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“Which means you need to be careful. If there’s anything I know about the people on Grimm Island it’s that there are certain parts of history best left forgotten.

I was told more than once when I worked for the DA’s office that it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.

You don’t want to end up as collateral damage. ”

“That’s becoming a popular sentiment,” I said dryly. I hesitated, then decided to push my luck. “One more thing—someone mentioned a watch that Elizabeth wore. Expensive, gold, with diamonds around the face. An inscription on the back that said Seek Truth. Stay True. Did you give it to her?”

“If it was expensive it didn’t come from me,” he said with a laugh. “Not back then. I was just a lowly assistant DA. But I remember the watch. She rarely took it off.”

“I appreciate your time,” I said.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said. “I’ll be looking forward to that phone call.” And then he disconnected.

Walt poked his head into the office and I startled guiltily. I’d been daydreaming about being flirted with instead of thinking about the case.

“There you are,” Walt said. “Got us a meeting with Clint Harrington Jr. in a half an hour. On the mainland. We need to move out.”

I blinked in surprise. “How did you manage that?”

Walt tapped the side of his nose mysteriously. “I’ve got connections.”

“Should I be impressed or terrified?”

“Both,” Walt replied with a wink. “You don’t spend three decades in Naval Intelligence without learning how to collect leverage. Now grab your purse. Ticktock.”

I snatched my bag and followed him out to the main room where Dash was reviewing reports with Harris.

“Where are y’all headed?” he asked.

“Field trip,” I replied brightly. “Walt got us a meeting with Clint Harrington.”

“Don’t worry,” Walt said. “I’m carrying. She’s perfectly safe.”

Bea went into a coughing fit and Dash looked incredulous. I was starting to think maybe I should take Patrick’s gun out of the shoebox and keep it with me. No knock to Walt, but his reflexes weren’t exactly what they used to be.

“And it’s broad daylight,” I said, trying to ease Dash’s mind. “We’re perfectly safe. This is our best chance to talk to Harrington while he’s willing.”

Dash looked back and forth between me and Walt, obviously trying to work through every possible scenario. Finally, he sighed. “Check in every hour. And take a radio. Cell service can be spotty on the causeway.”

“Done,” Walt agreed, looking smug.

“And Reynolds will follow at a discreet distance,” Dash added, signaling to the deputy. “Just as a precaution.”

“Noted,” Walt said, adding under his breath as we headed out, “Amateur. Man couldn’t follow a parade if he was standing on the float.”

* * *

Walt drove a pristine black Volvo that probably had bulletproof glass and an ejector seat hidden somewhere. The man might be pushing eighty, but his car was a fortress on wheels.

“Nice ride,” I said, running my hand over the immaculate leather interior. “I expected you to drive a tank.”

“Considered it,” Walt replied without a hint of humor. “But the gas mileage is terrible. And Margaret would never let me have one anyway.”

As we crossed the causeway, I noticed his military posture relax slightly. For the first time since I’d known him, Walt looked almost…normal.

“I’ve never heard you talk about Margaret much.”

“Fifty-two years, three months, and seventeen days we were married,” he replied without hesitation. “Not all smooth sailing, mind you. Marriage never is when you spend half your life deployed. But we weathered the storms together.”

“That’s lovely, Walt,” I said, genuinely touched by this glimpse of the man beneath the hypervigilant exterior.

“Now,” he said, obviously deciding that was enough personal talk, “When we get there, watch his eyes, not his mouth. The mouth can lie, but the eyes always tell the truth.”

“Right,” I said, and settled in for the rest of the drive, singing “Little White Lies” to myself.

The Harrington Construction headquarters surprised me.

Instead of the cold glass and steel monument I expected, the lobby was all reclaimed wood and worn leather furniture.

Photos of construction sites and workers in hard hats lined the walls, not the typical corporate bragging gallery of handshakes with politicians.

Inside, the receptionist wore jeans and a polo with the company logo. “Mr. Harrington’s expecting you,” she said with a warm smile. “Head on up.”

Clint Harrington Jr. was nothing like I’d imagined.

Where Brooks was polished corporate slick, Harrington was job-site rugged.

He wore dark jeans, work boots with construction dust still on them, and a sport coat that looked like it had been tossed on as an afterthought.

His hands were calloused and his tan came from actual time outdoors, not some salon.

