Page 10 of Skin and Bones

That’s how grief worked now, after ten years. It no longer crashed through me like a summer thunderstorm—sudden, overwhelming, leaving me gasping for air. Instead, it had aged into something more constant, a low hum beneath everyday moments, like the distant sound of waves you could only hear when everything else fell silent. The sharp edges had worn smooth like sea glass, still recognizable for what they once were, but transformed by time.

I could go days now without that familiar ache. But then some small thing—a song on the radio Patrick used to hum along with, the particular way light hit the harbor in late afternoon, or the whiff of his favorite aftershave on a passing stranger—would bring him back so vividly that for a split second, I’d expect to see him walk through the door. Those moments were becoming fewer, the images of his face less distinct, like a photograph left too long in sunlight. And that fading—the gradual loss of what I’d already lost once—sometimes hurt worse than the original wound.

I’d built my life around his absence, each routine and habit carefully constructed like the walls of a fortress. The tea shop, the vintage clothes, the old music—they gave shape to days that might otherwise collapse under the weight of emptiness. I was Widow McCoy to everyone on Grimm Island, and I’d grown comfortable in that identity. It was safe. Predictable. What terrified me more than anything was the occasional, unwelcome question that whispered through my mind on nights when sleep wouldn’t come: Who would I be if I ever stopped being Patrick’s widow?

Now the house was just mine, its spacious rooms filled with a mixture of inherited antiques and my own more eclectic finds. The kitchen, at least, I’d renovated to my tastes—textured brick walls, exposed beams, butcher-block counters, and a giant farmhouse sink that could accommodate even my largest tea urns when I brought work home.

I poured myself a glass of Moscato and leaned against the counter, listening to the rain drum against the windows. Thunder still rumbled overhead, but it was moving away now, the storm passing over the island on its way out to sea.

Chowder sat expectantly by his food bowl, his expression suggesting I’d been neglecting him.

“You’re shameless,” I told him, but reached for the jar of homemade dog biscuits anyway. “Is this because Dash said he was going to make you a deputy? I’m sure you’ll look very handsome in uniform. But you’ve got to stay clear of the badge bunnies. You’re not equipped to handle women like that.”

Chowder snorted, accepting the biscuit with delicate precision before carrying it to his bed in the corner.

I wandered into the living room with my wine, curling up in the window seat that overlooked the harbor. From here, I could see the lighthouse in the distance, its beam cutting through the stormy darkness in rhythmic sweeps. The rain tapped against the century-old glass panes, creating shadows that danced across the polished wood floors. Patrick and I had spent countless evenings in this very spot, watching the lighthouse beam and making up stories about the ships that passed by.

But it wasn’t Patrick I was thinking of tonight. When I tried to conjure his face in my mind it evaporated like mist in the wind, and despite the guilt that brought, all I could see was a man with dark hair, piercing black eyes, and a scar that conjured images of violence. A man who had a past and a darkness inside him caused by things I could never imagine. You could see it when you looked at him. And I knew as sure as anything he didn’t belong on this island. A man like that couldn’t survive without the occasional walk on the wild side.

I might not be very worldly, but I knew danger when I was looking it in the face. But his secret would stay safe with me. If he wanted to keep the illusion of being nothing more than a small-town sheriff, who was I to reveal it? I had illusions to maintain myself.

I sipped my wine and watched the rain, and Chowder, having finished his biscuit, waddled over to join me on the window seat, climbing into my lap with a grunt of effort.

“What do you think, Chowder? Is the sheriff as mysterious as everyone says? You think he’s got some deep dark secrets in his past?”

Chowder responded by closing his eyes and beginning to snore.

“Helpful as always,” I sighed, scratching his wrinkled head. “Maybe it’s best to stay away from the sheriff.”

Outside, the storm continued to rage, but in here, with my wine and my dog and the familiar creaking of the house around me, I felt safe. Still, as I gazed out at the rain-swept street, I realized that I’d never been very good at listening to my own advice.

CHAPTER

THREE

The morning after a storm always feels like a clean slate—air scrubbed fresh, streets glistening, the whole world somehow reset. At least that’s what I told myself as I unlocked The Perfect Steep at precisely five thirty-seven, my usual opening routine thrown off by a restless night of dreams involving thunderstorms, lighthouse beams, and a certain sheriff with rain-soaked hair.

I decided a strong black tea was in order for myself this morning, minus the splash of milk I normally took, though I still gave myself two lumps of brown sugar. It seemed like the kind of morning for a strong dose of caffeine.

I’d deliberately chosen my favorite vintage dress for the day—a cherry-red fit-and-flare with tiny white polka dots. The sweetheart neckline and cap sleeves gave it a classic 1950s silhouette, and the full-circle skirt swished pleasantly around my knees as I moved. Sometimes clothing was the best armor a woman could have.

“We’re not thinking about him,” I informed Chowder, who hopped onto his window seat with the customary morning blend of enthusiasm and judgment. “Today is about tea, scones, and absolutely zero sheriffs.”

Chowder snorted in a way that could only be described as skeptical.

“Don’t give me that look,” I said, flipping on lights and adjusting the thermostat. “I’m a grown woman who runs a successful business. I don’t have time for distractions. I am perfectly comfortable living my life exactly the way it is. We’re comfortable. And we have a routine.”

I busied myself with the morning prep—measuring loose tea leaves, preheating ovens, and setting out the flour and my baking supplies. I baked the scones myself, but the other baked goods I got from Mrs. Wexler over on the mainland—muffins, beignets, and her killer cinnamon rolls were standards, and then she’d throw in a fourth option as a surprise. I checked the clock again, noting it was already after six, and wondering if she was okay. She’d usually made her delivery by now.

My morning regulars would arrive like clockwork—Howard from the bookstore at 6:45 for Earl Grey and a blueberry scone, Mrs. Pinkerton at 7:00 sharp for her chamomile with honey, the construction crew from the harbor renovation at 7:15 for black coffee so strong it could peel paint.

The routine was comforting. Predictable. Safe.

Which was why the knock at the door at half past six threw me completely off kilter.

Chowder barked once—his “someone’s here” alert rather than his “danger” bark, which sounded remarkably similar but involved more snorting.

Through the glass, I could see Sheriff Beckett standing on my stoop, looking far too alert for this hour.

---