"He's staying at a hotel?" Colby asked. "Here in town?"
"The Sandpiper, out on Route 17. Checked in three weeks ago. Paid cash for the first three weeks, then switched to a credit card." Diaz's smile was thin. "People always slip up eventually. He got comfortable and used his credit card today."
Three weeks. Brian's stomach turned. Webb had been watching them for three weeks, and they'd only known for the last ten days. All those mornings on the deck, all those walks into town, all those quiet moments they'd thought were private.
"I want him gone," he said. "I want him out of this town and out of her life."
"Working on it." Diaz pushed off from the car. "I'll be in touch. In the meantime, my cell number's in your phone. Use it."
She drove away, and the four of them stood on the sidewalk, watching the patrol car disappear around the corner.
"Come back to the shop," Hank said. "Bree's there. She's been worried since I texted her."
"I should go home," Tessa said. "I need to call Julia. She should know what's happening."
"You can call from the shop," Colby said. "We've got coffee. Bree made those lemon bars you liked. And frankly, I don't think any of us want to let you out of our sight right now."
Tessa looked at Brian, and something passed between them. A silent conversation in the space of a heartbeat.
"Okay," she said. "The shop it is."
They walked together down Main Street, Hank and Colby flanking them like an honor guard. Shop owners watched from their windows. Ruth waved from the doorway of her bookstore. Tom Cooper stepped out of the hardware store and gave Brian a nod that carried the weight of a promise.
This town, Brian thought. This ridiculous, nosy, fiercely loyal town.
He'd come here to hide. To disappear into anonymity and nurse his wounds in private. Instead, he'd found a community that refused to let him be alone, a woman who had walked into his life by accident and become the center of it, and friends who showed up without being asked.
Webb thought he was dealing with one isolated woman and her boyfriend. He had no idea what he was up against.
The vintage motorcycle shop came into view, its hand-painted sign swinging gently in the sea breeze. Through the window, Brian could see Bree already moving toward the door, her face creased with concern.
"How bad?" she asked as they filed inside.
"Bad enough." Hank kissed her forehead. "But not as bad as it could be. Diaz is on it."
Bree pulled Tessa into a hug, the kind of embrace that didn't need words. Over Tessa's shoulder, her eyes met Brian's, and he saw his own fear reflected there. But he saw something else, too. Determination. The same stubborn refusal to let the darkness win that had carried Bree through her own grief, her own rebuilding.
"Coffee's fresh," Bree said when she finally let go. "And I wasn't kidding about those lemon bars. Stress baking is my coping mechanism, and I've been very stressed."
That surprised a laugh out of Tessa, watery but real. "Stress baking?"
"Don't knock it until you've tried it. There's something very therapeutic about beating the hell out of butter and sugar."
They gathered in the back of the shop, where a makeshift break area had been set up with mismatched chairs and a coffee maker that had seen better decades. Brian took the seat next to Tessa, close enough that their shoulders touched. She leaned into him automatically, as if by gravity.
"So," Colby said, settling into a chair with a lemon bar in each hand. "What's the plan?"
"We wait," Brian said. "Diaz is building a case. The FBI is reviewing. We document everything, and we don't give Webb what he wants."
"Which is?"
"Fear." Tessa's voice was steadier now. "He wants me afraid. He wants me looking over my shoulder, second-guessing every decision, wondering if I deserve what's happening to me." She straightened in her chair. "I'm not going to give him that."
Brian looked at her, at the steel that had crept into her spine, the fire in her green eyes. This was the woman who had walked into his cottage with a suitcase and a door code and turned his whole life upside down. This was the woman who had spent years in trauma surgery, facing death every day and fighting it back.
Webb had picked the wrong target.
"Good," Hank said quietly. "Because that's exactly the attitude you're going to need."
