The truth she worked so hard to uncover was never what anyone wanted to see or hear, no matter that the mystery was ultimately solved in the process.
Sarah’s view on the subject of truth was simple. It was fact. No amount of steadfast determination, relentless hope, or desperate prayer changed it.
It is what it is.
Once she revealed the facts, her job was done. She left, and then for months or even years, the good citizens would blame her for their every misfortune.
She stared at her beat-up old suitcase and shook her head. “Man, I love this job.”
3
Youngstown, Maine,
The Overlook Inn, 6:00 a.m.
From the broad expanse of windows in his parlor turned lobby, Barton Harvey gazed out across the sleepy harbor below. Morning mist still shrouded the vessels docked there. Floating aimlessly in the chilly water like abandoned pirate ships, the schooners waited patiently for their protective covers to be removed. The scraping and painting and other maintenance work that had gone on the better part of the winter was finished now. The fishing boats were already venturing daily into the icy waters.
The peaceful village that had been his home from the day he was born clung to the side of the gently ascending cliff, rooftops jutted stubbornly through the lingering fog. Chimneys puffed the smoke of survival.
As stubborn as the houses their ancestors had built centuries ago, his friends and neighbors were ready to plunge into the work they loved—dredging the sea for its generous bounty and playing host to tourists from far and wide.
In a couple of months or so, his inn would normally be filled to capacity. For most folks, life would move smoothly into the tourist season as it did every year.
His jaw hardened. But not for Barton. Not this year.
A young girl was dead. Another was missing.
And she was coming.
Barton turned away from the picturesque view. He had duties to see to. No matter how he worried. The facts would not change.
Murder was murder ... new or old. Didn’t matter.
Someone would have to pay.
She had a reputation for finding the truth, however crude and dispassionate her tactics.
Barton glanced at the blazing fire he’d meticulously prepared to chase away the morning chill. Guests loved arriving in the lobby of his inn to a glorious fire roaring in the massive stone fireplace. One guest or an inn full, he never liked to disappoint.
He crossed the quiet room and stepped behind the two-century-old registration desk. His grandfather’s grandfather had imported the intricately carved mahogany greeting-counter from Spain. The matching hutch that hung on the wall behind the counter and housed messages for guests and room keys had been designed and handcrafted by the same artisan. Every square foot of this inn echoed centuries of history from near and far. It represented all that Barton was. In good times and bad, he never neglected his responsibility to his heritage.
After slipping his reading glasses into place, he opened the leather-bound reservation book. He despised computers. Refused to use them to this day. He liked making reservations the old-fashioned way, the way his father had, and his father before him.
Scrawled in the block for today’s date was one name.
Sarah Newton.
He closed his eyes and fought to calm the emotions warring deep in his chest.
No matter how good she was, he had to make certain she didn’t find the one secret he had kept carefully hidden for so very long.
No one could ever know.
No one.
Squaring his shoulders with determination, he dismissed the worry. Failure was out of the question. He would not allow her to destroy all that he had worked for his entire life.
All his forefathers had carefully preserved for those who came after.
