“Practical warning.”
“Those are my favorite kind.”
She starts to turn, then pauses. “I’m Kara, by the way.”
Kara.
The name hits the same locked door in my brain. Still no full picture.
“Cole,” I say.
Her smile returns, smaller this time, but real. “Nice to meet you, Cole.”
“Likewise, Kara.”
She walks back toward the dune path with her shells cupped in one hand, flip-flops sinking slightly into the damp sand. I watch longer than I should. After she’s gone, the morning feels different.
I stand there with the rod in my hand and the surf around my ankles, listening to the water drag sand back into itself. A man like me knows the feel of something out of place. It’s not magic or paranoia. That feeling is rooted in pattern recognition built over years of paying attention when failure costs more than pride. That woman is afraid, and she is trying very hard not to be.
My phone vibrates in the dry bag clipped near my gear. I let the first buzz go because whatever it is can wait thirty seconds. Then it buzzes again.
Sloane Archer.
I pull the phone free and answer. “Navarro.”
“Morning,” he says. “You on-island?”
“I’m standing in the surf. How can I help?”
There’s a pause, just long enough to shift my attention fully from the water to his voice. Sloane doesn’t waste words, and he doesn’t call before seven unless something needs handling. Former Coast Guard Investigative Service. Current owner of Sunbreak Security. Calm as a locked door and twice as hard to get through when she decides something matters.
“We got a referral from Sentinel Protective out of Orlando,” he says. “Rafi took the intake twenty minutes ago and flagged it for me.”
The name sharpens my focus. Sentinel Protective handles people with money, visibility, and problems they don’t want splashed across headlines.
“What kind of referral?”
“High-profile client relocated to the island after a residential break-in. She arrived yesterday. Staying at The Sandpiper.”
My gaze moves automatically toward the dune path.
“Kara,” I say before I think better of it.
“You know her?”
“Met her five minutes ago.”
“That was coincidental … and efficient.”
“She walked onto the beach. I was fishing.”
“Right.” His tone loses the dry edge. “Kara Stone. Celebrity chef. Streaming shows, cookbooks, brand partnerships. Her Orlando house was broken into two nights ago. No forced entry. Main alarm system compromised. Secondary fail-over triggered and brought Sentinel in. Police responded.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“What was taken?”
“One chef’s knife that apparently matters to her. Expensive. Engraved. More concerning, personal items were disturbed. Bedroom closet. Undergarments. Private photographs.”
