Page 3 of Knox

Instead, I stood watching the dust motes dance in the morning sunlight like silver confetti—a small, silly thing that had delighted her. Around me, the familiar floor-to-ceiling windows, worn hardwood floors and collection of her driftwood sculptures felt alien and unknown.

The house itself was pure coastal Carolinas. Vaulted ceilings with exposed beams. Whitewashed walls with vintage nautical charts. Furniture upholstered in faded blues and sandy neutrals that had seen better days but somehow still felt like home. This was my childhood. This was my mother.

And she was gone.

And everything felt surreal.

I’d moved mountains to get home to her when I’d learned about her heart attack, but the military worked slowly, and I’d been a world away.

I walked to the wall of windows overlooking the weathered rear deck, beach and sea. Sea oats swayed in the salt breeze, their golden heads bending toward the dunes. Beyond them, the Atlantic stretched, a deep gray-blue beneath gathering clouds. Waves rolled in the steady, endless rhythm that had been the soundtrack of my life before the military. A few intrepid surfers dotted the water, dark shapes in the autumn chill, silhouettes against the foam.

Mom should be here. Standing beside me, pointing out a pod of dolphins or laughing about the tourists who got their overpriced four-wheel drives stuck in the soft sand.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, feeling the rasp of stubble against my palm. I’d let myself go a bit since the funeral. My normally cropped brown hair had grown out enough to curl at the edges, and the tan I’d earned during my last deployment was already fading despite being back in North Carolina for two weeks. At least the physical training habits stuck. Twelve years in the Marines had carved those habits into my body, making it efficient and hard, even if my mind felt like it was moving through quicksand.

Behind me, the television murmured in the corner, tuned to the local news out of habit more than interest. I passed by it on my way to the kitchen for more coffee.

“—authorities are asking anyone with information about twenty-six-year-old Jessica Hammond to come forward. Hammond was last seen three weeks ago at a trailhead in the national park, making her the third female hiker to vanish in the area in the past two years⁠—”

My hand stilled on the fridge. I turned to watch the screen, where a photo of a smiling blonde woman appeared beside a grim-faced reporter standing near a wooded trail. The image shifted to show search teams combing through the maritime forest, and my jaw tightened. Three women. Two years. That couldn’t be a coincidence, but serial crimes and the islands didn’t make any sense together.

The sound of tires on gravel pulled my attention away from the television. I crossed to the kitchen window in time to see a familiar red pickup truck pull into the driveway. My chest loosened slightly at the sight. Maggie.

The front door swung open without a knock, and she bounded inside. A lifetime of friendship meant she never bothered with formalities.

“Just popping by to check in on you on my way to work and deliver some of my mama’s crabcakes.” She stopped short, taking in the empty boxes and my face. “Knox Hawthorne. You look a mess.”

I managed a half-smile as I clicked off the television. “Didn’t realize I needed a wellness check.”

“Good thing I came.” Maggie wore jeans and a T-shirt with the words Sullivan’s Seafood scripted across the chest. She crossed the room and deposited a foil-covered pan onto the table before pulling me into a hug. She was small, at least a foot shorter than my six-foot-three frame, but she hugged like a giant. Probably trying to hold me together through sheer force of will. Her honey-blonde hair smelled like the kitchen at her family’s restaurant, all warm bread and herbs.

When she finally released me, her brown eyes were suspiciously bright. “Well, thank God you showered, because I didn’t think to worry about that before I hugged you.”

I laughed as she glanced around the room, taking in my half-hearted attempts at organizing.

“You know, you don’t have to sell this place. You could stay.”

“Mags—”

“I’m serious.” She moved to the window, looking out at the view my mom had loved. “Claire would’ve wanted you here. She always said this house was meant to be full of noise and laughter and sandy footprints. She was waiting for you to come home.”

Maggie was right, and the guilt twisted in my gut like a knife. “That was the plan. I finished my time with the Corps, and I had my terminal leave approved. I was going to surprise her. Maybe help with her business. She mentioned wanting to expand, and I know how much the place meant to her.” I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter now. Without her, I might as well go back to what I know I’m good at. Holding the line. Protecting folks who can’t protect themselves.”

Maggie turned to face me, her expression shifting from sympathy to something more determined. “Then stay for her. Run the business. Carry it into a new generation. She’d have liked that.”

I considered her words, willing the suggestion to be possible, but not quite sure how. “I don’t know if I can do it without her. I can’t run a business alone, and I have no experience. I’m not even sure I belong here anymore. That much time away changes a person.” All those years in the military had made me a very different man.

“Life is change. This place is different too.” Maggie leaned against the windowsill, crossing her arms. “You wouldn’t believe how much. Remember that land trust property along the sound, all those protected acres where we used to catch blue crabs?”

I nodded. “Yeah, of course. Why?”

“It got parceled and auctioned off two years ago. Some legal loophole the trust couldn’t fight. Now it’s all massive beach houses, people with more money than sense who only show up a few months a year and treat this town like their personal playground. Mercers, Whites, Hagers, Flynns—” Her voice held an edge of bitterness I wasn’t used to hearing from her. “Gets pretty rowdy during peak season now. Different kind of trouble than we’re used to.”

“Rowdy how?” I raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “This is Carolina Bay we’re talking about. Our idea of rowdy is a keg and a bonfire on the beach.”

“Times change.” Maggie’s expression turned serious. “My brother’s looking to hire. The sheriff’s department, I mean. Nash has been sheriff for three years now, and he could use someone with your training.”

“Your brother wants to hire me?” I couldn’t keep the skepticism out of my voice. “I’m not exactly known as a rule follower. Which means I’m far from deputy material.”