“I told you. Air conditioning manuals. Very important documents. Essential reading.”
“Try again.”
I sigh, digging my toes into the sand and feeling it squish between them in a way that’s oddly satisfying. “Information about Mr. X. The mysterious owner who hired me sight unseen, threatened to close the resort in thirty days if we don’t turn a profit, and then vanished into thin air like some kind of tropical ghost. Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?”
“Everything about this place is suspicious,” he says, picking up a handful of sand and letting it run through his fingers like he’s contemplating the nature of decay and entropy. “The question is whether it’s suspicious enough to be connected to a recent death on the property.”
He saysrecentlike there have been many. And for all I know, there have been.
“You think Nolan’s death was connected to the resort?” I turn to look at him, and the setting sun catches his profile in a way that makes me forget what we’re talking about for a second.
“I think a man with Nolan’s background doesn’t just accidentally drown in a pool that looks as if it contains a few boogeymen. Especially when half the people at the resort had reasons to want him dead.”
The waves crash against the lava rock outcropping to our left, sending spray into the air that catches the light like scattered diamonds. A pale white bird circles overhead, shifting position like it’s making an important decision.
“What kind of background?” I ask. Evidently, I’m fully committed to this amateur detective thing now.
“The kind that makes enemies.” He picks up another handful of sand and this time chucks it. “Nolan Nakamura specialized in acquiring properties through, let’s just say, creative means. Environmental reports that conveniently overlooked certain issues like toxic waste or endangered species. Zoning variance applications that mysteriously got fast-tracked through city councils. Pressure applied to the right people at the right time. That sort of thing.”
“Sounds charming. A real upstanding citizen.”
“He was very good at finding people’s pressure points and pushing them just enough. But not enough to break them immediately, just enough to make them desperate.”
A wave larger than the others rolls in, and I have to lift my feet as the water rushes up the beach toward us with more enthusiasm than necessary. The cold shock of it makes me gasp. “So, someone finally pushed back?”
“Looks that way. Question is who, and whether they planned it or just saw an opportunity.”
The sun is getting lower, painting everything in warm golden light that makes even Detective Hale’s perpetual scowl look almost approachable. Almost like he might be a person and not just a badge with excellent cheekbones.
“Can I ask you something?” I say because the sunset and the sound of the waves have made me brave or possibly stupid.
“You can ask.” He turns to look at me, and I notice he doesn’t say he’ll answer, which is very on-brand for him.
“Why are you being nice to me? This morning, you were ready to arrest me for breathing wrong, and now you’re sitting on a beach making actual conversation like we’re friends or something.”
He’s quiet for so long, I think he’s not going to answer, and I’m mentally preparing my exit strategy when he finally speaks. “You remind me of someone.”
“Someone you liked, or someone you wanted to throw off a cliff?”
“The jury is still out,” he says, but there’s the tiniest hint of warmth in his voice.
I laugh despite myself, and the sound carries across the water. “Gee, thanks. You’re really building my confidence here, Detective.”
“You want honesty?” He turns to face me fully, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. “You’re stubborn, reckless, and you have absolutely no sense of self-preservation. You’ve been on this island for exactly two days, and you’ve already managed to get yourself tangled up in Christmas lights, banned from the best food truck on the North Shore, involved in a murder investigation, and probably created a few safety hazards I haven’t discovered yet.”
“When you put it like that, I sound like a real catch. Very employable. Also, excellent dating material.”
“But,” he continues, and there’s something in his voice that makes me look at him properly, really look, “you’re also trying to save a place that most people would have given up on already. You care about Ruby and Lani enough to get covered in powdered sugar and banned from food trucks. And you make the best coffee I’ve had since moving back to the island.”
I blink, trying to process this unexpected compliment that feels more intimate than it should. “You’ve had my coffee?”
“Yesterday. After the body turned up and everything went to hell.”
“And?”
“And it was good coffee. Really good. The kind that makes you reconsider your entire relationship with caffeine.”
Coming from him, this feels like the highest praise possible, like he’s just told me I hung the moon and also fixed all the world’s problems with a French press.
