“I’m working on it,” I said finally.
We did the dishes together, moving through my small kitchen with the kind of synchronization that usually takes years to develop. He washed, I dried, our movements creating a rhythm that felt both entirely new and impossibly familiar, as if my kitchen had been waiting for exactly this—for someone who knew instinctively that the good plates went on the second shelf, never the third, and that the dishcloth needed to be folded precisely in thirds or it wouldn’t fit in its designated spot by the sink.
“I should go,” Dash said finally, when the last spoon had been polished and there was no excuse left for lingering except the truth neither of us was ready to speak aloud.
At the door, he paused. “Thanks for tonight. For coming with me. I needed someone who knew the people.”
“You needed someone to assign tasks so they’d feel important,” I corrected. “It’s a very specific skill set.”
“One of many, apparently.” He leaned in and kissed me—gentle, familiar, the kind of kiss that spoke of affection rather than passion. We’d been doing this dance for weeks now, comfortable but careful, neither of us quite ready to push for more. “Good night, Mabel.”
The door closed softly behind him, and I stood there wondering how long we could keep this up—the careful kisses, the unspoken boundaries, the elephant in the room neither of us wanted to name.
That’s when I noticed his watch on the counter—a black tactical watch with a sturdy rubber strap, the kind designed to survive whatever chaos law enforcement might encounter, its face slightly scratched from real use.
It sat among my things like a foreign ambassador—masculine where my kitchen was decidedly feminine, practical among my collection of vintage curiosities. The leather still held the warmth of his wrist, and when I picked it up, I could smell the scent that was uniquely his—cedar soap and something indefinable that made my stomach perform a slow, complicated somersault.
I could return it tomorrow. Text him right now, even—your watch is here, forgot to mention it. Simple. Practical. Safe.
Instead, I set it carefully next to my tea canisters, where morning light would catch the crystal face, where I would see it every day until he came back for it. Or until I gathered the courage to return it. Or until it simply became part of my kitchen’s landscape, like the widow’s grief I’d been slowly, carefully, setting aside.
Chowder waddled over, his smoking jacket now twisted at such an angle that he looked like a Victorian gentleman who’d lost a fight with his own wardrobe.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I told him. “Nothing happened.”
He produced the kind of snort that only French bulldogs can manage—part disapproval, part disbelief, wholly judgmental. He knew, as I knew, that something had shifted tonight.
Outside, Grimm Island settled into its evening rhythm—waves against sand, wind through Spanish moss, the distant call of something wild in the marsh. Somewhere in deeper waters, a whale was finding its way back to where it belonged, guided by instincts older than memory.
I picked up Dash’s watch again, running my thumb across its worn face. Sometimes the things we think are lost—whales, hearts, the ability to want something beyond safety—aren’t lost at all. They’re just waiting, patient as time itself, for someone brave enough to guide them home.
CHAPTER
THREE
Saturday morning on Grimm Island possessed a quality of light that made even mundane objects appear blessed—as if God had finally found the correct Instagram filter and decided to leave it on permanently. The May sunshine streamed through my bedroom curtains with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever, promising a day that would be hot enough to make everyone question their life choices by noon.
I stood before my closet, contemplating what one wore to examine forty-year-old murder evidence. After considerable deliberation, I selected a 1950s day dress in sage green with tiny pearl buttons down the front—the sort of dress that suggested I might be equally comfortable at a garden party or a crime scene, which seemed appropriate for Grimm Island, where social events and scandals were often indistinguishable.
My house stood at the end of Harbor Street like a beautiful dowager who’d aged gracefully despite witnessing more than her share of drama. The white Charleston single façade caught the morning light in a way that made it glow like the inside of an oyster shell—luminous and slightly mysterious. Three stories of traditional architecture that had sheltered generations of island secrets, each room holding memories like pressed flowers in a book.
Patrick had given me this house as a wedding gift, this grand corner property where the camellias we’d planted had just finished their spring blooming. The wraparound piazza faced the harbor, its columns wound with jasmine that was already beginning its summer campaign to seduce everyone within a three-block radius with its perfume.
But it was always the sycamore that caught my eye—the one Patrick had planted our first year here, promising shade that would cool our bedroom when we were old and gray, when we had grandchildren to push on the swing he’d planned to hang from its branches. The tree towered over the house now, finally casting the shadows he’d promised, its leaves whispering secrets to the wind about all the futures that would never be.
Chowder emerged from the mudroom in his Saturday attire—a Hawaiian shirt featuring pineapples wearing sunglasses, because even fruit needed eye protection on Grimm Island. He conducted his morning patrol with the solemnity of a palace guard, if palace guards were shaped like overstuffed sausages and occasionally got distracted by butterflies.
“You’re looking very festive today,” I told him. “Though you might need to lay off the treats if you want your shirt to button the next time you wear it.”
Chowder sniffed disapprovingly at my criticism and waited for me to open the door to the backyard.
His first stop was the hydrangea bush where Mr. Henderson’s tabby sometimes conducted surveillance operations. Chowder sniffed thoroughly, gathering intelligence that only he could interpret. His second stop was the sacred spot by the garden gate where he’d once discovered a ham sandwich, a miracle of such magnitude that he still checked daily for its second coming. Finally, the ceremonial marking of the sycamore, because some traditions transcended fashion choices.
Back inside, I stood at my kitchen counter making coffee, humming “Blue Moon” as the morning light illuminated my collection of vintage tea canisters. Dash’s tactical watch sat among them where he’d left it the night before—this aggressively practical thing amid my delicate porcelain, like finding a hammer in a jewelry box. Its presence made me smile. It was such an obvious excuse to return, and yet somehow that made it more charming, not less.
The evidence box squatted beside it, managing to look both ominous and slightly embarrassed, as if it knew it didn’t belong in such a cheerful kitchen. I decided to move it to the formal dining room only because the table was large enough to display all the photos and documents. And maybe because it was one of the only rooms in the house that didn’t get a lot of use. I usually ate at the kitchen island so I could look out at flowers I paid someone else to plant and tend to because I had a black thumb.
The doorbell rang at precisely nine o’clock. Through the peephole, Walt Garrison stood on my porch, checking his watch with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. His Saturday uniform was pristine—khakis with creases that could slice bread, navy polo shirt that had never known the indignity of a wrinkle, veterans cap positioned at the exact angle that suggested he’d measured it with a protractor.
