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The wine had loosened my tongue, and once I started, the words tumbled out like water through a broken dam.

“Well, I spend most of my time at the tea shop. I do crossword puzzles—always in pen, never pencil. I read mostly mysteries and historical fiction. I love old music, as you might have noticed, and I only like movies that have explosions or car chases. I crochet, but badly—my blankets always end up as trapezoids instead of rectangles.”

I couldn’t seem to stop myself. “I have a black thumb—every plant I touch dies a spectacular death. I can’t dance to save my life, though I love to try when no one’s watching. And I?—”

“You’re hiding,” he interrupted, the words soft but sharp enough to slice through my rambling.

My fingers tightened around the stem of my wine glass. “Excuse me?”

“Behind all those little details,” he continued, his gaze never wavering. “You’re hiding who you really are.”

Heat bloomed across my chest and crept up my neck, not from embarrassment but from the startling sensation of being truly seen—like he’d peeled back layers I’d forgotten were there.

“And who am I really?” I challenged, my voice emerging huskier than intended, betraying emotions I couldn’t name.

He leaned forward, those dark eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made my lungs forget how to function.

The restaurant around us seemed to recede—the clink of silverware, murmured conversations, even the soft music playing in the background faded until there was nothing but the charged space between us.

“You tell me, Mabel McCoy,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “Who are you when you’re not being Patrick’s widow? When you’re not being the proper tea shop owner everyone expects you to be?”

The question hit like a punch to the solar plexus, so precisely targeted it knocked the breath from my lungs.

In all the years since Patrick died, no one had ever asked me that.

I’d been so busy becoming what everyone expected—grieving widow, community business owner, proper Southern lady—that I’d forgotten there might be someone else beneath those carefully constructed layers.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, the honesty scalding my throat like strong whiskey.

“I think you do,” he said, leaning closer until I could smell his aftershave mingling with wine and steak, a heady combination that made my head swim.

“I think you’ve wrapped yourself in a cocoon of vintage dresses and perfect manners and widow’s weeds.

But the real Mabel McCoy is in there, waiting to break free. ”

My heart hammered so hard I could feel my pulse in my fingertips, my throat, behind my eyes. He’d somehow looked past all my careful defenses and seen a truth I’d been hiding even from myself.

“And who do you think she is?” I whispered, barely able to force the words past the tightness in my throat. “This real Mabel McCoy?”

His eyes held mine, dark and knowing. “I’m not sure yet. A free spirit? A rule-breaker? Someone wild and unpredictable?” His mouth curved into a smile that sent a shiver cascading down my spine like falling dominoes. “But I’m looking forward to finding out.”

The moment stretched on, electric and dangerous. His hand rested on the table between us, and I had the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch it, to bridge the small physical distance that suddenly seemed to represent so much more.

The server materialized at our table, breaking the spell. “Everything is delicious, yes?” he asked, smiling between us.

I nearly knocked over my water glass as I leaned back, grateful for the interruption that allowed me to catch my breath. “Everything is perfect,” I managed, though I could barely remember what I’d been eating.

We declined dessert and Dash paid the bill with a discretion and ease that showed me he wasn’t a stranger to fine dining. Who was this man? Every moment I spent with him made me more curious.

Outside, stars scattered across the velvet sky like diamonds on black silk. The night air was heavy with jasmine and salt and possibility.

“We should go back to your place,” Dash said as he opened the passenger door of the Tahoe and helped me in.

My pulse spiked embarrassingly, but before I could formulate a response, he added, “To work on the case. We need to make an evidence board, organize what we know so far. I can’t do those things during regular work hours, and I can’t keep it at the station.”

“Right,” I agreed, feeling like a dummy. “That makes sense.”

The drive home was mercifully short, giving me little time to overthink the evening. Chowder greeted us at the door with suspicion that quickly morphed into betrayal when he recognized Dash, waddling over like he’d been waiting all night for him to return home.

“Traitor,” I muttered as Dash crouched to scratch behind his ears.

“He just knows quality when he sees it,” Dash replied with that half smile that did dangerous things to my equilibrium. “Let me bring in some things from the car. I wouldn’t say no to some tea if you’ve got any.”

I looked down at Chowder when he went back out the door. “Did he seriously just ask me if I’ve got tea?”

Chowder grunted and then waddled into the kitchen. I followed after him and started the pot boiling.

Dash brought in a large corkboard, along with colored pins, index cards, and string that reminded me of a middle school project I’d once done, and he spread them out over the dining room table.

“Very official,” I observed.

“Law enforcement 101,” he replied. “Visual organization helps see connections we might otherwise miss.”

For the next few hours, we mapped out the case like generals planning a battle.

Photos, names, and dates covered the board in a web of colored threads and stark reality.

We created categories of players—the deceased (Paul Cromwell, Clinton Harrington Sr.), the incarcerated (Sheriff Milton), the potentially involved (Clint Harrington Jr., Lucinda Milton, Jason Brooks), and witnesses who might have seen something the night Elizabeth died.

“We should also talk to Vanessa,” I said, making another card.

“Vanessa?” Dash raised an eyebrow.

“Milton’s second wife,” I explained. “They married not six months after his divorce from Lucinda was final. The ink was barely dry on those papers. Big scandal back then, not just because of the timing but because she was young enough to be his daughter—early twenties when he was pushing fifty.”

“That would have been around ’97 or ’98?” Dash asked, making a note.

“Not long after Elizabeth died,” I said. “The timeline’s interesting. Lucinda was still his wife when Elizabeth died, but she left him shortly after. Then he married Vanessa.” I tapped my pen thoughtfully. “They were only married a few years, but she still lives on the island.”

“Any theories about that?” Dash asked.

