Declan O’Rourke stood on the corner of Meeting Street watching the slow crawl of traffic past pastel houses and wrought-iron balconies dripping with jasmine.
The air was thick with humidity and salt—the kind that wrapped around your lungs the moment you stepped outside.
He hadn’t been back in nearly two years.
Not since Eleanor had packed up her life and moved to Sylva.
Deck adjusted the collar of his jacket and started walking.
Charleston still smelled the same—coffee, river air, old brick baking in the sun.
The police headquarters sat exactly where he remembered it. Three stories of red brick and bureaucracy.
Inside, the front desk deputy looked up.
“Can I help you?”
Deck leaned both hands on the counter.
“Aye,” he said. “Ye can. I’m lookin’ for someone who still remembers how t’make decent coffee in this place.”
The deputy blinked.
Then laughed.
“Detective O’Rourke?”
Deck tipped his chin.
“Retired now, lad. Don’t make me sound older than I already am.”
The deputy shook his head.
“Man, I heard you moved up to the mountains.”
“Aye.”
“What brings you back?”
Deck smiled faintly.
“Curiosity.”
Thirty Minutes Later
Detective Frank Dawson leaned back in his chair, boots crossed under his desk.
“You drove four hours because of some YouTube show?”
Deck sat across from him, arms folded.
“Not the show.”
Dawson lifted a brow.
“The woman runnin’ it.”
Dawson turned his computer monitor toward him.
