Page 19

Before I could ask more, a door opened, and Jason Brooks himself emerged.

He was tall and trim, with salt-and-pepper hair that seemed deliberately styled to project distinguished authority rather than age.

His custom suit hung perfectly on his frame, and his smile revealed teeth that had definitely benefited from cosmetic dentistry.

“Judge Hardeman,” Jason greeted, extending his hand. “What an unexpected pleasure. I was sorry to hear about Eleanor.”

“That’s kind of you,” Hank said, shaking his hand firmly. “And how’s Christine and the kids.”

“Not kids anymore,” he said. “I’ve got one at Georgetown Law School and the other is a sophomore at Stanford. As far as Christine—” He shrugged his shoulders and looked a bit sheepish. “We’ve been divorced about five years now. She wasn’t a fan of lawyer’s hours.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hank said.

“It’s just one of those things,” he said. “Probably for the best. Now I’m able to fully focus on the firm, the kids are taken care of, and when I get a few days off I pack up my fishing gear and head to Costa Rica to fish. I have no complaints. So to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I appreciate you making time on such short notice,” Hank said. “This is a friend of mine. Mabel McCoy.”

Brooks turned to me, his politician’s smile in place, and then it warmed considerably when he took a good look at me.

He was a handsome man and obviously took very good care of himself, and after his hand lingered a little longer than was usual on mine I had to wonder if his divorce had anything to do with the flirtatious charm that seemed to emanate from his pores.

I found myself a little flustered when I took my hand back.

“Ms. McCoy,” he said, smiling. “Hank keeps beautiful company. Please, both of you, come with me to my office.”

It was a short walk down a slate-tiled hallway and small glass offices that looked out over the city.

We took a left down another hallway, but this one had plush carpet and a quiet opulence that bordered on extravagant.

A separate reception area opened up and there was a woman sitting behind a large curved desk that blocked the door to Brooks’ office.

“My personal admin, Lena,” he said as he ushered us into his office.

“I must admit I was intrigued by your call,” Brooks said, gesturing for us to take seats in leather chairs positioned in front of his desk.

“You mentioned an old case from Grimm Island? I wouldn’t have expected you to be digging into anything there, Hank.

As far as I know, Grimm Island has never had a big problem with crime. At least the violent kind.”

“Elizabeth Calvert,” Hank stated, getting straight to the point. “Her father is dying. His last wish is to know what really happened to his daughter.”

The change in Brooks was immediate—like watching ice form across a pond in winter. His posture stiffened, and his shoulders tensed visibly.

“Elizabeth Calvert,” he repeated, the name emerging deliberately, as if he were testing a delicate instrument. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in many years. The official ruling was accidental drowning.”

“We found her diary,” I interjected. “And in it, she mentions someone named J who warned her that her investigation was dangerous—that she should let it go. It’s been mentioned by several people that the two of you were involved that summer.”

Brooks stared at us for a long moment, then reached forward and pressed a button on his desk phone. “Lena, hold my calls for the next hour. And would you please bring in tea for my guests?”

He rose and walked to his office door, closing it with a soft click. From his desk, he pressed another button that engaged a privacy film over the glass walls of his office, instantly turning them opaque.

When he returned to his seat, his professional veneer had visibly faltered. “How did you come across her diary after all this time?”

“It was found hidden in evidence storage,” Hank explained. “The new sheriff is reopening the investigation into her death,” I said.

“Investigation?” Brooks echoed. “It was ruled an accidental drowning.”

“You and I both know there was nothing accidental about it,” Hank said, his voice carrying quiet authority. “Nothing about her death set right then and now that we’ve seen the case file it definitely doesn’t set right.”

Brooks exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his styled hair. For the first time, he looked like a man rather than a carefully constructed professional image.

“I always wondered if she’d left evidence somewhere,” he admitted finally. “She was too smart not to have backup.”

“So, does that mean you’re J?” I asked.

He straightened his tie, his composure returning. “Yes. Elizabeth and I…we were romantically involved that summer. Not intentionally. It was just one of those things.”

