I step back inside and close the door. Lock it. Check the lock again.
“There’s nothing here,” I say.
Her face doesn’t change. She was expecting that. “I know.”
“But you saw someone.”
“Yes.”
I believe her. I believe her the way you believe the barometer when it’s falling and the sky’s still blue. The evidence isn’t there, but the thing is coming anyway, and pretending otherwise gets people killed.
I search the room. Under the bed. Behind the curtains. The closet’s empty except for her clothes—neat, organized, the way she does everything. The bathroom door stands open. White tile. Empty shower. A towel folded on the rack.
Nothing.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look at her. She’s standing by the desk, arms crossed, watching me like she’s waiting for the part where I tell her she’s being hysterical.
I don’t.
“Pack your stuff,” I say. “You’re not staying here.”
“I’ve paid for the room.”
“I don’t care.”
“Malcolm will?—”
“Malcolm can go fuck himself.” I stand up. “This is the third time, Scarlett. The drone over the farm. The vandalism at Piper’s. Now someone standing on your balcony in the middle of the night. This isn’t coincidence. This is escalation.”
She doesn’t move. Her jaw sets. I recognize the look—the same one she wore on the boat when I told her we were riding out the storm. Stubborn. Scared. Refusing to admit either.
“I’m not running,” she says.
“Nobody’s asking you to run. I’m asking you to sleep somewhere that isn’t owned by the family that’s been trying to bury the truth for a hundred and thirty years.” I grab her suitcase from the closet and set it on the bed. “Five minutes. Or I pack for you.”
She packs. Not gracefully. She yanks clothes off hangers and folds them with more force than necessary, shoves her laptop into its case, gathers chargers and toiletries from the bathroom. I help. I’m not gentle about it. We work in silence, two people doing a job that doesn’t need discussion.
Her journal sits on the nightstand. Evangeline’s journal. The leather cover’s worn soft from handling. I pick it up. The pages fall open to the entry she must have been reading before she fell asleep—March 24th, 1893. I don’t read it. I don’t need to. I know what’s in it. Scarlett told me on the beach, her face against my chest, the bonfire at our backs. Charles Fairchild. What he did. What Thomas Haven was willing to do about it.
I close the journal and slide it into her backpack.
Five minutes later we’re in the truck. She sits in the passenger seat with her arms crossed, staring out the window at the Tidewater’s lit façade receding behind us. The journal’s inher lap. Her fingers rest on the cover like she’s keeping it from flying away.
I drive. The road to the B&B cuts through the north end of town, past Saltbox Hardware and the Driftwood and the stretch of waterfront where the bonfire burned three nights ago. The ashes are probably still warm. The memory of her in my arms on that beach feels like it happened to somebody else.
“Those treasure hunters,” she says. “Are they really okay?”
“Hypothermia. Mild. They’ll live.” I keep my eyes on the road. “Two guys from Portland who drove up yesterday. Rented a dinghy from Merrick Marine Tours to go out to No Name. NOAA issued the small craft advisory at eleven. They either didn’t check or didn’t care.”
“The Merricks rented them a boat knowing the forecast?”
“They don’t give a shit about forecasts. They give a shit about one-hundred dollars an hour.” I turn onto the gravel drive that leads to the Haven B&B. The tires crunch. The headlights sweep across the front porch, the rocking chairs, and the potted geraniums Shea insists on decorating for each season. Right now, they sport bunny ears for Easter. “Bodhi’s filing a complaint with the harbor master tomorrow. Not that it’ll do any good. Malcolm’s on the board.”
The B&B’s porch light is on. Shea’s waiting at the door before I kill the engine. She’s in sweatpants and a tank top with a worn wool cardigan thrown on over it, hair pulled back, no makeup. She looks like she’s been awake for a while. Knowing Shea, she probably has. The woman runs on four hours of sleep and large quantities of caffeine.
She takes one look at Scarlett’s face and doesn’t ask questions. That’s Shea. She reads a room faster than anybody I know.
“Room three’s open,” she says. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels in the cupboard. Kitchen’s yours if you’re hungry.”She steps aside to let us in. The foyer smells subtly of cedar and warm spices. Nothing like the headache-inducing lavender perfume the Tidewater pumps into their air.
