Dean finds the small of my back. His palm is warm through my sweater, his fingers pressing just enough to sayI’m here.
“Malcolm moved fast,” I say.
“Malcolm’s been planning this for decades.” His jaw works. “You just gave him the audience.”
I wince. He’s not wrong, and that knowledge stings. I shrug off his hand and start down the steps.
“Scarlett, wait. I didn’t mean—” Dean chases me, but Bodhi materializes from the crowd, stopping him from whatever he was about to say.
Bodhi wears his Haven company jacket, the fabric stretched across shoulders that carry too much weight for one man. His eyes find mine, then Dean’s, then the space between us where Dean’s hand still rests against my back. His face goes through a complex range of emotions—anger, annoyance, followed by resignation—in a matter of seconds before he smooths it out.
“We need to talk.” He says it to Dean.
Dean doesn’t move. “Now?”
“Now.”
“I’m with Scarlett.”
“I can see that.” Bodhi’s voice stays level. “This won’t take long. Ten minutes.”
Dean looks at me. The question is in his eyes before he asks it.
“Go,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve navigated worse crowds than this.” I try for the smile. The one that says I’m handling it. It feels thin on my face, but Dean doesn’t call me on it.
He hesitates. “Stay right here by the police station. Don’t move. I mean it, Hollywood. I’ll be ten minutes tops.”
“Dean—”
“Ten minutes.” He steps close, lowers his voice. “Malcolm’s over there by the van. He hasn’t seen you yet. If he approaches, you walk away. Straight to the Driftwood. Patty Sue will let you behind the counter.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“You need someone who gives a shit.” He holds my gaze. “That’s me. Be right back.”
He goes. Bodhi falls into step beside him, already talking, his voice too low to catch. They cut through the crowd toward the marina, two broad-shouldered men moving with the same measured stride, and I am alone at the edge of the square with the weight of Evangeline’s journal in my bag and fifty strangers between me and the nearest exit.
The crowd shifts. A Merrick Tours employee—young, eager, the fleece too big on his frame—presses a map into my hands without looking at my face. TREASURE HUNT OFFICIAL MAP. The paper is slick, expensive, the coordinates printed in a font designed to look handwritten. I fold it and tuck it into my pocket.
From across the square, Piper catches my eye. She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just looks at me with those blue-grayHaven eyes, and I know exactly what she’s thinking:This is what you brought us.
God, what have I done to this town? These good people?
The sound tech tests a microphone. Feedback whines through the square, and the crowd flinches as one. The woman in the blazer steps onto the riser, smoothing her jacket, and the cameraman swings his rig toward her. Lights adjust. Someone from Merrick Marine Tours claps twice, and the crowd’s murmur settles.
Malcolm stands at the base of the riser, talking to Jasper. They’re too far for me to hear, but I don’t need to hear. Malcolm’s posture is camera-ready—shoulders back, chin up, the practiced warmth of a man who has spent decades cultivating his image. Jasper stands with his weight on one hip, a cigar between his fingers, his cold eyes scanning the crowd like a predator searching for his next prey.
Neither of them has seen me yet.
I adjust my bag. The journal feels heavy in it. I’ve read the March entry so many times the words have burned themselves into my memory.
He held me down on my mother’s settee, and he violated me.
The morning sun climbs higher. The fairy lights on the riser look absurd in full daylight. The woman in the blazer leans into the microphone, and her voice carries across the square: “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us this morning for a very special announcement...”
