SHADOW’S DOOM

SHADOW ISLAND SERIES: BOOK SEVENTEEN

MARY STONE

LORI RHODES

Copyright © 2024 by Mary Stone Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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For those who have lost a loved one to the cruel grip of fentanyl. Your pain is immeasurable, your strength unimaginable. May the day soon come when this deadly drug's hold on our world is forever broken.

DESCRIPTION

Ice cream, you scream

Welcome to my murder scene.

Sheriff Rebecca West and her team may have ended the Yacht Club’s debauched reign, but things on Shadow Island haven’t calmed down. In fact, it's taken on a more terrifying form. Sensationalist headlines accuse Rebecca of everything from conspiracy to corruption, but the real danger isn’t in the ink and whispers. Something worse has washed onto the shores of Shadow Island.

And it can kill in a single bite.

A local man has fatally overdosed on fentanyl at the ice cream parlor after polishing off a salted caramel cone. No history of drug use, no needles, no signs of addiction—only a body filled with poison. Rebecca suspects something far worse than a tragic accident. But how does fentanyl find its way into a dessert?

When a father and his two children are poisoned by fentanyl after eating at a local diner, Rebecca comes to a startling realization. A sadistic killer is playing a dangerous game of chance, turning routine moments into fatal traps. The island is no longer just haunted by its past—it’s under siege by a faceless killer, lurking in every bite, every sip, every breath.

Instead of a bullet, he’s randomly placing poison around town in a deadly game of Russian roulette. No one is safe. And any unsuspecting citizen could be next.

Shadow’s Doom, the horrifying seventeenth installment of the Shadow Island Series by Mary Stone and Lori Rhodes, is proof that the power to kill is the most addictive—and deadly—drug of all.

1

The crash of the front door reverberated down the street like a gunshot as Hunter McCay retreated from the battlefield of his once-peaceful home. Late November air bit his heated cheeks as he stormed down the porch steps. His breath burst out in angry puffs that lingered before fading into the midmorning air.

Even the freaking weather was extra frosty for this time of year. Figured. His own home hadn’t been much warmer.

“Can’t even survive one damn holiday without drama,” he muttered, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets as he approached his aging Ford. Hunter didn’t look at the house, knowing Melinda was probably watching him through the window as he climbed behind the wheel.

At the turn of the key, the vehicle groaned and sputtered to life. Much like Hunter, the truck was weary from years of use and abuse but still mostly functional.

As he navigated through the familiar streets of his small town, a carousel of unwelcome memories spun in his mind. Thanksgiving, a time for gratitude, had soured under the weight of his in-laws’ visit.

Even now. Turkey Day had been four freaking days ago.

Hunter reckoned his mother-in-law deserved most of the blame. Tracking him incessantly with her hawklike gaze, Tamora sought every opportunity to remind him of his past failures. She kept him pinned under a microscope in his own damn home.

Drunk. Loser. Can’t hold down a job. Always broke.

Her labels clung to him like the stale scent of liquor on a bar floor. He winced, recalling how her eyes judged him over her wine glass, which seemed never to be empty despite her own lectures about sobriety. Her taunting offers for him to “just have one” echoed in his ears.

And his wife hadn’t offered a single word in his defense. Melinda had expected him to sit there and take it. “You know how Mama is.” That was all she’d said last night as they got into bed.

But Melinda would never tell her mother to behave, even though she had demanded Hunter grow and change. And he’d done so. For them. So they could have a better life together.

“Over two years sober.” He spoke the words as a mantra to shield against the sting of hypocrisy. “Seven hundred forty-one days.” In his pocket rested two one-year coins, reminding him how far he’d come.

Not that it mattered to the she-beast Melinda called a mother.

Though Tamora was a guest in his home, she acted like Hunter was the unwelcome one there. But like a good husband, he’d sat and smiled through the gibes. Not wanting any drama or fights, he’d just laughed them off.

But there were moments, like this morning, when his tongue betrayed him with a sharp retort, unleashing the pent-up resentment simmering just beneath the surface. Melinda, usually the peacemaker, had taken Tamora’s side, and their spat had erupted into a full-blown quarrel.

