“That may be all it is.”
“You don’t think that’s all it is.”
“I think we document everything.”
He says it evenly, but I hear the caution beneath the words. It brushes against something defensive in me.
“She’s my best friend, Cole.”
“I know.”
“She’s worried.”
“I believe that.”
“Do you?”
His expression doesn’t change. “Yes.”
That should be enough, but it isn’t. The way he watches the world makes me want to watch it too. I am not ready to turn that attention toward Vanessa. Not the woman who sat with me after culinary school fell apart. Not the woman who found me this cottage. Not the woman who says she loves me loudly because she means it loudly.
I send Cole the screenshot and link, then place the phone face down on the island.
“I hate this,” I say.
His face softens. “Which part?”
“All of it.”
“That’s fair.”
“I hate needing help. I hate worrying about posts. I hate wondering if a sweet teenager taking a picture is somehowdangerous. I hate that everyone who loves me becomes part of an investigation.”
Cole moves closer, stopping on the other side of the island. Close enough that the air changes. Far enough that I still have room.
“People who love you should want you safe more than they want you easy to reach.”
I turn the words over like something I found on the beach and am not sure whether to keep it. I don't know what to do with those words.
Outside, the ocean keeps moving beyond the dunes. The porch screens glow with white afternoon light. For a little while, The Sandpiper feels peaceful again, but now I know better.
Peace is not the absence of danger. Sometimes it is only the pause before someone decides to step closer.
I look toward the porch, where Cole had stood minutes ago with his eyes on the dunes. Then I look back at my phone, still face down on the island, still warm from Vanessa’s messages.
For the first time all day, the cottage feels less like a hiding place and more like a glass box. And I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere, someone has just realized exactly where to look.
Chapter 13
Cole
The boat is not a date. It is distance from a potential predator. Better sight lines and more control. Water is easier to read than a boardwalk crowd. Fewer blind corners or people stepping too close with phones in their hands. Fewer places for someone to stand and watch Kara without being seen.
That is the logic I give myself. But it does not explain why I check the cooler twice, pack extra water, and make sure the clean towel in my gear bag is soft instead of the rough one I usually keep for bait, sweat, and engine grease.
Kara comes out of the bedroom wearing a loose white cover-up, sunglasses pushed into her hair, and a tote bag over one shoulder. The red swimsuit beneath the cover-up flashes at the neckline when she moves.
I look at her face and … only her face.
