Page 34 of Tides of Change (Seacliff Cove #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Garrett

Over a week had passed since Ethan had floated the idea of a book-signing, and the Saturday evening of the event had finally arrived.

I managed the front door of Tides & Tales, ostensibly placing stickers on the books readers brought with them.

In reality, my eyes never stopped scanning the sea of faces, searching for the one I dreaded and needed to find—Finch.

Mason, stationed across the doorway, mirrored my vigilance, his usual easygoing nature overshadowed by tense focus.

We’d had to confide in him about the stalker, and he’d been livid—fear and protectiveness warring in his expression.

He was more than eager to help catch Finch, but I could tell the weight of it sat heavy on him, just as it did on me.

“What a disaster,” I muttered under my breath.

“What?” The man in front of me furrowed his brow, his fingers curled around a hardcover copy of Ethan’s latest novel.

I straightened and offered a tight smile. “I said, welcome to Tides & Tales. The line for the book-signing ends over there.” I gestured to the queue snaking around the store, winding between bookshelves and display tables.

Hundreds of fans had turned out, more than I’d expected for our small town. Ethan was more popular than I’d realized—so many people were eager to meet him. But the sheer volume of bodies, the constant shifting of movement, the open doors—it was a logistical nightmare.

My sergeant hadn’t approved any extra deputies for the shift, leaving just one on-duty officer at the event, and he was stuck with traffic control.

Larson had volunteered to watch the back-alley entrance on his night off.

And me? Well, I was here under the radar.

We were spread thin. Too thin. And Finch—if he was here—was going to slip through the cracks.

Occasionally, the crowd parted, giving me a clear line of sight to Ethan at his table. Caleb Sullivan, Mason’s boyfriend, stood guard at Ethan’s side and controlled the crowd.

Ethan was in his element, pen gliding effortlessly across pages, posing for photos, exchanging smiles and laughter with fans. He looked radiant, feeding off the energy of the crowd, glowing with the quiet humility and grace that made him so darn easy to admire.

My heart swelled with lo— affection . I swallowed hard and forced my gaze away.

Ethan deserved this. He belonged to the world, not to some sleepy coastal town with more fishing boats than traffic signals.

He needed a city that could match his ambition, where he could network, attend events, and flourish in the literary industry.

Seacliff Cove didn’t even have a department store, let alone a thriving writing community.

He had a future mapped out, one that didn’t include quiet nights with me and trick-or-treating with Noah.

He had a family waiting for him back in Brooklyn. A niece who missed him.

I’d have to let him go.

My chest tightened, a weight pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. But I forced the emotion down, focused on the next visitor, and ushered them inside.

Hours later, as the last of the fans trickled out, Mason closed the door with a weary sigh. Inside, only a handful of books remained on Ethan’s table, their glossy covers reflecting the soft glow of overhead lights.

Ethan stretched his fingers and shook out his hand before scribbling a last message inside the front cover of the last book. “Thanks for coming.” He handed it back to its owner with a tired but sincere smile.

The woman clutched the book to her chest like it was a treasured artifact, beaming as she made her way out the door. The moment it clicked shut behind her, Ethan exhaled, his shoulders slumping.

“Did you see him?” he asked. He stood, every line of his body trembling with exhaustion.

Larson entered the main room of the store from the back entrance and shook his head, his expression grim.

“He didn’t show up,” I answered.

“Fuck.” Ethan’s face fell. He braced his hands against the edge of the table. “I was sure he would.” His head dipped forward as if frustration and fatigue pulled at him. “Now what?” he murmured, more to himself than to me.

The defeat in his voice cut through me. Without thinking, I stepped behind him, placed my hands on his tense shoulders, and worked my thumbs into the knots. He stiffened for only a second before melting under my touch, a low, appreciative moan escaping him.

“We wait for his next move,” I murmured, my fingers kneading slow, steady circles. “My guess? He’s going to retaliate tonight.”

Ethan tilted his head and glanced up at me. “You think so?”

I nodded. “Yeah. And I’m going to be watching your porch until dawn.”

Ethan’s lips parted like he wanted to protest, but something in my expression stopped him. He let out a slow breath and nodded. “Okay,” he murmured.

Whatever Finch had planned next, I’d be ready. Because there was no way in heck I was letting him get near Ethan again.

When we returned from the event, I backed my SUV into my driveway, lining it up just right. From this vantage point, I had a line of sight to Ethan’s porch for the night. I wasn’t taking any chances.

I walked Ethan home, my senses on high alert, and scanned for any sign that Finch had been there. The porch was undisturbed, the locks intact. But that didn’t mean Finch wasn’t lurking somewhere nearby.

