“No,” I say on an exhale. “He didn’t touch me.”
Dean’s jaw works. His thumbs press into the hollows of my collarbones, and I feel the fine tremor in his hands. “Tell me what he said.”
I look past his shoulder. Jasper has disappeared into the crowd, but I can feel him there. Watching. Waiting.
“He knows about the journal. He wants it back, and threatened me when I refused.” I suck in a fortifying breath before adding, “He’s been in my room, Dean. Going through my things.”
Dean goes very still. “Stay here.” He turns toward the crowd. Toward where Jasper vanished.
Yes, it would be so, so satisfying to watch, but I can’t let him go. I grab his arm. “Dean. No.”
“He doesn’t get to?—“
“Not here.” I dig my fingers into his sleeve. “Not in front of cameras and tourists and half the town. That’s what he wants. He wants you to lose control where everyone can see it.”
Dean stops. His chest rises. Falls. The tremor in his arms runs through my grip and into my bones.
“He threatened you.” He turns to face me. His eyes are more gray than blue, like a storm rolling in over the sound.
“Jasper’s all talk.”I hope.“If you go after him, you’re just proving the Merricks’ claims that the Havens are the villains of this story. Don’t give them that.”
“I’m not a Haven.”
“Dean. Yes, you are.” I lift my hand to his cheek. His ever-present stubble has tipped over into beard territory, and it’s soft under my fingers. He leans into my palm and exhales his anger in a rush.
Behind us, Malcolm’s voice rolls across the square. The crowd applauds. Cameras flash. The treasure hunt is officially launched.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Scarlett
We walk back to the B&B in silence.
The treasure hunters have overrun the town. They’re everywhere. The sidewalks, the doorways, the benches that used to belong to old men with newspapers and teenagers with skateboards. Now they belong to strangers with metal detectors and laminated maps.
I have ruined something precious, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Dean walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush with each step. His jaw hasn’t unclenched since we left the square. His hand found the small of my back after Jasper melted away, and it hasn’t left, his fingers pressing into the wool of my sweater like he’s afraid I might vanish if he lets go.
The road to the B&B curves past Saltbox Hardware, where Gus stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching the foot traffic with the flat gaze of a man who has seen enough to know better. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod.
Half a mile out, the Haven B&B comes into view. White clapboard, green shutters, the porch wrapped around three sides and the potted geraniums with their seasonal decorations. As westart up the drive, we hear raised voices coming from the side yard. Shea’s, pitched higher than I’ve ever heard it, sharp with a fury that doesn’t match the woman who folds towels into perfect squares.
Something’s wrong.
Dean’s hand leaves my back, and his stride lengthens, closing the distance between us and the house in long, ground-devouring steps. I follow. The voices get louder.
“—private property. This is my home. Get off my lawn. Now.” Shea stands in the yard, a garden trowel gripped in one hand like she’s considering more creative uses for it. Her hair has come loose from its ponytail. Dirt streaks her forearms.
Three people in matching windbreakers stand in a flower bed with shovels.
Or what used to be a flower bed.
Fresh holes gouge the soil where tulips were pushing through last week. A metal detector lies abandoned beside a trowel. A shovel leans against the porch rail, its blade caked with wet earth. Someone has dug a trench along the foundation of the house, deep enough to expose the fieldstone footing.
Shea sees us. Her eyes find mine for half a second, and the look in them is worse than anger. It’s betrayal, quick and raw, before she locks it down and turns back to the trespassers.
“You have exactly ten seconds to collect your equipment and leave before I call the police.”
