Page 89 of Skin and Bones

“It fits,” Dash said, his hand moving to the small of my back, steadying me though I hadn’t realized I was swaying. “Frank put Brooks at the marina with Elizabeth the night she died, arguing about going public with some discovery. The jeweler’s description of the man who ordered the watch matches Brooks, not Harrington.”

“It’s all just circumstantial,” Hank said.

“He wanted to frame Harrington,” Deidre said, tapping her pencil against her notepad. “Old rivalries die hard.”

I sank into a kitchen chair, my mind racing to reconcile the smooth-talking attorney with a cold-blooded killer. “But if it wasn’t about the Harbor Development, what secret was worth killing for? What did Elizabeth really find?”

The kitchen fell silent as we all pondered the question. Dash leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable except for the muscle working in his jaw—a tell I was beginning to recognize as suppressed anger.

“I think I might have an idea,” I said, looking up at Dash.

“What’s that?” he asked, raising a brow.

I took a deep breath. “What if I accepted his dinner invitation? Wore a wire? He already thinks I’m interested in him—if I can get him talking about Elizabeth…”

“Absolutely not,” Dash said immediately, straightening to his full height. “We’ve got enough to bring him in for questioning. We’re not putting you in danger again.”

“It’s just…” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “What if bringing him in isn’t enough? He’s a lawyer—he knows exactly how to shut down an interrogation. But he doesn’t see me as a threat. He thinks I’m just a sweet tea shop owner.” I looked around at the Silver Sleuths. “He’d never suspect I was trying to get a confession.”

Walt shook his head, military straight in his chair. “Too risky. Too many unknown variables.”

“I’m with Walt on this,” Deidre added. “After what you went through with Reynolds, I don’t think?—”

“Maybe that’s why it would work,” I suggested softly, not wanting to push too hard but unable to let the idea go. “Brooks has no idea we suspect him. He thinks I’m just a naïve widow who’s easily charmed.”

Dash studied me, his dark eyes searching mine. “You’ve been through enough already, Mabel. This isn’t your responsibility.”

“I know,” I said, holding his gaze. “But I want to help. For Elizabeth. For her father.” I swallowed hard. “If you think it’s too dangerous, I understand. You’re the expert here. But if there’s a way to make it safe…”

Something in his expression shifted—a flicker of consideration replacing outright refusal. “You’re serious about this?”

“I am,” I nodded. “But only if you think we can do it without unnecessary risk.”

Dash ran a hand through his hair, his internal debate visible on his face. “If—and that’s a big if—we did something like this, there would have to be strict protocols. Public location. Full surveillance. Armed officers within seconds of your position.”

“Of course,” I agreed quickly. “Whatever you think is best.

“The Crab Shack,” I suggested after a moment’s thought. “Weeknight evening crowds are thin. You’ll have good line of sight.”

“Plenty of exits,” Walt added, warming to the idea despite his initial resistance.

“And we could position deputies in plain clothes on the dock,” Dash continued, working through the logistics. “A couple of others in the parking lot and then a female and male in plain clothes inside the restaurant.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, a flutter of nervous excitement replacing the dread in my stomach.

“I still don’t like it,” Dottie interjected, crossing her arms.

“Neither do I,” Dash admitted. “But Mabel’s right about one thing—Brooks might shut down completely in an interrogation room. This might be our best shot at finding out what really happened to Elizabeth.”

Dash nodded, his decision made. “We do this by the book. Full tactical plan. Panic button. And at the first sign of trouble—the very first hint—we move in. No heroics.”

“Understood,” I promised.

He extended his hand, and I took it, his warm fingers curling around mine with gentle strength. The calluses on his palm scraped deliciously against my skin, sending little sparks racing up my arm.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Mabel McCoy,” he said softly. “I’ve got plans for you that don’t include you ending up dead.”

“Well,” I said, fighting the urge to fan myself. “That ought to give me incentive.”

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