Sloane doesn’t say anything, but I feel scrutinized. No, my whole life and every conversation I’ve had with anyone is beginning to be suspect.
I look at the screen. Vanessa’s text is short.
Please call me. I’m worried.
Inside, I feel an obligation to contact her. Vanessa is probably worried. She’s my most caring friend and always there for me. I should message back. But I want to show Sloane I have some measure of self-control.
Outside, a beam of light moves across the lower edge of the front window. Cole’s flashlight, maybe. Or Sheriff Vaughn’s. Through the curtain gap, I see shadows shift beneath the cottage, and my heart immediately begins beating faster.
Sloane steps between me and the window without making a production of it. His silent movement is protective. Sunbreak Security is not a cute local firm with matching polo shirts and a clever lighthouse logo. These people are serious about caring for their clients.
Still, all of my senses are on this kind of hair-trigger heightened alert … with everything. I know Cole’s back in the beach cottage before I see him.
As soon as I do see him, I’m scanning for his impressions of anything found outside. His expression tells me nothing. And that tells me enough.
Sheriff Vaughn follows, brushing sand from the side of his boot.
“Well?” Sloane asks.
“No sign of forced entry,” Cole says. “Storage latch works. No fresh damage to windows or doors. Footprint under the house is too degraded now to be useful, but there are several partials nearthe dune path. Could be beach traffic or maintenance. It could also be someone watching the property.”
Sheriff Vaughn nods. “We’ll increase patrols on this road and along the beach access tonight. I’ll also have dispatch pull any nearby calls or reports from the past twenty-four hours.”
Sloane taps something into his tablet. “Rafi is checking rental access, vendors, maintenance records, and the number that sent the photo. We’ll also coordinate with Sentinel and Orlando PD for the original incident.”
I look between them, following pieces but not all of it. “So what happens now?”
There is the smallest silence — the kind where you know someone is trying to figure out how to break some news to you.
Sloane faces me fully. “Now we talk about personal protection.”
My stomach tightens. “A bodyguard. I don’t want to turn this into a bigger thing than it is.”
“Kara,” Sheriff Vaughn says gently, “someone broke into your home, took a personal item, and is now using that item to contact you directly after you relocated.”
My gaze drops to the island. Right, that’s true.
Sloane’s voice remains even. “My recommendation is a temporary detail while we assess the threat. Forty-eight hours to start. You don’t have to make permanent decisions tonight, but I don’t advise staying here alone.”
Alone. That word has changed shape so many times in the past two days I barely recognize it anymore.
“I came here to rest,” I say, and I hate the small crack in my voice. “I came here because my house didn’t feel safe.”
“I know,” Sloane says.
“And now this place doesn’t either.”
Cole steps closer, stopping on the opposite side of the island. “The place isn’t the problem.”
I look up at him.
“The pattern is,” he says.
My throat tightens. “What does that mean?”
“It means this person is using gaps. Distance between Orlando and here. Time between incidents. The parts of your life where people assume nothing serious is happening yet.” His gaze stays on mine. “We close the gaps.”
Sloane leans a palm lightly against the counter. “Cole works close protection contracts through us when we need someone with his background. He knows this island, he knows the water, and he knows how to keep a situation quiet when quiet matters.”
