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“He’s here,” I whispered into the phone. “Reynolds is outside the office. I can see him through the window.”

“Harris and Jackson are pulling in now,” Dash said, urgency sharpening his tone. “Stay down.”

“The door’s locked,” the harbormaster said, tugging me away from the window. “Get behind the desk.”

Reynolds reached the door, trying the handle. When it didn’t open, he pounded on it with his fist. “I know you’re in there, Mabel!” he shouted. “Open the door!”

I clutched the phone, hearing Dash’s voice but unable to make out the words over the pounding of my heart. Through the window, I could see Reynolds raise his weapon, aiming at the lock. I ducked lower, pulling the old man down with me.

The sound of squealing tires and sirens shattered the night. From my position behind the desk, I couldn’t see what was happening, but I heard car doors slamming and then Harris’s voice cutting through the chaos.

“Drop the weapon, Reynolds!” he shouted. “Hands where we can see them!”

There was a long, terrible moment of silence. Then the harbormaster, who was peering carefully over the desk, whispered, “He’s putting the gun down.”

I crawled to where I could see through the window. Reynolds stood with his hands raised, his face a mask of rage and defeat. Harris approached cautiously, kicking the gun away before spinning Reynolds around to cuff him.

The harbormaster helped me to my feet just as another set of headlights swept the parking area.

Through the window, I saw Dash’s SUV skid to a stop.

He was out of the vehicle before it had fully stopped, scanning the scene until his eyes locked on the office.

When he saw me through the window, something in his expression shifted—relief so profound it was almost painful to witness.

He jogged to the office, and the harbormaster unlocked the door, stepping aside as Dash burst in. Before I could say a word, he’d pulled me into a crushing embrace, one hand cradling the back of my head.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, holding me at arm’s length to examine me.

“Just some scrapes and cuts on my wrists,” I said, suddenly aware of how I must look—disheveled, bloodied, and probably sporting some kind of swamp creature on my face from hiding under the pier. “I knocked Reynolds out and escaped.”

Dash’s lips twitched despite the gravity of the situation. “Remind me never to make you angry.”

“I’m pretty angry right now,” I said, but there was no heat in it. I was too exhausted for genuine anger, the adrenaline that had kept me going now rapidly deserting me and leaving trembling weakness in its wake.

Reynolds was being led to a patrol car, his head bowed. As they passed by the office, he looked up, meeting my eyes through the window.

“It wasn’t about the Harbor Development,” he said loud enough for me to hear through the glass, his voice hollow. “That was just a cover story. You’re looking in all the wrong places.”

Harris tugged him forward, but Reynolds resisted. “He’s more powerful than you think,” he added urgently. “He’s got friends everywhere. You won’t see him coming.”

“Get him out of here,” Dash ordered, and Harris complied, pushing Reynolds into the back of the cruiser.

“He was protecting someone,” I said, watching the patrol car pull away. “Someone who killed Elizabeth and Vanessa. Someone who was supposed to meet us at the boathouse tonight.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Dash promised, his arm sliding around my waist as he guided me toward his SUV. “But right now, let’s get you home and cleaned up. Those cuts need attention.”

I looked down at my wrists, where the rusty nail had left angry red gashes. “Tetanus shot too, probably,” I sighed. “Not exactly how I planned to spend my evening.”

“I don’t know,” Dash said, opening the passenger door for me. “Being kidnapped, assaulting a police officer, and hiding under a pier in the middle of the night? Sounds like a typical Wednesday for Mabel McCoy, intrepid investigator.”

I narrowed my eyes at him as I slid into the seat. “Your bedside manner needs work, Sheriff.”

His smile faded as he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face with surprising gentleness. “You scared ten years off my life tonight,” he said, his voice low. “When the Silver Sleuths called saying you were missing…”

“I’m okay,” I assured him, catching his hand in mine. “A little worse for wear, but okay.”

He nodded, giving my hand a squeeze before closing the door and circling around to the driver’s side.

As we drove back toward my house, I leaned my head against the cool window, watching the familiar streets of Grimm Island slide past. Nothing looked different, and yet everything had changed.

Someone on this picturesque island had killed twice to protect a decades-old secret—and they were still out there, waiting.