As soon as we stepped inside, I took Ethan into my arms and pulled him against me. The weight of the night, the tension, the unknown, all poured into the desperate kiss I gave him—deep, consuming, as if I could hold on to him tightly enough to make the danger disappear.

“I’ll be watching,” I murmured against his lips.

“Stay safe.” There was worry in his voice, but I feared more for him than for myself.

I pulled back reluctantly. We swapped phones and passcodes, a sign of his complete trust in me that I didn’t take lightly.

I would receive any security notifications on his phone, and he could call me from my phone.

I returned to my house, full of determination.

I put together a couple of sandwiches, poured fresh coffee into an insulated mug, holstered my weapon, and headed back out into the night.

The wind whipped down the street with an approaching storm, but the street was eerily empty.

Was Finch watching me? Was he already here, waiting for the right moment?

I settled behind the wheel of my Escape and checked my view. If Finch made a move, I’d be ready—on foot or by car, whatever it took.

Time dragged. The cold seeped into my bones, and I regretted not bringing a blanket, but I couldn’t risk turning on the heat. Any movement, any sound, could tip off Finch.

At one a.m., I finished my sandwiches. At two a.m., I drained the last dregs of my coffee and yawned. At three a.m., my eyelids grew heavy. I shifted and forced myself upright—stretching, blinking against the exhaustion threatening to pull me under.

At four a.m . , I startled awake with a sharp inhale. My heart pounded. I had fallen asleep.

I jerked forward and immediately checked the porch. My stomach plummeted.

“Shoot.”

Something lay on Ethan’s doormat.

A cold dread settled over me as I wrenched open my door, my Glock already in hand. My breath puffed in the chilly, damp air as I scanned the street, and my pulse hammered.

Nothing. Not a single shadow out of place. Finch was gone.

I approached the porch warily, setting off the motion-activated security fixture.

The bright light illuminated the item left behind—a book.

One of Ethan’s hardcovers. My fingers flexed around my weapon before I exhaled and slid it into its holster.

I forced myself to stay methodical. I pulled out Ethan’s phone, snapped photos from multiple angles, then slid on a pair of nitrile gloves and carefully picked it up.

Had Finch been at the event? Had we missed him in the crowd?

I flipped open the cover. My breath caught as my gaze landed on the inscription:

To Theo—Good luck with your book! Ethan

The date beneath it was from last spring.

A fresh unease slithered through me. What did that mean?

I needed answers. Now. I rang Ethan’s doorbell.

After a few moments, he appeared, bleary-eyed and disheveled, his curls tousled from sleep. He blinked, and then his eyes sharpened, hope lighting them. “Did you catch him?”

Failure sat like a boulder on my chest, and I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep,” I confessed.

His expression flickered—disappointment, then understanding. “Oh…” His voice softened. “I get it. You’re exhausted.”

I didn’t deserve this kind, forgiving man.

I lifted the book. “He left another ‘gift,’ but I don’t know what it means.”

Ethan’s brow furrowed. “One of my books?”

I nodded. “And it’s signed. Dated last spring. It says, ‘Good luck with your book.’”

Ethan stepped back, gesturing me inside. “Come in. I’ll take a look.”

The warmth of his home enveloped me and chased away the chill that had settled under my skin. I could feel the coming storm in my bones.

“Want some coffee?” Ethan asked, already heading toward the kitchen.

I followed him. “Love some.”

He popped a pod into the machine as I re-read the inscription and tried to make sense of it.

Ethan leaned over my shoulder, his nearness a steadying force. “So, Finch came to one of my book signings. But I can’t make sense of what I wrote on the title page. Did he mention a book he’d written? Had I read it in the writers’ group and just…forgotten?”

The coffee machine burbled. Ethan grabbed the full mug and placed it on the counter beside me, the rich scent filling the kitchen.

I bagged and tagged the book and called for a deputy. I took a grateful sip of the hot brew while we waited. I’d hear from Sarge in the morning about my involvement, and my gut clenched. I was walking a razor-thin wire and could fall off at any moment.

Ethan brewed a second cup, added a splash of creamer—pumpkin spice—then stirred it absently, lost in thought.

I studied him. “Why does he think you stole his voice?”

Ethan spread his hands. “I don’t know.” His tone was heavy with frustration. “I wish I knew what motivated him. Maybe it would help.”

I shook my head and set my mug down. “We’re not dealing with someone rational.”

Ethan sighed. “No, we’re not.”

Silence stretched between us, but it was filled with the weight of what we didn’t know—and what we feared was still coming.