“Everything was fine until I opened my big mouth.” Hunter shook his head as he made a sharp right turn. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called her Lucifer when Melinda said Tamora was an angel, but dammit, the joke was right there.”

The craving, like an old enemy, crept up on him. It was subtle at first but grew more insistent. A drink would numb the edges of this reality, but he couldn’t surrender to the temptation. Not now. Not after all he’d worked for.

He shivered, not just from the cold but from the nagging desire for something to fill the void. Not the case full of weak wine his in-laws had brought with them either. Something heavier. Hoppier. And refreshing. He licked his lips. A beer would be so good right now. Maybe with a shot of Irish whiskey dropped in…

Hunter tightened his grip on the steering wheel, reminding himself he was the one in control of his actions.

Ice cream.

Such a substitute was childish, perhaps, but one that held no judgment or expectations. It was just cold and creamy and soothing. And more importantly, nonalcoholic.

And so he found himself pulling into the parking lot of I Scream You Scream, the local ice cream parlor that promised a momentary escape with its sweet concoctions.

A bell above the door jingled as he entered, announcing his presence to the empty shop. Though his mind was still a storm of regret and hurt, he found himself comforted by the familiar smell of fresh-baked waffle cones.

“Morning, sir.” The kid behind the counter was a young man with a warm smile that reached his eyes. “Cold day for ice cream, ain’t it?”

Hunter forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Yeah, well, figured I’d treat myself to something sweet. Been one of those weeks.”

“Say no more. I know just what you mean.” The kid smiled as if he did know, but this innocent pup had no clue the kind of pain a mother-in-law could bring. “What’ll it be?”

Hunter glanced at the kid’s name tag. “Sea salt caramel, please, Paulo. In a waffle cone.” He made the choice without hesitation. It was a flavor entwined with memories of innocence and joy for him.

As a child, Hunter had been a clumsy boy, always skinning his knee or scraping an elbow. Against his father’s complaints that desserts were making him “soft,” his mother would take him to the ice cream shop and treat him to a waffle cone to make him feel better. The special times he’d spent with her took on a magical quality compared to the forced familial exposure to his mother-in-law.

“Coming right up.” With smooth, practiced movements, Paulo slid on a pair of disposable gloves before opening the freezer case.

Hunter watched, a temporary voyeur to his own life, as the kid used two paddles to cut the ice cream free from the bucket and flip it onto a slab of cold marble. Though the ice cream here was delicious, what kept him coming back was watching the preparation.

The kid flipped the two metal paddles face down, using them to chop apart the pale-brown-and-white ice cream. He added chunks of caramel to the mix and stirred until everything was well combined. Finally, he rolled the ice cream into balls and scooped them into a paper-wrapped waffle cone.

“Regular or extra caramel today?” Wisely, Paulo was already reaching for the generous bottle of thick amber sauce.

“Extra.” A smile tugged at Hunter’s lips despite the morning’s upheaval. “Gotta drown the sorrows somehow, right?”

“Ah, the healing power of sugar.” Paulo doused the creamy swirls in a warm cascade of caramel before finishing with a flourish of sea salt flakes. The crystalline grains twinkled like tiny stars atop the velvety dessert. “Here you go.” He handed over the masterpiece. “Enjoy, my friend.”

“Thanks.” Hunter passed over his card, paid, and found a booth. The seat backs were no taller than the table, so he didn’t feel confined in the quiet corner. Positioning himself so he could stare out the front door, he watched as the gray clouds of late fall slipped silently overhead.

With no other customers in the shop, Paulo disappeared into the back of the store, leaving Hunter with only piped-in Muzak for company.

Like many of the stores on the island, the ice cream parlor’s soundtrack had shifted to playing Christmas carols. They were like a harbinger of his monster-in-law’s return in less than a month. But for right now, Hunter could sit and relax.

With each lick, the sweet familiarity of childhood washed over Hunter, bringing forth memories untainted by judgment or failure. Ice cream melted on his tongue, the perfect balance of salt and sugar speaking of simpler times.

