“Yeah.”
“I was picturing polo shirts and a reception desk with a bowl of peppermints.”
“There may be peppermints.”
“But also boats.”
“Also boats.”
Cole parks near the boathouse entrance, and before I can reach for the handle, he says, “Wait.”
I do. He gets out first, scans the lot, then opens my door. This time I do not mistake it for manners.
Sloane meets us inside near a wall of windows overlooking the water. Beside him stands a man with warm brown skin, sharp eyes, and a tablet tucked beneath one arm like it might be an extra limb.
“Kara,” Sloane says. “Good to see you out of the cottage.”
“My therapist gets partial credit.”
“Then I like him already.”
“This is Rafi Haddad,” he adds. “Our COO.”
Rafi gives me a smile smooth enough to calm a boardroom or talk a city official into approving a permit before lunch. “Ms. Stone. I’m sorry Sunbreak Harbor is showing off its less charming side first.”
“Kara is fine.”
“Then Rafi is fine too.”
He shakes my hand, warm and professional, then gestures toward the glassed-in loft. “We’re running the number that sent the image, rental access records, vendor logs, and anything Sentinel can get us from Orlando. I’d love to tell you we have a dramatic answer already, but unfortunately, real investigations are rude enough to take time.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
“We specialize in useful honesty,” Sloane says.
Cole makes a low sound beside me. “Debatable.”
Sloane ignores him beautifully.
He gives me a brief tour that is more reassurance than spectacle. Ops loft. Dispatch screens. A rooftop lookout with a sweeping view of the island. A dive locker that smells faintly of rubber, salt, and metal. The attached boathouse where two team members are checking equipment beside the water.
The whole place hums with competence. Nothing feels like panic or drama, simply pure competence.
By the time we step outside again, my mood is lighter.
“I thought seeing it might help,” Cole says as we walk back to the SUV.
“It did.”
He glances down at me. “Good.”
One simple word response. But I feel it anyway.
The Salty Spoon is ten minutes away and already crowded when we arrive. The line stretches down the sidewalk beneath a striped awning, and the smell of bacon, coffee, butter, and fried potatoes reaches me before we even park.
For the first time all morning, my stomach makes a hopeful noise. Inside, the place is loud, bright, and packed with exactly the kind of controlled chaos that makes breakfast restaurants feel like benevolent war zones.
Plates clatter. Servers weave between tables with practiced speed. A wall near the register is covered with mismatched flip-flops hung on hooks beneath a hand-painted sign that reads MISSING SOLES OF SUNBREAK. I stop in front of it.
