EIGHT
By Sunday evening, my bedroom looked like a vintage clothing store had exploded and died a tragic death. I’d tried on more outfits than a backup dancer at a Vegas revue, and I was no closer to finding something appropriate for a night of casual lighthouse breaking and entering.
The day had started normally enough at St. James Baptist Church, where I’d fidgeted uncomfortably in a modest floral dress with a Peter Pan collar while Pastor Bruce delivered a sermon about “the lust of the eyes and the pride of life.” I’d tried to focus on his words, but my mind kept traitorously drifting to a certain sheriff with broad shoulders and mysterious scars.
Mrs. Pembroke had leaned over and whispered, “He must have seen the sheriff leaving your house the other night,” which had sent me sinking lower in the pew, and made me wish I’d slept in and done laundry on the Lord’s day.
The service had been packed—everyone wanted to be seen as concerned, upstanding citizens while simultaneously fishing for gossip about the break-in at the sheriff’s office. I’d caught several people watching me, no doubt wondering if I had insider information courtesy of my late-night visitor.
It hadn’t helped matters that Sheriff Beckett had also been in attendance, standing at the back with arms crossed, observing rather than participating. Our eyes had met briefly during “Amazing Grace,” and he’d given me a slight nod that caused Mrs. Wilson to clutch her pearls and swivel her head between us like she was watching tennis.
Now, hours later, I was standing in my closet in my underwear, wondering what dress would knock Dash’s socks off.
“This is ridiculous,” I told Chowder, who was sprawled across my bed like a furry, judgmental ottoman. “I’m not going to this thing to impress the sheriff. What’s the dress code for solving a murder while pretending to care about historical preservation?”
Chowder snorted, which I took as his professional opinion that I was overthinking things.
I finally settled on a vintage black silk dress with cap sleeves and a lace bodice that said “respectable widow” but had pockets deep enough to hide stolen evidence. The kind of dress that could transition seamlessly from charity function to felony—every Southern woman’s wardrobe staple.
“How do I look?” I asked, giving Chowder a little twirl.
His expression clearly said I looked like trouble, which was exactly the vibe I was going for.
The drive to Deidre’s took me past the island’s most prestigious addresses, but none compared to the Whitmore mansion. The Greek Revival beauty stood like a monument to old shipping money, its columns and sweeping steps declaring that the Whitmores had been somebody long before being somebody was fashionable. Two stately palm trees flanked the entrance like sentinels, while meticulously maintained flower beds added splashes of color against the soft sage green of the façade. It was the kind of house that had weathered hurricanes, economic downturns, and family scandals with equal dignity, emerging each time looking like it had stepped out of Southern Living magazine.
This was old Grimm Island—the kind of wealth that whispered instead of shouted, that came with trust funds older than some countries and social obligations that stretched back generations. The Whitmores hadn’t just lived on the island, they’d helped shape it, one shipping contract and charitable donation at a time.
Deidre emerged from the house looking like royalty. Her navy gown with silver threading caught the evening light perfectly, and she moved down those imposing steps with the confidence of someone whose great-grandfather had helped founded half the businesses on the island. Despite being well into her late seventies, she possessed that straight-backed posture and sharp gaze that had intimidated generations of noisy children during her fifty-year reign as head librarian.
It was funny how she’d traded a shipping empire for a library, but somehow both suited her perfectly. Knowledge was power, whether it came from cargo manifests or card catalogs, and Deidre Whitmore had always understood that better than most.
“Ready for our little adventure?” she asked, settling into my passenger seat with the same grace she’d probably used to board the family yacht.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied, though looking at her elegant composure, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was bringing a butter knife to a gunfight.
The drive to the lighthouse took us along Harbor Street as the sun painted the sky in watercolors—soft oranges bleeding into deep purples, with streaks of gold that turned the Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks into something magical. Under different circumstances, it would have been breathtakingly romantic. Tonight, it felt more like nature was setting the stage for whatever drama we were about to unleash.
“Daddy used to bring me here when I was little,” Deidre said, gazing at the lighthouse with something like nostalgia. “Said the Whitmores had a responsibility to preserve the island’s maritime history.” She gave me a sideways look. “I suppose that’s what we’re doing tonight, in a way. Though I doubt he had breaking and entering in mind.”
“Well, when you put it like that, we’re practically performing a public service,” I said.
“Exactly. Very civic minded of us.” She nodded toward the crowd. “Now, shall we go mingle with the enemy before we rob them blind?”
We made our way through the crowd of people who thought roughing it meant staying at a hotel without a concierge. I smiled and nodded at faces I recognized, my palms already sweating. I wasn’t made for a life of deception.
“There’s the sheriff,” Deidre whispered as we approached the entrance. “Nine o’clock, talking to Judge Calhoun.”
I followed her gaze across the lawn and nearly choked on my champagne. Sweet Mary and Joseph. Dash stood across the room in a charcoal suit that transformed him from small-town sheriff to something altogether more refined and infinitely more dangerous.
The fine linen stretched across his shoulders as he leaned in to speak with the judge, the tailored lines revealing what his uniform had only hinted at. In the golden glow of the twinkling lights, he looked like he belonged among the island elite, yet somehow apart from them too—a wolf who’d learned to wear fine clothing but hadn’t forgotten how to hunt.
In that moment, I realized the danger Dash Beckett posed had nothing to do with his badge and everything to do with how he made me feel—awakened, unbalanced, alive in ways I’d forgotten were possible.
As if sensing my scrutiny, his eyes lifted, meeting mine across the crowded room with an intensity that made my knees weaken beneath my carefully chosen dress. For a moment, everything else—the mission, Elizabeth’s diary, even Deidre standing beside me—faded to insignificance. The sounds of the crowd receded to a distant hum. There was only the hammering of my pulse at the base of my throat and the dark intensity of his gaze locked on mine.
His lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment, intimate as a touch.
A decade of carefully cultivated widowhood—of defining myself through Patrick’s absence—wavered like a mirage in the desert. Patrick had been safe harbor, a sheltered cove of calm waters. But Dash—he was the open ocean with all its unknown depths and dangers. The recognition filled me with equal parts longing and guilt.