It takes less than ten minutes for headlights to sweep across the front windows. I look through the peephole first. Sheriff Vaughn stands on the landing, one hand near his belt but not on his weapon. Behind him, two more vehicles sit in the drive, one marked sheriff’s office and one dark SUV with a discreet lighthouse emblem on the side.
I open the door with the chain still latched. Sheriff Vaughn’s gaze moves over my face, then past me into the cottage.
“You okay?”
The question is impossible to answer, so I nod.
He does not pretend to believe me. “May I come in?”
I close the door, unhook the chain, and open it wider. He steps inside first. Behind him comes an older man. He’s tall and composed, with long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. His eyesseem to register everything. He’s wearing navy trousers, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled, and a sidearm at his hip.
“Kara Stone?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Sloane Archer. Sunbreak Security.”
His handshake is firm and grounding. He doesn’t soften his voice in pity. He looks at me as if I’m a person standing in the middle of a problem.
“Sentinel in Orlando contacted us this morning,” he says. “They asked for local coordination while your home security situation is being taken care of. I’m sorry this escalated before we had a chance to introduce ourselves properly.”
Escalated. A clean word for someone sending me a picture of the knife they stole from my house.
Another man steps into the doorway behind him and my pulse trips for an entirely different reason. It's Cole. The fisherman on the beach. Only now he’s not barefoot in the surf with a fly rod in hand. He is wearing dark pants, a fitted black T-shirt, and an expression that makes him look less like a man who jokes about grilling and more like someone who has walked into danger so many times he recognizes the shape of it before anyone else does.
His blue eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me or even confused about it.
“Cole?” I say before I can stop myself.
Something unreadable crosses his face.
“Kara.”
Sheriff Vaughn glances between us. “You two met?”
“This morning,” Cole says. “On the beach.”
“The ocean philosopher,” I hear myself say, because terror has apparently damaged my ability to sound normal.
Sloane’s brow lifts by a fraction. Cole does not smile, but his eyes warm just enough to make my chest squeeze.
“Fly fisherman.”
The exchange should feel ridiculous under the circumstances, and maybe it does. But for one tiny second, the fear takes a backseat. Then Sloane sets a slim tablet on the island and brings us back.
“May I see your phone?”
He studies the message without changing expression, then taps the screen a few times. “Unknown number. No accompanying text besides the image?”
“No.”
“Did you respond?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Sheriff Vaughn stands beside her, looking at the photo now. His jaw tightens, but only slightly. “That’s definitely the knife?”
