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“Don’t mock. You’ve been single for years. You should be taking notes.”

I started the car moving again. “I’m pretty sure my romantic prospects aren’t improved by knowing which fork to use.”

“That attitude is why you’re single.” He looked stricken as soon as the words left his mouth. I knew he didn’t mean it, so I let the comment slide, despite the unexpected and completely unintentional hit. Sheesh, talk about friendly fire. I also didn’t point out that Ricky’s own romantic life had been a revolving door of men who were wonderful for approximately three weeks before revealing a collection of faults he should have noticed during the first date. He’d tell me about those faults at length, usually while I was trying to eat, sleep, or meet a deadline. Besides, I had enough trouble managing my own life without inviting his opinions about it. Although, if I was honest, there was one particular reason I’d remained single that Ricky had never entirely let me forget.

His gaze slid toward me. “You know, you could always talk to Josiah tonight.”

I kept my eyes on the road. “I talk to him when I need to.”

“About sheriff business.”

“Usually.”

“Right. And I’m the Queen of England.”

“You’d make a terrible queen. You’d insist on changing the crown to match your shoes.”

“First of all, I would look fabulous. Second, you’re changing the subject.”

“I’m driving.”

“You can talk and drive at the same time. I’ve seen you do it. In fact, you’re doing it now. You’re just avoiding the topic.”

I refused to answer that, turning on the radio instead for what remained of the maybe five-minute drive. Ten, if I counted looking for parking.

The road curved toward the harbor, and the first strings of festival lights appeared between the trees. The music was audible even through the closed windows, and the smell of fried seafood, sweet kettle corn, and woodsmoke drifted through the air when I pulled into the festival area.

We got lucky finding a parking space, Mr. and Mrs. Wiseman waved at us from the on-street parking across from the diner to let us know they were getting in their car to leave. I waited patiently for them to pull out, then slid into their spot, ignoring the impatient driver behind me and the one coming the other way who tried unsuccessfully to steal my spot despite being on the wrong side of the road.

By the time we reached the festival grounds, the evening had settled into that lovely early-autumn balance where the air was cool enough to make a warm drink appealing but not cold enough to drive everyone indoors. The sky over the harbor had deepened to blue, with the last pale strip of sunset lingering above the water. The annual Waterman’s Harbor Fest and Fair had been busy all weekend, but Sunday evening had its own atmosphere. Families who’d spent the afternoon at home had returned for the final hours, and people who’d been working the festival since Friday were making the most of the last stretch before they could finally pack everything away.

We joined the stream of people heading toward the proper waterfront area of the festival. The harbor and the shops in the adjacent cannery shopping center had been transformed into a bright, noisy little village. Strings of lights looped between the vendor tents, and the older brick buildings glowed beneath their decorative bulbs. A volunteer in a blue festival shirt was directing late arrivals toward the information tent, while a pair of children raced past us with paper boats they’d decorated during the afternoon activities.

Predictably, Ricky began eating again as we wandered through the throng. He was already scanning the crowd for familiar faces. He knew half the town, and the other half knew him, which meant we made it approximately thirty feet before he stopped to compliment someone’s jacket and ask another person whether they’d heard the results of the preserved-goods contest.

“You go on,” I told him. “I’ll find something to drink.”

“Don’t wander off. I need you to witness my reunion with the crab-cake people.”

“You saw them an hour ago.”

“Exactly. We have history.”

He disappeared into the crowd before I could reply.

I headed toward a drink stand near the edge of the main path. The air smelled of cinnamon and hot cider, and the paper cup warmed my hands as I carried it away. I took a slow sip, letting the sweetness settle on my tongue while I watched the last of the festival preparations unfold. The musicians were checking their equipment, the sound technician moved between the speakers, and a volunteer hurried past with a coil of cable over one shoulder.

For a few minutes, I could almost forget why the weekend had felt different from an ordinary festival. Almost.

Then I saw Harvey Sinclair.

He stood near the side of the bandstand, talking to a man I recognized as one of the festival’s committee members. Harvey looked as polished as ever in a dark jacket and neatly pressed trousers, but there was something strained about his expression. Even from a distance, he seemed less like the confident bank manager I’d seen around town for years and more like someone trying very hard to keep his temper under control. The committee member said something that made Harvey shake his head. He glanced toward the crowd, his gaze moving quickly over the people nearest him, and for a moment I wondered whether he was looking for someone. If he was, he didn’t seem to find them. A second later, he turned away and walked toward the far side of the stage.

I watched him go, remembering Friday afternoon at Dixie’s. I’d been standing close enough to hear the sharp edges in his conversation with Owen Price, the way Owen had insisted that he might need a new banker if their arrangement couldn’t be made to work. Harvey had answered with that unsettling comment about whether Owen’s business could afford to remain independent.

Then there had been the text.

You should have left it buried twenty years ago.