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Brooks froze for a split second, a statue of surprise, before yanking me against him with unexpected strength. The gun, no longer hidden, now pressed openly against my temple, the cold metal burning against my skin.

“Back off!” he snarled, his cultured voice replaced by something feral and desperate. “Or she dies right here.”

The restaurant fell silent, a record scratch of shock freezing the scene. A child whimpered somewhere. A glass shattered. The female officer had her weapon drawn now, her stance wide and stable, but she couldn’t risk a shot with me in the way.

“You’re surrounded, Brooks,” she said calmly, her voice steady despite the tension crackling through the air. “There’s no way out of this.”

“Oh, there is,” he replied, backing toward the door that led to the deck, dragging me with him, my heels scraping against the wooden floor. “She’s my ticket out. Anyone follows us, I pull the trigger.”

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, each breath shallow and panicked. This was no longer a game of cat and mouse. This was survival.

The first drops of rain began to fall as Brooks forced me onto the deck, cold pinpricks against my bare arms. The darkening sky mirrored the desperation of the moment, the distant rumble of thunder like a celestial warning.

Wind whipped across the water, carrying the scent of salt and storm, as he moved backward toward the stairs leading to the dock, keeping me in front of him as a human shield.

“Keep moving,” he hissed, the gun pressing painfully against my temple, each step taking us farther from help, closer to whatever end he had planned for me.

Through the gathering rain and gloom, I spotted movement at the far end of the dock—a shadow slipping between the pilings. Dash. Our eyes met across the distance, his filled with fierce determination that steadied something in me. In that heartbeat of connection, I knew what I had to do.

I sucked in a deep breath, tensed every muscle in my body, and then did the opposite of what instinct demanded. Instead of fighting, I surrendered—went completely limp, dropping my full weight downward like a puppet with cut strings.

The sudden deadweight caught Brooks off guard. He staggered, his grip loosening as he tried to maintain his balance on the rain-slicked deck. The gun shifted away from my head for just a fraction of a second—the smallest window of opportunity, but the only one I’d get.

The crack of a gunshot split the air like thunder, echoing across the harbor.

Brooks staggered backward, his face a mask of shock as he clutched his shoulder, crimson blooming between his fingers.

The gun clattered to the deck as he fell, skidding across the wet boards away from his reach.

I scrambled away on hands and knees, my palms scraping against rough wood, my dress a beacon in the gathering darkness.

The rain was falling harder now, plastering my hair to my face and neck, washing away the scent of Brooks’ cologne that still clung to my skin.

Officers swarmed from every direction—from the restaurant, from the parking lot, from positions I hadn’t even realized were manned. In seconds, Brooks was surrounded, the predator becoming prey.

Dash reached me first, holstering his weapon as he knelt beside me on the rain-slicked deck. His eyes scanned me frantically, looking for injuries, his hands hovering over me as if afraid to touch.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

“Probably not,” I managed to say between chattering teeth, my whole body trembling not just from the cold rain but from the aftershocks of adrenaline and fear. “It probably won’t be too long until I have a total meltdown. Just FYI.”

“Completely understandable,” he said.

The rain was falling in earnest now, silver sheets illuminated by flashes of distant lightning.

Behind us, officers secured Brooks, who was cursing through clenched teeth as they handcuffed him despite his wounded shoulder.

His expensive shirt was ruined, blood and rain mingling to create a macabre watercolor.

“It’s over,” Dash said, finally touching me, his arm steady around my waist as he helped me to my feet. His warmth seeped through my rain-soaked dress, an anchor in the storm. “You’re safe.”

The undercover officers approached, the woman offering me her jacket. “That was quick thinking,” she said. “Giving us the signal, then dropping like that.”

I nodded, though in truth it had been pure instinct rather than careful planning. The weight of what had just happened—how close I’d come to death—began to settle over me like a physical thing.

“We got his confession on the wire,” Dash said, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. “Everything about Elizabeth, Vanessa, the missing girls—all of it.”

I watched as they led Brooks toward a waiting patrol car, his once-immaculate appearance now disheveled, blood staining his expensive shirt. He caught my eye as they guided him past, his face a mask of hatred.

“This isn’t over,” he said, his voice weak but still menacing.