“Island gossip suggested she got a generous divorce settlement,” I said. “She opened that little boutique on Driftwood Street—Coastal Chic. The startup money had to come from somewhere.”

“Another person of interest,” Dash agreed, adding a thread connecting Vanessa to Milton.

I added more names to our list—potential witnesses who had been around in 1996, island residents who might have seen Elizabeth the night she died, former employees of Harrington Construction who might have known about the bribes and kickbacks we’d found in the lighthouse ledgers.

“I’m going to have Deputy Harris search through the old witness statements he found,” Dash said, writing Harris’s name on the board. “See if any of them match the names we’ve collected here. I’ve got him going through all the old boxes one by one. He may find more hidden evidence.”

“Can you trust him?” I asked, remembering how Dash had mentioned he wasn’t sure who at the department he could rely on.

“He’s new,” Dash said, though his expression remained guarded. “Came in after the Milton scandal. No connections to the old guard. I’ve vetted him thoroughly and keep him on a need-to-know basis.” He paused, a shadow crossing his face. “Trust but verify—a lesson I learned the hard way.”

I nodded, feeling a surge of hope that we were actually making progress in uncovering the truth about Elizabeth’s death.

“This is overwhelming,” I said. “Look at all of these people. We haven’t even scratched the surface.”

“The Silver Sleuths need to divide and conquer,” Dash said. “They’ve been deputized. If most of these people still live on the island they could have statements finished over the next couple of days.”

“You realize once we start asking questions on the island you have no hope of keeping this under wraps.”

“Yeah, I realize that,” he said. “And we’re going to use it to our advantage. It’s pretty obvious someone doesn’t want us digging into these old cases. They’ve already trashed the evidence room and sent someone to follow you. Now it’s time to poke the hornet’s nest.”

By the time we finished, the grandfather clock in the hall had long since tolled midnight, its sonorous chimes the only sound in the sleeping house besides our voices.

I stretched, muscles protesting after hours bent over the evidence board. “I should probably call it a night. This is way past my bedtime. I have to be up in just a few hours.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said, collecting his jacket from the back of the chair.

I walked him to the door, Chowder waddling alongside us like a furry chaperone.

“You’re going to have to explain to me again how it’s okay for me to be here without ruining your reputation, but not for you to come to my house. ”

“Because I’m right here where anyone who wants to see what’s going on can,” I said.

“Walt even climbed my fence so he could look in the windows when he heard you’d come by in the middle of the night.

It’s like having chaperones. We’re basically sending out a signal to the community that no matter what time you come here, everything is aboveboard and no funny business is happening. ”

“The logic is mind blowing,” he said. “Is there a rule book or something I can buy about Southern decorum?”

“It’s a learned art,” I told him. “You’ll figure it out.”

“So you’re telling me that because we’re being wide open about my being here in the middle of the night, that no one will assume the worst because people could be looking through your windows to check on your behavior?”

“Well, when you put it like that it does sound odd,” I said, very nervous all of a sudden.

He turned to face me, one hand still on the doorknob. The hall light cast half his face in shadow, emphasizing the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth as it lifted in a slow smile.

“If your reputation is already safe,” he said softly, the words hanging in the air between us like a question. “We might as well push the limits a little. See if we can find the Mabel McCoy who breaks the rules and tests the boundaries of what’s been built around her.”

A thrill of excitement shot down my spine at his words, and I found I wanted to test the boundaries very, very much. He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup my face with a gentleness that stole my breath. He gave me time to step back, to say no.

I didn’t.

His lips met mine, and the world tilted on its axis.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost questioning, but when I made a small sound of surprise, it deepened into something more urgent, more demanding.

His hand slid to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as his other arm wrapped around my waist, drawing me closer until I could feel the solid wall of his chest against mine.

I found myself responding with an enthusiasm that would have mortified me if I’d had the capacity for rational thought.

My hands gripped the front of his shirt like I was drowning and he was the only thing keeping me afloat.

The taste of him—wine and tea and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him—flooded my senses until I could hardly remember my own name.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing as if we’d run a race. His eyes were darker than I’d ever seen them, pupils dilated in the dim light of my entryway.

“I think that cocoon of yours is starting to crack, Mabel McCoy,” he said, his voice rough with something that made my knees threaten to buckle beneath me.

Then he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him, leaving me standing in my hallway with my fingers pressed to lips that still tingled from his touch. My pulse thundered in my ears, each beat sending a wave of heat through my body until I felt feverish with it.

Chowder waddled up beside me, looking up with what could only be described as canine judgment, his wrinkled face somehow more disapproving than usual.

“Not a word,” I told him, my voice unsteady, barely recognizable as my own. “Not one word.”

He snorted and turned, heading toward the stairs with a dismissive swagger that clearly communicated his opinion on the matter.

I stood frozen for a moment longer, listening to the sound of Dash’s car as it started and pulled away from the curb.

Through the window, I watched his taillights disappear down Harbor Street, wondering what exactly I’d just gotten myself into.

Ten years of carefully constructed widowhood, shattered by a single kiss that felt more real and forbidden than anything I’d experienced.

As I moved through the house turning off lights and straightening chairs that didn’t need straightening, I couldn’t help the smile that kept tugging at my lips.

Snippets of melody escaped as I belted out “I Feel the Earth Move” by Carole King all the way up the stairs.

I had no idea where it had come from. My music memory didn’t really extend past the 1950s.

I stripped out of my dress and touched the silk of my nightgown, but I left it hanging over the back of the chair and fell face first into bed naked.

I might not know exactly who Mabel McCoy was beneath all those carefully constructed layers, but for the first time in a very long time, I was looking forward to finding out.