Page 61 of Knox

“That sounds wonderful.” Sloane’s voice was wistful. “I wish I’d known her longer. She was my first friend in Carolina Bay. She was kind and encouraging. Like the mother my mother absolutely refuses to be.” She stopped, swallowing hard.

I squeezed her hand. “She must’ve loved you. Your passion for conservation, your business sense. And she would’ve appreciated how you stood up to your parents about the land trust property.”

“She knew. I just wish I hadn’t failed.”

“You didn’t fail. You tried. That’s what mattered to her. People who gave a damn and actually did something about it.”

“She told me once that I reminded her of you.” Sloane’s smile returned and she rolled her eyes. “She thought we had the same stubborn streak and need to fix things. I took it as the highest compliment, because there was no doubt she adored her baby boy.”

I had to look away, blinking against the sudden burn in my eyes.

We reached our destination just before ten, the city rising around us in glass and steel and bustling humanity. So different from the wild, windswept beauty of the island. I followed the GPS north to a quiet neighborhood, where modest brick homes sat on tree-lined streets.

Mrs. Lake’s house was painted a cheerful yellow, with flower boxes in the windows and a front porch swing. A small garden flourished in the yard. Signs of life continuing despite unimaginable loss.

“You ready for this?” I asked, killing the engine.

Sloane nodded, though her face had gone pale. “Let’s do it.”

We climbed out of the Jeep, and I automatically took her hand as we walked up the front path. Playing the part, I told myself. Maintaining the cover. Not because I needed the contact, or the reminder that she was here, safe and mine to protect.

Mrs. Lake answered on the first knock. She was small, maybe five-foot-two, with dark hair shot through with gray and eyes that held a world of grief. She looked at us with cautious hope, the expression of someone who’d learned not to expect good news but couldn’t quite kill the possibility.

“Mrs. Lake? I’m Knox Hawthorne. We spoke on the phone. This is my girlfriend, Sloane Mercer.”

The word girlfriend felt strange and far too natural on my tongue.

“Come in, please.” Mrs. Lake stepped back, ushering us into a living room that was tidy but lived-in. Photos covered every surface. Sarah as a baby, a teenager, a young woman in a graduation gown. Frozen moments of a life interrupted. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?”

“We’re fine, thank you.” Sloane’s voice was gentle, respectful. “We appreciate you taking the time to meet with us.”

We settled on the couch, and Mrs. Lake took the chair across from us, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “You said on the phone that your mother may have been investigating Sarah’s disappearance. Claire Hawthorne from Island Adventures?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I pulled out my phone, showing her photos of my mother’s notebooks and the newspaper clippings. “I found these after she died. She’d been tracking all three disappearances, making notes, trying to find the women, I believe.”

Mrs. Lake leaned forward, studying the photos. “I met Claire. Sarah rented kayaking equipment from her shop. She was kind and so helpful. When Sarah went missing, she called me. Offered to organize search parties, help however she could.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t know she was still looking.”

“She never stopped.” My voice was rough. “And I’d like to finish what she started. We think there may be a connection between the three victims, something about their visits to the area that made them targets.”

She nodded, heartbreak etched in her features.

“Sloane was almost taken herself,” I added quietly. “She got away, but we’re afraid this person is still hunting.”

Mrs. Lake’s face crumpled. She reached for Sloane with trembling hands, pulling her into a fierce embrace. “Oh God. Oh God, you poor thing.”

Sloane stiffened in surprise, then melted into the hug.

“When?” Mrs. Lake pulled back, searching Sloane’s face. “When did this happen?”

“A few days ago. At a party. He grabbed me from behind⁠—”

“But you got away.” Mrs. Lake’s hands framed Sloane’s face, and I saw her seeing her own daughter in this young woman. The daughter who hadn’t gotten away. “You fought back. You survived.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tears streamed down Mrs. Lake’s cheeks. “Sarah would have fought too. She was strong. She took self-defense classes. She was prepared.” Her voice broke. “But it didn’t matter, did it?”

The room went heavy with grief.