“Reynolds said his mysterious boss knew about the ledger we found in the lighthouse,” I said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Said nothing stays secret for long on Grimm Island.”

Dash frowned, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “That means someone is feeding information back to our killer. Someone who knows what we’ve been investigating.”

“It has to be someone close to the investigation,” I agreed, a chill running through me. “But who?”

“That’s our next step,” Dash said as we pulled into my driveway. “But it can wait until morning. Right now, you need rest.”

The porch light blazed, and through the front window I could see movement—the Silver Sleuths waiting anxiously for our return.

The front door flew open before we’d even reached the porch, and Dottie emerged, brandishing what appeared to be her pearl-handled revolver. Behind her, Walt, Hank, and Deidre crowded the doorway, their faces a comical mixture of concern and relief.

“Land sakes, girl, you look like you’ve been through a hurricane,” Dottie exclaimed, tucking the gun into the pocket of her bathrobe. “Did you get that no-good Reynolds? Because if not, I’ve got plenty of ammunition.”

“Reynolds is in custody,” Dash assured her, guiding me inside. “A man who has nothing to lose will take desperate measures. Mabel needs to get cleaned up and rest.”

“I’ll put on some tea,” Deidre declared, already heading for the kitchen.

“Tea won’t cut it,” Dottie said, following her. “Get out that bourbon Mabel keeps in the cabinet over the refrigerator. This calls for something stronger.”

“First it calls for antiseptic and bandages,” Hank corrected, eyeing my injured wrists. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

“Upstairs bathroom,” I said.

“I’ll get it,” Dottie said, heading upstairs.

I let them fuss over me, too drained to protest as they cleaned and bandaged my cuts, brought me tea (and bourbon), and helped me into fresh clothes. Their concern wrapped around me like a warm blanket, and I realized with a pang how much I’d come to care for this odd collection of friends.

“All right, enough,” Dash finally said, his tone gentle but firm. “Mabel needs sleep, and so do all of you. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

After a chorus of protests and several more fussings over my injuries, they finally retreated to their assigned rooms.

“You should get some rest too,” I told Dash as we stood in the foyer, the house finally quiet.

“I’ll be on the couch,” he said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over the banister. “Close enough if you need anything, but not so close as to scandalize the Silver Sleuths.”

I smiled, despite the exhaustion weighing on me like a physical thing. “You know Mrs. Pembroke will still talk?”

“Let her,” he said, stepping closer. His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over my skin. “You scared me tonight, Mabel McCoy. And I don’t scare easily.”

The intensity in his gaze stole my breath. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“So I’ve noticed,” he murmured, leaning in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to.

I didn’t.

His lips met mine, gentle at first, then with increasing urgency as I responded. This wasn’t the tentative, questioning kiss from before. This was something else entirely—an affirmation of life, of possibility, of a connection neither of us had been looking for but couldn’t seem to resist.

When we finally broke apart, both a little breathless, I found myself at an unusual loss for words.

“Get some sleep, Mabel,” Dash said softly, his fingers lingering on my cheek for a moment before dropping away.

“Yeah, right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to sleep great now that you shot my blood pressure through the roof.”

He grinned and turned toward the living room and his makeshift bed for the night.

“Good night, Sheriff,” I called out loudly.

“Good night, Mrs. McCoy,” he answered, and I could hear the laughter in his voice.

As I climbed the stairs, I realized two things with perfect clarity—we were getting closer to uncovering the truth about Elizabeth’s murder, and I was falling for Dash Beckett far more quickly than was prudent for a proper Southern widow.

When common sense kicked back in, I’d remind myself that I didn’t know a thing about him.

Chowder was waiting on my bed, his wrinkled face somehow managing to convey both relief and judgment as I slipped beneath the covers.

“Don’t you start,” I muttered, scratching behind his ears. “It’s been a long night.”

He snorted, turning in three circles before settling against my side, his solid warmth a comfort I hadn’t realized I needed.

As I drifted toward sleep, Reynolds’ words echoed in my mind— It wasn’t about the Harbor Development. That was just a cover story. You’re looking in all the wrong places.

If not the development scandal, then what? What secret was worth killing for—not once, but twice?

The answer was out there somewhere. And tomorrow, we’d find it.