Page 59 of Christmas in July at Harbor's Hope

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The marina office was quiet. He pulled open the filing cabinet beside the desk. The drawer stuck halfway. He yanked harder. Three years of rental records shifted forward in an avalanche of paper.

“Professional operation,” he muttered.

The first stack contained boat inspections. The second held insurance forms.

The third was rental contracts. That was where he found it. A twenty-foot center console rented for three nights. Paid in cash. No registration number listed. Name: J. Hartwell.

Evan stared at the form. Hartwell.

The same name attached to the P.O. box. The same shell company attached to the shipping records.

His pulse picked up. He pulled the invoice from his pocket. Compared the handwriting. The H curved the same way. The final L looped back under itself. The T crossed high and hard. The same hand.

Not similar. The same. Caleb’s.

He photographed the rental form and slid it into a folder with the invoice.

Two documents. Enough to make Harker look again.

The Harbor’s Hope police station sat three blocks from the waterfront. The receptionist recognized him and waved him through. Small towns had their advantages.

Harker was behind his desk with gas station coffee and the expression of a man who had not enjoyed the last week.

“You again.”

“Me again.”

Harker gestured toward the chair.

Evan remained standing and set the invoice and rental agreement on the desk. “The invoice sent to your tip line.”

Harker looked down.

“The billing information says Pine Event Planning.”

“It does,” Harker acknowledged.

“The shipping address belongs to a P.O. box registered to Hartwell Imports LLC.”

That got his attention.

Harker picked up the paper. “Hartwell.”

“Hart. As in Henson and Hart.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed.

Evan continued, “Someone used Margot’s company for the billing. They used their own shell company for the delivery.”

“That’s still circumstantial.”

Evan laid the second document beside the first. “The boat rental isn’t.”

Harker looked at it.

“Paid cash. Rented three nights. Same shell company. Same handwriting.”

The detective said nothing.