which makes it the perfect cover,” Walt countered. “No one would suspect us of searching for evidence at a public event.”

“And who’s going to notice a few senior citizens wandering away from a tour?” Deidre added. “We’re practically invisible. People just see gray hair and assume we’re confused.”

“I’ve never had a gray hair on my head,” Bea said, patting her flaming-red coiffure.

“God wouldn’t know your real hair color if he had to pick it out of a lineup,” Deidre said without malice.

“I can only bring one guest with my ticket,” I said, looking around the table.

“It should be Dash,” Walt said immediately. “He’s got training.”

“It absolutely should not be Dash,” I countered. “Everyone on the island knows who he is. He’d stick out like a peacock at a penguin convention.”