“So.”
He gestures toward his car. “I guess we’re going on a date.”
“I guess we are.”
We walk toward the car in silence. He opens my door. He probably did it automatically like it was ingrained. I slide in without thinking about it. He rounds to the driver’s side, starts the engine, pulls up something on the GPS.
The route populates. Somewhere outside of town, down roads I don’t recognize.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Scott is quiet for a moment. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, then relax.
“Somewhere I should have taken you a long time ago,” he says. “If I hadn’t been too scared to show you who I really am.”
He pulls out of the driveway.
I have no phone, no escape route, and no idea what’s waiting at the end of this drive.
For the first time in weeks, I’m not sure I want one.
EIGHTEEN
SCOTT
Jessica hasn’t said a word in ten minutes.
She’s staring out the window as Twin Waves disappears behind us, replaced by marsh grass and tidal creeks and the occasional blue heron standing sentinel in the shallows. The road narrows from two lanes to one, oyster shells crunching under the tires.
“You’re taking me somewhere remote to murder me,” she finally says. “I should have seen this coming.”
“If I were going to murder you, I wouldn’t use my own car. Too much forensic evidence.”
“That’s disturbingly well-reasoned.”
“I watch a lot of true crime.”
“Of course you do.” She shifts in her seat, tucking one leg underneath her. “The brooding businessman secretly watches murder documentaries. That tracks.”
“What did you think I watched? Stock market reports?”
“Honestly? Yes.”
I take the turn onto the long drive, live oaks arching overhead, Spanish moss catching the afternoon light. Jessica goes quiet again, but it’s a different kind of quiet now. Curious.
The cottage comes into view through the trees—two stories of weathered cedar shingles, tin roof gone soft gray with age, porches wrapping around three sides like arms waiting to embrace. The dock stretches out into the tidal creek, The Meet Cute bobbing gently at her mooring.
Jessica leans forward. “Scott. This is beautiful.”
“It was my Grandmother Vera’s.” I park and kill the engine, suddenly nervous in a way I haven’t been since I was seventeen and trying to ask Marcy Hanson to prom. “She left it to me when she died. Fifteen years ago.”
“You’ve had this place for fifteen years, and I’m just now seeing it?”
“I don’t bring people here.”
She turns to look at me. Really look. I can see her processing that information, filing it away.
“But you’re bringing me.”
