“Now, he’s more the cat burglar type than Tom,” June agreed. “And it’s worth looking into.”
“You’re right,” Holt said. “But that lands us back at square one. How does the bracelet connect to the fire at Teacups, if at all?”
“And does it have anything to do with an old, unsuccessful FBI sting operation from years before that?” June added. “Or is this connected to ten years ago? Is anything that’s happening around here connected to ten years ago, or are we just seeing patterns where none exist to explain it all?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Holt agreed. “I keep wondering if the ten-year memorial has us seeing patterns that aren’t there.”
That was food for thought as they fell back into silence, each mulling over what they had just discussed.
June tried to eat. She really did. But the food had gone flat on her tongue, and every new thought made the last oneworse. Tom. Victoria. Sienna. The bracelet. The fake set. The real set. The cat burglar. The old FBI trap. The current fires. The accidents. Margo. Judy. The upcoming memorial. How did everything fit together? Why was that bracelet even at Teacups? Holt was right. Where Margo had found it, there was no way forensics would’ve missed it. Was everything that was happening connected to ten years ago, or was it something new? Another vindictive dark force that was stealing through Sandpiper Shores.
Then another thought hit her so fast that she sat up straighter.
“Holt.” She set down her fork and dabbed her mouth with the napkin, though her hand had begun to shake very slightly. He looked up at once. “What if ten years ago that was the story Gilbert Fry was chasing?”
Holt’s eyes widened. He put down his knife and fork.
“What if he found out about the cat burglar?” June said, thinking aloud now, almost breathless with it.
Holt stared at her. “Or…” her heart racing now as the stronger possibility opened beneath it, “what if he found out who the cat burglar was?”
That landed between them like a match dropped on dry grass.
15
HOLT
Holt stared at June across the small table by the waterfront window, the sounds of the restaurant dimming around him as her words took hold.What if ten years ago, that was the story Gilbert Fry was chasing?
For a second, he didn’t answer. Not because he had nothing to say, but because the thought had already been in him, half-formed and unwelcome, from the moment his mother told him about the cat burglar. June hadn’t planted the idea so much as given it shape and a name.
She saw it in his face immediately. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” June asked quietly.
“I am.” Holt exhaled and sat back slightly, though his eyes never left hers. “To be honest, the thought had crossed my mind, but I’d dismissed it.”
“But now it’s taken root in there,” June guessed and grinned slyly.
“Yes.” Holt glanced down at his almost finished plate of food for a moment, then back at her. “It has. Especially after everything we’ve just discussed.”
Because once she had said it aloud, too much of it aligned in ways he couldn’t dismiss.
Gilbert Fry had not been some drifting madman who happened to collide with the worst fire in Sandpiper Shores' history, and after reading the reports from ten years ago, it never made sense to him that Gilbert had been the one setting the fires to get a great YouTube show.
Willa and Margo had both told Holt that Gilbert and the four firefighters had been investigating the earlier fires because they believed there was more behind them than the official line had ever admitted. Nigel Frost’s report had painted the cabin scene in simple terms. Gilbert was unstable. The firefighters were trying to talk him down. He locked them in and set the fire.
But if Gilbert had uncovered something else, something older, something tied to the town and not just the fires, then the cabin might not have been a standoff at all. It might have been a silencing.
June watched him with that same infuriating, disarming clarity she had always had with him.
“What are you wondering?” she asked, leaning in a little closer and making it harder for him to concentrate when her familiar scent tantalized his senses.
Holt rubbed a hand over his jaw and forced himself to concentrate.
“Whether the bracelet at Teacups was an accident. Or whether it was meant to help us connect everything happening now to what happened ten years ago.” His mind raced.
June’s eyes narrowed in thought. Then, with the familiar efficiency that used to charm and exasperate him in equal measure, she opened her notepad once again, holding up her pen in readiness to capture more of their thoughts.
“Then let’s join the dots,” she said.