Hunter closed his eyes, savoring the moment, his thoughts a whirlpool of nostalgia and longing. As a child, he’d cherished the extra time and undivided attention he’d gotten to have with his mom on ice cream trips. Seated now at the same little café table where she’d listened to stories of his misadventures and cooed over his latest injury, he gobbled down his cone, intent on not leaving a single crumb behind. His argument with Melinda and Tamora faded to a distant echo, overshadowed by the rush spreading through him.

“Damn, this is good.” A contented sigh escaped his lips. Maybe this is all I needed. The weight of adulthood seemed to lift with each indulgent mouthful.

As he continued to eat, Hunter’s euphoria swelled, surpassing any ordinary satisfaction food could provide. It coursed through his veins like a heady drug, potent and sweetly intoxicating. He couldn’t get enough, and he went from licking the ice cream to taking increasingly bigger bites.

A resulting cold headache didn’t matter. He wanted more. Needed more.

But a twinge of concern pierced the haze of bliss. It’s…it’s too much.

He took a deep breath, attempting to ground himself and slow down. Yet the pleasant sensation only grew, enveloping him in an embrace that promised escape from all his burdens. Before he knew it, he was licking the last crumbs of the waffle cone from his fingers. Just like he’d done as a child.

Hunter realized his heart had slowed dramatically, the beats echoing in his ears like a drum in the void. The warm and fuzzy tendrils of joy that had initially cocooned him began tightening, constricting, morphing into a burgeoning panic that overshadowed the sweetness of the caramel.

“Hey…” He choked as he tried to speak. His throat compressed, cutting his words out of existence before they could form.

When Hunter raised his hand, a feeble attempt to signal for help, his arm betrayed him, its movements sluggish, uncoordinated. At some point, Paulo had returned and busied himself with tasks behind the counter. But he remained oblivious to Hunter’s desperation to get his attention.

Come on, come on, Hunter urged himself, fighting against the invisible force pressing down upon him. Just open your mouth. Make a noise.

“Please…I…” His voice cracked, the sound dissipating into the air, unheard. The cashier continued wiping away imaginary streaks on the glass case housing tubs of vibrant ice cream.

A laugh bubbled up from within Hunter, incongruous and chilling. It wasn’t a reaction he expected at the edge of oblivion, but only a single, hollow chuckle at the absurdity escaped him. Here he was, having a medical emergency in an ice cream parlor, the taste of nostalgia turning bitter on his tongue. All to keep himself out of a bar. To prove his mother-in-law wrong. To make his wife proud.

His vision blurred, the edges of the world softening and darkening. Melinda. A surge of regret cascaded over him. I should’ve been better. For you.

Around him, the parlor receded, replaced by a montage of memories—his wedding day, the first sober anniversary, the fights, the making up. Each image flickered faster than the last, a life reduced to snapshots.

“Help…me…” This time, a mere breath escaped his lips, his plea lost under the din of holiday music.

2

Fentanyl.

Sheriff Rebecca West ground her teeth together at the very idea of such a vicious and deadly drug finding its way into her jurisdiction.

But when Elliot Ping, their dispatcher, had called her at home to tell her of a possible fentanyl overdose at a local establishment, Rebecca hadn’t been too surprised that the national epidemic had reached her shores.

“He died from ingesting fentanyl. They think the fentanyl was in the ice cream.”

This island had a history of drug problems, but most of that traced back to the Yacht Club, aka the Aqua Mafia among locals. Until recently, the group of rich psychopaths had treated the coastal waters around Shadow Island like their own private playground, hiding their activities in the dark of night on yachts larger than most people’s houses.

Rebecca and her team of deputies had put an end to the Yacht Club. She’d also arrested several of their associates and accomplices along the way. The cleanup should have made the small town of Shadow Island safer, but so far, things hadn’t calmed down.

In some ways, they’d gotten worse, because of media attention following the downfall of the elite criminals.

