Stay inside. Those two words make the cottage feel smaller.
I lock the front door, then the porch door, then stand at the island with both palms flat against the butcher block while my heart slowly hammers itself into exhaustion.
A deputy arrives fifteen minutes later.
Not with lights and sirens, thank God. Just a white SUV marked Sunbreak Harbor Sheriff’s Office pulling into the driveway with calm efficiency. I watch through the front window as a broad-shouldered man in uniform steps out, takes in the cottage's underside, and glances once toward the stairs before starting up.
I open the door before he knocks because apparently I enjoy looking both anxious and overly eager.
“Ms. Stone?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m Sheriff Eli Vaughn.”
Not deputy, then. Sheriff.
He looks early forties, maybe, with sun-browned skin, short sandy hair, and the steady demeanor of someone who has spent years calming tourists, breaking up dock fights, and telling people hurricanes are not the time to test their luck.
“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “This may be nothing.”
“Most things are nothing until they aren’t,” he says. “Mind showing me?”
That one sentence keeps me from apologizing again.
I lead him downstairs and explain what happened while he examines the storage door, the latch, and the sand beneath the cottage. He crouches near the footprint without touching it, studies it for a long moment, then looks toward the road, the neighboring properties, and the private path cutting through the dunes.
“Door latch works,” he says.
“Yes. I checked it.”
“You’re sure it was closed yesterday?”
I hesitate. That hesitation embarrasses me more than I expect.
“I think so.”
He nods as if that answer is not useless. “And you arrived yesterday evening?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone besides the owner know you’re staying here?”
The question lands too close to something Mercer said. Keep your travel plans limited to people you trust.
“My friend Vanessa. Also my assistant and publicist.”
“No social media posts?”
“No.”
“Any reason someone from Orlando would know to look for you here?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Sheriff Vaughn straightens, brushing sand from his hands. “I’m going to take a quick look around the exterior, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
