Brine and Bean has a line out the door. I duck inside through the back—Donna let me in through the kitchen once, and I’ve been using the privilege like a local. The shop is packed. Every table taken. Every chair. Tourists with laptops and phones and printouts of my Instagram posts spread across the tables like evidence. I slide past a group of women in their thirties and catch fragments.
“—the north shore is where the dowry was buried?—”
“—Thomas definitely killed her?—”
“—Malcolm Merrick’s archive has the shipping manifests?—”
My words. Almost verbatim. Theories I floated, questions I asked, half-baked speculation I posted because speculation gets engagement and engagement keeps the production company happy. These women drove here because of me. They’re planning their day around places I named. They’re treating my Instagram like a treasure map and Port Haven like the set of a game they’re entitled to play.
A hand taps my shoulder. I turn.
“Scarlett Crawford? Oh my god.” The woman is beaming. Forties, friendly face, a husband and two teenagers hoveringbehind her. “We drove up from Eugene. Because of you. The treasure hunt. My husband’s been following since the first post.”
The husband offers a sheepish wave. The teenagers stare at their shoes.
“That’s—” I don’t have the word. “Thank you. For coming.”
“We’re so excited. We brought our metal detector.” She gestures to a backpack by the door. “Where should we start? The north shore? That’s what everyone’s saying.”
“You should start by respecting private property,” I say. “The north shore belongs to the Haven family. They graze sheep there. It’s not a dig site.”
Her smile falters. “Oh. I didn’t—the posts made it sound like?—”
“I know what the posts made it sound like.” I soften my voice. It costs me. “I’m sorry. The north shore is off-limits. There are public beaches. The marina does tours. But please—don’t dig. Don’t trespass. This is someone’s home.”
She nods. The enthusiasm doesn’t come back. Her husband puts a hand on her shoulder and steers her toward the door. The teenagers follow, relieved to be leaving. I watch them go and hate myself a little more with each step they take.
The morning grinds on. I walk the length of Main Street twice, watching the town deteriorate in real time. A drone buzzes the harbor. Tourists argue with Patty Sue about parking. Someone’s dog gets loose outside Old Salt’s and causes a minor panic. The Bilge Rats—Mimi’s gossip circle, self-appointed guardians of island decorum—hold court outside the gift shop, arms crossed, watching the chaos with the grim satisfaction of people whose predictions are coming true.
I’m halfway back to the Tidewater when Jasper Merrick materializes beside me.
I don’t hear him approach. One moment the sidewalk is empty, the next he’s there, his iron-gray hair slicked back,his cold blue eyes fixed on my face like he’s reading fine print. He smells like expensive cologne and something sharper underneath. Whiskey, maybe. It’s not quite nine.
“Ms. Crawford.” His voice is smooth. Controlled. The kind of voice that’s practiced its warmth and settled for something colder. “Walking alone this morning?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Merrick. Thank you.”
“Jasper, please.” He falls into step beside me. His stride is longer than mine. I have to hurry to keep up. “I’ve been hoping to catch you. Malcolm tells me you’ve made quite the discovery. No Name Island. Evangeline’s journal.”
My skin crawls. Malcolm told him. Of course Malcolm told him. They’re brothers. They share everything except, apparently, the truth.
“I’m still verifying sources,” I say. The journalist reflex. Deflect, obfuscate, buy time. “The journal mentions a location. I’m working to confirm it’s the same place.”
“Fascinating.” He doesn’t sound fascinated. He sounds like a man checking items off a list. “And the journal itself. Where did you acquire it?”
“Secondary source. Estate documents.”
“Which estate?”
I stop walking. Turn to face him. Jasper Merrick is taller than I remembered. Broad-shouldered, going thick around the middle, with a face that’s handsome in the way certain knives are—all edge, no give. His wedding ring catches the morning light. He touches it when he sees me looking.
“Mr. Merrick. With respect, my sourcing is confidential. I don’t discuss it with subjects.”
“Subjects.” His mouth curves. Not a smile. Something predatory. “Is that what I am? I rather thought we were collaborators. You’re telling my family’s story, after all. Our history. Our legacy.” He steps closer. Not threatening. Just closeenough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. “I’m merely curious what original material you’ve been given. Documents. Journals. Things that might not be in the family archive.”
The question lands exactly where he meant it to. Gus Pemberton’s hardware store. The journal in my bag. The coordinates on hotel stationery. He’s measuring. Testing the perimeter. Trying to find out how much I know and who told me.
“I work with what’s verifiable,” I say. “That’s the job.”
