“George wasn’t entirely evil,” he said, and there was pleading in his voice. “He genuinely loved God, loved his congregation. He just…he confused being needed with being loved. And that confusion killed him.”
Outside, the afternoon had ripened into something overripe, the humidity so thick you could practically see it shimmer between the tombstones in the cemetery. The dead lay in neat rows, their secrets safely buried, unlike George Pickering’s, which were about to be dragged into the light whether they wanted to be or not.
“Your house?” Dash suggested. “I should get my watch. And we need to process what we just learned.”
“I was going to make lunch,” I offered. “We can plan our next move.”
The walk back took us through Sunday afternoon Grimm Island—families heading home from church, teenagers escaping to the beach before their parents could assign chores. Eugene Bradshaw had set up his crystal healing station in the park for those interested in an alternative to church.
In my kitchen, I moved through the familiar ritual of sandwich-making while Dash sat at the counter, reading Pickering’s notebook more carefully.
“He mentions the Flamingo Motel repeatedly,” Dash observed. “Not just for his meetings with Ruby. He saw something there, or someone.”
“The blond woman,” I said, slicing tomatoes with perhaps more force than necessary. “She keeps appearing in the narrative but never quite comes into focus.”
I retrieved his watch from its place among my tea canisters. “Your watch,” I said, handing it to him.
He took it but caught my hand before I could withdraw it. “Mabel,” he said, and something in his tone made my pulse skip.
“We should talk to Michael Bailey tomorrow,” I said quickly. “Ruby’s son. He would have been ten when she died.”
“Old enough to remember things,” Dash agreed, but his thumb was tracing circles on my wrist, and I found myself humming nervously—a few bars of “Blue Moon.”
“You hum when you’re nervous,” he observed softly.
“Bad habit,” I managed.
“I like it,” he said, finally releasing my hand. “I should go. Tomorrow’s going to be complicated.”
At the door, he paused. “Be careful, Mabel. Someone killed two people to protect these secrets. Maybe more, if Pickering was right about?—”
“Stay.”
The word escaped before I could think better of it, hanging in the air between us like a challenge.
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable. “Mabel…”
“Not for… I mean…” I took a breath, trying to gather words that kept scattering like startled birds. “We could just…be normal for an afternoon. Watch a movie. Order Chinese food. Pretend we’re not investigating a murder.”
“That’s a bad idea,” he said softly, but he hadn’t moved toward the door.
“Why?”
He stepped closer, and I could smell his cologne—cedar and something darker, like smoke. His thumb was still tracing those maddening circles on my wrist, each pass sending heat spiraling up my arm.
“Because,” he said, his voice dropping to that register that made my stomach perform complicated acrobatics, “you’re already driving me half crazy, Mabel McCoy. Every time you start singing, every time you wear one of these dresses that make you look like you stepped out of a different era, every time you look at me like you’re looking at me right now.” His thumb stilled against my pulse point, which was racing like I’d run a marathon. “If I stay…”
“We’ll watch a movie,” I said firmly, though my voice came out breathier than intended. “Something with explosions. Or car chases. Very unsexy car chases.”
He laughed—a real laugh that transformed his face. “Unsexy car chases?”
“The unsexiest. Maybe with Nicolas Cage.”
“You’re negotiating my staying with the promise of Nicolas Cage movies?”
“Is it working?”
He studied me for a long moment, and I could see him weighing something, making calculations I couldn’t follow. Then his shoulders relaxed, decision made.