As she raced her SUV down the road, Rebecca replayed her earlier phone call with Meg Darby, chair of the Select Board, retired police dispatcher, mother of Rebecca’s youngest deputy, and, most importantly, Rebecca’s friend.

It hadn’t been a good conversation. Meg had called to warn her about the recent slew of news articles slandering her. “Rebecca…you know how this place works,” Meg had warned, her voice a cocktail of concern and irritation. “People love to gossip, and right now, you’re prime pickings.”

Meg was usually right, but the faithlessness, however small or unfounded, still gnawed at Rebecca. Who believed the lies, and who still trusted her?

For more than a year, she’d struggled to relearn how to trust people. And just when she’d begun to make progress, her ex-boyfriend had betrayed her. Not by cheating on her or anything normal like that.

No. As part of a criminal conspiracy, Ryker Sawyer had only dated her to gather intel on her and the cases she pursued. And he had actively conspired with the people trying to murder her.

After that, her trust issues had cratered. She’d rented a cottage on the island so she could work on putting her past in her rearview mirror. Senator Morley, the FBI, her parents’ deaths, and Calvin Steel, the boyfriend who’d abandoned her as she went through the hardest point in her life. Each of them had their own role in the stranglehold on her as she tried to move forward.

Rebecca maneuvered the SUV through the narrow streets of the island, the engine a low purr against the quaint backdrop of seaside cottages and charming shops. She noted the way heads turned as she passed—furtive glances that flicked away just as quickly, like candle flames snuffed out in a sudden draft.

These sly sideways glances followed by frowns and troubled faces were new. A marked departure from the cheery smiles and waves she’d gotten after assuming the role of interim sheriff following the on-the-job death of Sheriff Alden Wallace, her predecessor. The shift left Rebecca feeling more like a monkey on exhibit.

She’d sworn an oath to serve and protect this community, and she’d put her life on the line to uphold that oath. After everything—the late nights, the close calls, the hospital visits, getting shot, rope burned, and almost blown up, and watching her deputies lay down their lives—anyone questioning her integrity ground salt into those still-raw wounds.

Not even a month had passed since she’d won the election by a landslide, for god’s sake. But doubts were like weeds, creeping into the garden no matter how many times you pulled them out.

Rebecca had never craved the spotlight. The thought of her name gaining notoriety, whether as a beacon of justice or the subject of a scandal, left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wanted to believe most people on the island saw her as their diligent protector first and anything else a distant second.

“Damn tabloids.” She engaged her turn signal as she waited for the light to change. “Couldn’t get their stories about the murder victims at the cemetery, so now they’re coming after me.”

She knew that. Of course she knew that. But resentment for the media circus still tightened her hands on the steering wheel.

In the quiet moments between taking statements, securing areas, chasing leads, and cuffing criminals, Rebecca’s heart ached for a confidant. Viviane was her friend, but she was also one of her deputies. Technically one of her employees. Which meant Rebecca couldn’t really talk to Viviane’s mother, Meg, either.

What she needed was not a deputy, not a peer in uniform, but someone who could see Rebecca West, the woman, rather than Sheriff West, the community leader. Someone like Ryker, whose memory still clung to her like the briny air of the island, whose treachery had cut deeper than any headline ever could.

Dammit.

The scar Ryker had left on her heart hadn’t fully healed—would it ever?—and she hated herself for feeling such emptiness without him. The man who’d betrayed her trust. She needed to not think of him every time she felt lonely or sad.

She still remembered him as that sweet, gangly boy she’d played with on vacation. The one who silently endured torture and abuse from his parents, who molded him into the kind of monster capable of the things he’d done to her.

Rebecca pulled into the lot of I Scream You Scream, the pastel facade of the parlor a jarring contrast to the gravity of her visit. Whimsical blues and pinks that usually evoked the joy of summertime treats now clashed with the flashing red-and-blue lights of a cruiser and ambulance parked in front of the doors.

After parking at an angle, Rebecca stepped out, adjusting the fit of her duty belt, the weight of her service weapon a familiar presence at her hip. The parlor’s glass front door stood propped open, a bell just inside the frame tinkling a forlorn tune in the sea breeze.