“Yes, it is,” Dash replied, stepping between us. “Jason Brooks, you’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Mabel McCoy and for the murders of Elizabeth Calvert and Vanessa Garfield.”

Things were kind of a blur after that. Outside, the rain had intensified, drumming on the roof of the car in a steady rhythm. I remember Dash putting me in his Tahoe and getting in next to me, his warmth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled into my bones.

“You’re in shock,” he said gently. “Just breathe.”

I nodded again, focusing on the steady in and out of my breath, on the solid presence of him beside me.

“Take me home,” I said, laying my head back on the seat. “I’m stick a fork in me done.”

* * *

When we got back to the house we were greeted with the Silver Sleuths, hovering on the porch as they watched Dash help me out of the car.

“Honey, you’re the color of old oatmeal,” Deidre said, pressing a warm hand to my cheek. “Shock will do that. You need a blanket and something warm to drink.”

“And a shot of bourbon,” Bea added, appearing at my elbow with suspicious timing and a glass of amber liquid. “Medicinal purposes only.”

“Stand back, stand back,” Walt said. “Let the poor girl get in the house and settle before you start hounding her.”

“He was worried sick,” Dottie whispered to me. “We all were. We were listening to the whole thing on Walt’s police scanner. You were so brave.”

“I didn’t feel very brave,” I said. “I felt like a big fat chicken when he held that gun to my head.”

“I have half a mind to get my revolver and go finish him off,” Bea said, looking at Dash. “Too bad you didn’t kill him.”

“There’s a lot more paperwork when someone dies,” Dash said, leading me to the couch. He sat me down and then sat down next to me, so close he had to put his arm around me. It was a good thing too, because I hadn’t stopped shivering since we’d left the restaurant.

“Will he confess?” I asked Dash.

“He already has,” Dash replied. “Everything he said at the restaurant is on tape. Between that and the DNA evidence from both crime scenes, he’s done.”

I absorbed this, feeling a complex mix of emotions—triumph and exhaustion, relief and a lingering sadness for lives cut short by one man’s ambition. “Elizabeth deserved better,” I said quietly, the words catching in my throat.

“She did,” Dash agreed, his fingers finding mine and squeezing gently. “But thanks to you and the Silver Sleuths, she’s finally getting justice. You finished what she started.”

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes while the Silver Sleuths bustled around the house, plying me with blankets, tea and alcohol. Chowder had launched himself into my lap and was doing his best to console me by promptly going to sleep and snoring.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” I asked Dash softly. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your accuracy.”

He smiled and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You know the deal,” he said. “That’s a personal question.”

“Another dinner?” I asked, my mouth quirking in a smile.

“With a twist,” he said. “Dinner at my house. Chowder can be our chaperone.”

I couldn’t help myself. My gaze dropped to his lips and the urge to lean in and taste him was more than my already overburdened senses could bear. So I straightened my spine and cleared my parched throat.

“Dinner,” I said, nodding, and then I leaned into him and let him hold me.

It had been so long since a man had held me. And I ached as those needs—those feelings—rushed through me after lying dormant for so long.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Dash asked, his voice gentle in the quiet. He massaged the tension in my shoulder until I relaxed against him again.

I sighed and said, “I was just thinking about how sometimes you have to disturb the surface to see what’s been hiding in the depths all along.”

“Profound,” he said. “What does that mean?”

“I have no clue,” I said. “Just the inner musings of a thirty-four-year-old widow and tea shop owner. Don’t pay her any attention.”

“That’s going to be a problem,” he said.

His thumb was making small circles on the back of my neck and it was driving me to distraction.

“I plan to pay her attention every chance I get. You see, ever since I met her I can’t stop thinking about the thirty-four-year-old widow and tea shop owner. Thoughts of her keep me up at night.”

My lips twitched with good humor. “I’ll send you home with some chamomile tea to help you sleep.”

“I think you’re going to be a real handful, Mabel McCoy,” he said, rubbing Chowder between the ears.

“And?” I asked.

“And I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

I laid my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes, breathing in his familiar scent and letting the last week fall away. Elizabeth’s case was closed, but my story—our story—was just beginning to unfold.

And for the first time in ten years, I couldn’t wait to turn the page.