“She’d been dating the Harrington boy for a while if I recall,” Hank said.

Brooks cleared his throat. “Like I said, it was just one of those things. I knew she was still dating Clint. I knew she was going to break it off with him. She didn’t want to be tied down before she left for Duke.

And I was comfortable with the idea of a summer fling, nothing serious.

At least that’s how it started. We were both young.

Elizabeth was adventurous and impulsive and I was working a hundred hours a week at the DA’s office and looking for fun. ”

“I take it Clint found out about the fling?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “And it wasn’t pretty.

Three days before she died he showed up to her apartment unexpected and I happened to be there.

There was a confrontation—heated words exchanged, a physical altercation.

I sustained minor injuries—black eye, busted knuckles.

Clint was a big guy, but he didn’t get away unscathed.

” He smiled at that, looking down at his knuckles as if the marks would still be there.

“Elizabeth was shaken. I think she saw a side of Clint she’d never seen before. ”

“What exactly did Clint know about her research?” Hank inquired.

“Initially nothing,” Brooks said. “Elizabeth was careful to keep her investigation separate from her relationship with him, especially once she began suspecting his father’s involvement.

But during the confrontation, he saw some of the documents on her coffee table—Harbor Development Corporation contracts with his father’s company.

I think he was intoxicated, volatile. He demanded to know what she was doing, grabbed some of the documents and started going through them.

Even then he was being groomed to take over the business. He knew what he was looking at.”

Brooks’ voice remained steady, but a muscle in his cheek twitched involuntarily.

“Clint threatened to tell his father about what she was doing, and he threatened to damage my career, which he could have done. I had political ambitions back then. Clint told her she’d regret making a fool of him and then slammed out. ”

A knock at the door interrupted us, and his secretary entered with a silver tea service on a tray.

Lena poured three cups with precision, adding a splash of milk to Jason’s without being asked—clearly she’d served him before.

She offered a plate of shortbread biscuits that no one touched, then departed quietly, closing the door behind her.

Brooks waited until she was gone before continuing, his poise now gone. He lifted his cup but set it back down untouched.

“What exactly was she investigating?” I queried, connecting the threads. “The financial records we found showed payments to Milton and Cromwell, but what was she hoping to expose?”

Brooks leaned back in his chair. “Elizabeth believed she’d uncovered a systematic pattern of corruption—bribes to officials in exchange for development approvals, falsified environmental impact studies, manipulated zoning changes.

The triumvirate of Milton, Cromwell, and Harrington Sr. controlled virtually every major development project on the island. ”

“But Elizabeth threatened to expose them,” Hank postulated.

“And someone silenced her permanently,” I added.

Brooks nodded, throat working visibly. “I always assumed it was Milton who arranged it. He had the authority, the connections to cover it up.”

“But Milton’s in prison now,” I pointed out. “And someone broke into the sheriff’s office looking for Elizabeth’s diary. Someone who’s still very interested in keeping these secrets buried.”

“Paul Cromwell is dead,” Brooks contemplated aloud. “Milton’s locked up. That leaves?—”

“Clinton Harrington,” Hank finished. “Or his son, who took over the business.”

Brooks ran his thumb along his jawline before nodding. “Harrington Construction has flourished since Clint Jr. took over. He’s transformed it into one of the largest developers on the coast.”

“Let’s back up a moment,” I suggested, watching Brooks intently. “What happened after Clint confronted the two of you?”

Brooks drummed his fingers lightly on his desk blotter. “After he left that night, Elizabeth was shaken but also more determined than ever.”

“And the last time you saw her?” Hank asked.

“She came to my office on July fifteenth,” Brooks recounted, his gaze drifting briefly to the harbor view.

“She was different—calmer—almost resolute. Said she’d taken precautions in case something happened to her.

I told her we should have dinner and talk it over, but she said she had things to see to.

” His voice remained steady, but his knuckles whitened around his pen.

“The next morning, she was found in the harbor. I never did find out what precautions she’d taken. ”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Brooks reached for his tea, taking a small sip before setting it down again.