His office had a working drafting table covered with blueprints and a wall of hard hats from different projects. Only the spectacular harbor view revealed this was the office of someone important.

Harrington looked up from his blueprints, eyeing me with curiosity before turning to Walt.

“Mr. Garrison. It’s been a while.” He shook Walt’s hand and then extended a hand to me.

“Clint Harrington. You must be Mabel McCoy. I was a friend of Patrick’s.

I was sorry I was out of the country when he died.

Scared the daylights out of me. I get a physical every year like clockwork. ”

“You knew Patrick?” I asked, surprised because I couldn’t recall if Patrick had ever mentioned Clint Harrington. But to be fair, we didn’t do a lot of socializing back then. We’d only had eyes for each other the two short years we were married.

“Sure, our families go way back,” he said, clearing a stack of permits from some chairs.

“I’ve probably got some pictures around somewhere if you’d ever like to see them.

Please, sit. Though I trust this won’t take long.

I’ve got some problems on a site and I need to drive out and remind my foreman what I’m paying him for.

” His polite words didn’t match the tension radiating from him.

“We’ll be quick,” Walt said. “Appreciate you seeing us on short notice. You see, Mabel and I have recently been deputized to clean up some of Milton’s messes.”

Clint’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked back and forth between us. “I can see why you’d be an asset, Walt.”

I decided not to take offense that he didn’t include my name as an asset.

“We have some questions about Elizabeth Calvert,” Walt said.

Harrington’s jaw tightened like someone had cranked it with a wrench. “That’s one of the messes Milton left behind? I thought he closed the case. Accidental drowning.”

“You believe that?” Walt asked.

“Never did,” Clint said. “But there was no proof otherwise.”

“Her father’s dying,” I said. “His last wish is to know what really happened to his daughter.”

Something flickered across Harrington’s face.

“But I’m not sure how I can help. It was almost thirty years ago.

Elizabeth and I were close once, were lovers, talked about our futures and dreams together.

But Elizabeth had big ambitions. She was never quite satisfied with just being the lighthouse keeper’s daughter. ”

“Elizabeth was researching the Harbor Development Corporation the summer she died,” I said. “Your father’s company—this company—was the primary developer.”

A dull flush rose from his neck to his cheeks and his gaze hardened.

“Elizabeth was na?ve about business,” he said, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“You’d have thought she was looking for a Pulitzer the way she dug her teeth into that story.

She saw conspiracy where there was just standard practice.

The environmental adjustments, the zoning modifications—that’s how projects get done in the real world. ”

“It’s also how laws get broken,” Walt pointed out mildly.

“You want to talk about breaking laws?” Harrington’s composure shattered like cheap glass. “Let’s talk about Jason Brooks.”

The venom in his voice when he said the name practically blistered the paint on the walls.

“What about him?” I asked, fighting the urge to take a step back.

“Brooks,” he spat, pacing now like a caged animal.

“That manipulative bastard seduced her with his fancy law degree and worldly sophistication. Elizabeth was brilliant but sheltered. She’d never dealt with someone like him before.

Where do you think she came up with the idea for that story?

He was feeding her nothing but conspiracies. ”

Walt gave me an almost imperceptible nod to continue. “You’ve got a lot of anger there, son.”

Harrington stopped pacing, his hands white-knuckling the back of his chair. “You know what no one understands? I loved her. Really loved her.” His voice cracked. “We were talking again those last few days before she died. About reconciliation.”

He swallowed hard. “I went to her apartment. I thought we were meeting alone. Then I find Brooks there with all those papers spread out, and I thought they were playing me for a fool.”

“Brooks mentioned that confrontation,” I said carefully. “But not that you and Elizabeth were discussing getting back together.”

“Of course he didn’t,” Harrington scoffed. “It wouldn’t fit his narrative of the jealous ex-boyfriend.”

I took a calculated risk. “Do you recall a watch that belonged to Elizabeth? It had tiny diamonds around the face, supposedly with an inscription on the back?”

Harrington’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly. “The watch? Sure. She never took it off.”

“You know who gave it to her?” I asked.

He studied me for a moment and swallowed once. “No. I don’t. She called me the day she died you know. Wanted to meet at the docks that night at ten. Somewhere private we could talk. Said she needed to explain what Brooks had been doing at her apartment. She said she needed my help.”