I follow Cole down the stairs with Eli waiting below and Sloane’s voice crackling through Cole’s earpiece. The dune path is taped off in my mind now, even if no yellow tape exists there yet. The sea oats move in the wind, whispering over the place where someone stood with a camera and a message.
I do not look back at The Sandpiper. It was never safe. It was only pretty.
Chapter 15
Cole
It takes a while for us to arrive at our final destination. Out of caution, I drive out of town, across the intracoastal waterway into mainland Florida, just in case we’re being tailed. Once I know we’re in the clear, I head back to our designated safe place.
Dune Garden Inn looks like the kind of place people book when they want charm, privacy, and a story to tell their friends later. White cottages with pale shutters. Flower boxes under the windows. A crushed-shell lane curving between palms and sea grape. Little signs shaped like birds marking each unit.
Cute. I hate cute. Cute usually means bad sight lines, too many decorative hiding places, and locks chosen by someone who thinks brass looks nicer than reinforced steel.
But Sloane uses the back cottage for protected relocations because it has one road in, one service exit, no shared walls, anda straight view to the marsh on one side and the parking area on the other. Rafi handles the booking trail through three layers of boring paperwork no one will ever search unless they already know where to look. So cute will have to do.
Kara sits beside me in the SUV, silent, one hand gripping the strap of her tote. She has not cried. I wish she would.
Tears would be cleaner than this. Tears come from the body. This stillness comes from somewhere deeper, where fear goes when it stops asking permission and starts rearranging the furniture.
Sheriff and Sloane are already at the inn, according to the last update. Rafi is at The Beacon pulling tower data, camera feeds, rental records, and whatever else he can pry loose from the day without a warrant and with one once he gets Eli the right language.
The second photo came from a different number with a local tower. Close enough to make my teeth ache.
He can’t watch everywhere.
I keep both hands on the wheel and do not let myself think about what could have happened if I had stayed on that call for another five minutes. If Kara had gone to the porch railing. If the person in the dunes had decided a photo wasn’t enough.
I cannot afford ‘if’. If is a trap. What matters is next.
Sloane stands outside the last cottage when we arrive, arms crossed, sunglasses on, face unreadable. A woman in a floral blouse pretends to deadhead flowers near the office and fails to pretend she isn’t watching us. Local owner, probably. Trusted enough to ask no questions or too curious to survive long in this business. Maybe both.
“Inside,” Sloane says.
Kara obeys. That tells me more than I want to know about how scared she is.
The cottage is small but better than expected. Living room with a daybed along one wall. Tiny kitchen. One bedroom. One bath. Back door leading to a fenced patio and marsh view beyond it. Windows with decent locks. Not great. Decent.
I set Kara’s tote on the kitchen table and do the walk-through while Sloane stays with her.
When I return, Kara is standing in the middle of the living room like she does not know which version of herself belongs in this room. Chef. Celebrity. Client. Target.
To me she's a woman that's mine to protect. But, not really mine.
“This is temporary,” Sloane tells her. “We’re keeping the circle tight. No public posting. No responding to unknown numbers. No calls to anyone without checking with us first.”
Kara’s eyes glance at me. “Anyone?”
Sloane hears the question beneath it.
“Anyone who had your location, knew your plans, knew your private number, or could have learned those things.”
“My assistant?”
“Yes.”
“My publicist?”
“Yes.”