“What happens now?” he finally asked, looking between us.

Hank straightened in his chair. “Now we build a case. Elizabeth deserves justice, even after all these years.”

“Her father is dying,” I contributed. “This might be his last chance to know the truth.”

Brooks was silent for a long moment, conflict evident in his expression. Finally, he opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew a business card, writing something on the back before handing it to me.

“This is my private number,” he revealed. “Not the office line. If you find something concrete—something that can’t be dismissed or buried—call me. I should have helped Elizabeth when I had the chance. Maybe I can make up for that now.” He handed me the card.

Hank studied him for a moment, his gaze thoughtful rather than accusatory. “Twenty-eight years is a long time to carry this burden, Jason.”

Brooks glanced at the photographs on his wall—the smiling images of himself with powerful men.

“It was only supposed to be a fling.” The was sorrow and regret in his voice.

“But I fell in love with her. It was impossible not to. It’s time to right any wrongs I may have committed.

I’ve spent nearly three decades building a career on the foundation of my silence,” he confessed quietly.

“I’d like to spend whatever years I have left being able to sleep at night. ”

* * *

As we made our way back to the car I asked Hank, “Do you think he was telling the truth?”

“Too early to draw conclusions,” he cautioned. “Right now, all we have is his word that there was a relationship between them. We need corroboration and evidence. That’s how justice works—facts, not speculation.”

We made our way back to the car in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. As we pulled out of the parking garage into the bright Charleston sunshine, I checked my rearview mirror, half expecting to see the dark sedan that had followed me before.

“Clint Harrington Jr.,” I declared as we merged onto the highway heading back to Grimm Island. “We need to talk to him.”

“Agreed,” Hank concurred, buckling his seat belt. “But we need to be careful. If Brooks is right, and Elizabeth was killed for what she found, Harrington might be more dangerous than we thought.”

“Let’s talk to Sheriff Beckett and see what he thinks,” I said, the idea sending a thrill of anticipation through me.

“Good idea,” Hank said. “I’m afraid I have more questions than answers after that meeting. After nearly thirty years, why is someone still desperate to keep Elizabeth’s discovery hidden? Financial fraud has a statute of limitations. Murder doesn’t.”

“The question is what exactly did she find?” I pondered, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “What secret was worth killing for then—and still worth protecting now?”

We fell silent for a while, both lost in thought as the highway stretched before us.

The weight of it all—a young woman’s death, a father’s dying wish, a decades-old cover-up—settled around us like a heavy fog.

To calm my nerves, I found myself doing what I always did when anxiety threatened to overwhelm me.

“You must remember this—A kiss is just a kiss,” I sang softly, the familiar melody soothing my frayed nerves. “A sigh is just a sigh…”

Hank smiled faintly, his eyes on the road ahead. “ Casablanca ,” he said. “Eleanor’s favorite. We saw it on our first date.”

I glanced at him, surprised by the coincidence. “Patrick’s too,” I admitted. “We had our first kiss during that scene.

“The world will always welcome lovers,” I continued singing softly, “As time goes by…”

The lighthouse appeared in the distance as we crossed the causeway back to Grimm Island. Its beam swept steadily across the harbor waters where Elizabeth’s body had been found all those years ago.

The island looked peaceful in the afternoon light, its oak-lined streets and pastel houses picture perfect against the coastal backdrop. But beneath that polished surface lay secrets buried deep—secrets someone was still willing to kill for.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were heading straight into danger. I was just a tea shop owner, and I had no business chasing down clues or confronting powerful men with dangerous secrets.

As I turned onto Harbor Street, I caught a glimpse of headlights in my rearview mirror. A dark sedan, hanging back just far enough to seem innocent, but close enough to keep us in sight.

My hands tightened on the steering wheel as the reality hit me like a physical blow. They knew. Whoever had killed Elizabeth, whoever had spent twenty-eight years keeping her secrets buried, they knew we’d found what we were looking for.

But if they thought a little intimidation would make me back down, they clearly didn’t know Mabel McCoy.