Dash smiled at this exchange, and the expression transformed his entire face. The severe lines softened, the wariness in his dark eyes giving way to something warmer, more human. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that Sheriff Dashiell Beckett wore his authority like armor, carefully constructed to keep the world at a safe distance.
“Tomorrow’s going to be complicated,” he said finally, turning from the murder board to face me properly.
“Most tomorrows are,” I replied, aiming for lightness and achieving something closer to breathlessness. The dining room, which had felt spacious enough for seven people moments ago, seemed to have shrunk considerably now that we were alone.
“And potentially dangerous.” His voice dropped lower. “We’re about to confront people who may have killed to protect these secrets. People with money and power and practice at keeping things hidden.”
“I know,” I said quietly.
He crossed the room then—three strides that eliminated the careful distance we’d been maintaining—and suddenly he was close enough that I could see the faint scar along his jawline, could smell the cedar scent of his cologne mixed with coffee and the peculiar smell of old paper that clung to anyone who’d spent hours poring over evidence files.
“I need you to promise me something,” he said, and there was something almost fierce in the way he looked at me, as if he could anchor me to safety through sheer force of will.
“What?”
“When you go to Beaufort tomorrow with Hank and Dottie to interview Frank Holloway—” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I don’t like you going without me. We’re stirring up a forty-year-old murder, confronting people with money and power who’ve spent decades keeping secrets buried. Someone killed Ruby Bailey and George Pickering. Someone may have killed to protect those secrets before, and they might not hesitate to do it again.”
His hands found my arms, warm and solid, his thumbs tracing small circles that sent shivers down my spine. “If anything feels wrong—anywhere, at any point during the day—you call me immediately. You don’t try to handle it yourself. You don’t play detective without backup. You get somewhere safe and you call. Do you understand?”
The intensity of it should have frightened me—this protectiveness that bordered on possession, this concern that felt personal rather than professional. But I’d spent a decade being careful, being safe, being the widow who didn’t make waves or cause trouble. And it had gotten me exactly nowhere.
“I promise,” I said, and meant it.
“Mabel,” he said, my name a question and a statement and possibly a prayer.
Something in his expression shifted then—relief, perhaps, or maybe something deeper. His dark eyes held mine with an intensity that made my breath catch, and I watched his gaze drop to my lips, linger there for a long moment that stretched like taffy. The air between us felt charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes.
I thought he was going to kiss me. Every nerve in my body was waiting for it, anticipating the feel of his mouth on mine. But instead, he drew in a slow breath and said, very quietly, “We’re going to need to talk soon, Mabel. About this. About us.”
“Us,” I repeated, the word feeling both terrifying and wonderful on my tongue.
“I’m finding it extremely difficult to leave you at the end of the night.” His thumb traced my jawline with maddening gentleness. “You’re consuming my thoughts—during the day when I should be focused on evidence and timelines, at night when I should be sleeping. I think about you when I’m drinking my morning coffee, when I’m reviewing case files, when I’m supposed to be listening to the mayor drone on about budget allocations.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, self-deprecating and utterly disarming. “I’ve never been very good at this—at letting someone in. My work has always been easier than people, safer than caring. But you…” He paused, seeming to search for the right words. “You’ve gotten under my skin, Mabel McCoy. And I need to know if I’m alone in this, or if you’re feeling even a fraction of what I am.”
“You’re not alone,” I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
His expression softened, something almost vulnerable flickering across his face before he leaned down and pressed his lips to my forehead in a kiss so tender, so achingly gentle, that I felt it reverberate through my entire body. It was somehow more intimate than any passionate embrace, this simple gesture that spoke of protection and promise and something that looked remarkably like devotion.
“Soon,” he murmured against my skin. “When we’re not chasing murders and confronting people who may have killed to keep secrets. When I can think clearly enough to say everything I want to say without worrying about keeping you safe. We’ll talk about where this is going. Because Mabel—” He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes again. “I very much want it to be going somewhere.”
“Me too,” I whispered.
He stepped back then, breaking the contact between us with visible reluctance. “Lock your door. All of them. And turn on your alarm—the actual alarm system.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “I promise.”
After he left, I stood in my dining room for a long moment, my pulse gradually slowing.
Chowder appeared at my feet, looking up at me with an expression of profound exasperation.
“You wouldn’t be so judgmental if you’d been in my situation,” I told him. “Maybe you need a girlfriend.”
He made a sound that was half snort, half sigh, and waddled toward the stairs.
I followed him up, checking locks and setting the alarm like I’d promised. Through my bedroom window, I could see the harbor stretching out toward Turtle Point, dark water reflecting scattered lights.
Ruby Bailey had cleaned houses and sung in the church choir. She’d loved her son and planned for a better future in Charleston. And someone had decided she didn’t deserve to see it.
