Page 90 of Skin and Bones

Bea’s delighted cackle broke the tension. “If we’re setting a trap for a murderer, I’m going to need another drink. Who wants a sidecar?”

Brooks sounded genuinely pleased when I called to accept his dinner invitation, though he tried to steer me toward The Blue Crab instead.

“It’s a bit more…refined,” he suggested. “Better wine list.”

“Oh, I’ve been to The Blue Crab,” I said innocently. “But The Crab Shack is more my speed.” I tapped my nail absently against the back of my phone. “Besides, they have the best crab claws on the island.”

He chuckled, his voice warm through the phone. “The Crab Shack it is, then. This will be a first for me. Eight o’clock?”

“Perfect,” I replied, hoping he couldn’t hear the thunder of my heart. “Be casual and comfortable. It’s not fancy, but the food is incredible.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said indulgently. I was starting to intensely dislike Jason Brooks, and it wasn’t altogether because he was suspected of being a murderer.

After I hung up, I turned to find Dash watching me with an unreadable expression.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You’re a natural at this. Had me almost convinced you were looking forward to dinner with a murderer.”

“I’m a real Grace Kelly,” I said dryly.

Two hours later, I stood in my bedroom, staring at the floral sundress I’d laid out on the bed—a vintage piece with a pattern of green leaves and yellow daisies that reminded me of summer picnics and simpler times.

“I’ll probably never be able to wear this again after tonight,” I said as Dash helped me get wired—a surprisingly intimate process that involved threading a tiny microphone up through the fabric and securing it just below my collarbone.

His fingers brushed against my skin, and despite the gravity of the situation, I felt heat rush to my cheeks.

“Good,” he said, his voice low as he taped the transmitter to the small of my back. “It’s not one of my favorites.”

I jerked my head up to meet his eyes, surprised by the teasing. “Since when do you have opinions on my wardrobe, Sheriff?”

That half smile I was coming to adore spread across his face. “Since I started paying attention. Maybe you could wear that polka-dotted number again. I liked that a lot.”

My pulse skittered traitorously, and I blamed the warmth in my cheeks on nerves rather than the way his fingers skimmed the bare skin at the small of my back.

“You sure about this?” he asked, his voice serious again as he stepped back to inspect his handiwork. “Weather service just issued a storm watch for tonight. Might work in our favor though—keep more people inside where our plainclothes officers can maintain visual contact.”

“No,” I admitted, decided I wasn’t sure about anything. “But I’m doing it anyway. Rain or shine.”

The Crab Shack was a weathered building perched on stilts over the water, its wooden deck extending out over the harbor like a gangplank into the darkness beyond. Paper lanterns strung along the railings cast an amber glow over weather-beaten tables, transforming the humble restaurant into something almost magical against the darkening sky. The scent of fried seafood and Old Bay Seasoning hung in the humid evening air, mingling with the briny tang of salt marsh and the promise of rain.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, giving myself time to get the lay of the land and identify Dash’s people. The hostess—a college-aged girl with a messy ponytail and a sunburn across her nose—led me to a table with a clear view of both the entrance and the deck beyond. Perfect.

As I settled in, I surveyed the room casually, mentally mapping exits and identifying Dash’s undercover officers. Near the bar, a young couple was being seated—the woman wore a sundress, but her alert posture and the way her eyes continuously scanned the room marked her as law enforcement. Her “date” kept his back to the wall, his jacket slightly bulky on the right side where his holster would be. They looked relaxed to anyone who didn’t know better, but I recognized Officer Lee’s dark ponytail and the set of Detective Reyes’ shoulders despite his casual attire.

Through the window, I could see Harris down on the dock, looking absurdly young in cargo shorts and a faded baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He was pretending to work on a fishing line, positioned where he’d have a clear view of both the restaurant deck and the water below. I almost didn’t recognize him without his usual starched uniform and serious expression—he looked like any other island teenager killing time before curfew.

My gaze swept across the other diners—a family with two bored teenagers, an elderly couple sharing a plate of hush puppies, a rowdy table of sunburned tourists who’d clearly started happy hour early. Dash had positioned his people well, blending them seamlessly into the normal Thursday night crowd.

I’d chosen this place not just for its out-of-the-way location, but for the half dozen exits and the clear sight lines that would give Dash and his team perfect visibility from every angle. Nothing said romance like tactical advantages.

I’d paired my floral sundress with peep-toe sandals that could be kicked off in an instant if I needed to run. My hair hung loose around my shoulders, and for once, I hadn’t bothered with my usual red lipstick. Tonight wasn’t about playing dress-up or impressing anyone. It was about justice. It was about Elizabeth.

Brooks arrived right on time, smooth as a shark gliding through calm waters. He looked casually elegant in khakis and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing tanned forearms. His own thick mane caught the golden light from the lanterns and made the silver at his temples gleam, and his smile when he spotted me was warm and seemingly genuine. But I didn’t miss the way his eyes darted around the weathered building, taking in the paper towel rolls on each table and the uneven planks beneath our feet with barely concealed disdain.

He might have dressed down for the occasion, but it was obvious he wasn’t used to slumming it with the regular folks. Money and privilege clung to him like expensive cologne—impossible to wash off no matter how casual the clothes. According to Deidre, he’d come from nothing and was determined never to go back there.

“Mabel,” he greeted, leaning in to kiss my cheek, his cologne expensive and subtle, like everything else about him. “You look lovely.”

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