Inside, a pair of medics knelt on the floor of the parlor. A tanned young man with dark hair stood near them, pressing his hands hard against his mouth and chin, as if trying to quiet himself.

Rebecca had seen that expression too many times in recent months. Shock and pain, the violent loss of innocence as someone beheld a dead body. At least this time the victim wasn’t a young woman killed by her own high school classmates, the disturbing case she had closed only a few days earlier. Though, as she recalled from the case notes, this poor young man was one of the last people to see that girl alive too.

Talk about a streak of bad luck. Rebecca let out a measured breath, pulling her shoulders back in a posture befitting the island’s sheriff.

Now wasn’t the time to dissect her loneliness. She had a community to serve, a reputation to maintain, and a truth to uncover. Rebecca lifted her chin and prepared herself to confront her newest case head-on.

3

Rebecca looked around the ice cream parlor, searching for a familiar face. According to Elliot, the original call was about an unknown medical condition, so he’d summoned Viviane Darby, Rebecca’s rookie deputy scheduled to run patrols today.

She found Viviane herself sitting at one of the parlor tables, catching her breath, presumably from performing CPR.

“The clerk who called it in is over there.” Viviane indicated the shaken young man. “His name is Paulo Silva.”

Paulo’s face was ashen, a stark contrast to his warm, olive complexion. His dark eyes were wide and glazed, no doubt haunted by an image he wished he could unsee.

On hearing his name, Paulo extended a trembling finger, directing Rebecca’s attention to the two medics kneeling alongside a crumpled figure on the floor. Unlike with a victim they hoped to save, these medics were unhurried, beginning to pack up their medical kits.

“Thanks.” Rebecca stepped around the young clerk. The poor guy was probably in shock. It wouldn’t do her any good to talk to him now, but she could ensure he didn’t add to the bedlam. She ushered him to a booth and urged him to sit with his back to the victim.

When she returned, Viviane’s russet-brown eyes were serious, her mouth set in a grim line. “Medics were talking about a possibility the cause of death was opioid overdose.”

Rebecca frowned. That wasn’t what her dispatcher had said at all. “Elliot told me there was fentanyl in the ice cream.” Her frown deepened as the rest of what Viviane said hit her. “What do you mean by ‘possibility?’”

“That’s my fault.” Viviane sighed, looking like a guilty child. “I heard them talking while they worked on the victim. When the word ‘fentanyl’ came up, I jumped to conclusions too fast. I called Elliot and told him everything the medics were saying, and…” She covered her face with her hands.

Rebecca stared at her deputy, glad Elliot had called her phone instead of spewing these more grisly details over the airwaves when he alerted EMS to the scene. But now wasn’t the time to chastise Viviane. After Viviane’s first colossal mistake and the ass-chewing she’d received both from Rebecca and Senior Deputy Hoyt Frost, the deputy had to be chastising herself quite enough.

In her years as a dispatcher, Viviane had been shielded from the worst parts of enforcing the law. That layer of protection was gone now that she’d moved into the job of deputy. And the look in her eyes often reflected that loss.

Rebecca gripped Viviane’s shoulder. “You know you messed up.”

She’d made a mistake. Jumped on one piece of evidence—in this case, a word from a medic’s mouth—and ran with it as if it were true. Rebecca reminded them all, including herself, time and again that they couldn’t get tunnel vision. They had to weigh each piece of evidence the same.

There was something different about losing a victim to violence as opposed to a health emergency while you desperately tried to keep them alive. And from the sweat shining on Viviane’s dark brow, Rebecca was certain she’d done her best to keep this victim’s heart beating until EMS arrived.

Viviane nodded, removing her hands from her face and straightening her shoulders. “I take full responsibility, Sheriff West.”

“I know you did your best.” Rebecca had to say that, in case Viviane also meant she took responsibility for failing to save the victim. But she meant it both ways. Feeling the full weight of the morning—her video call with her therapist, Meg’s warning, another victim, and now this, her deputy’s mistake and her friend’s formal distance—landing on her head, she gave Viviane’s shoulder a solid pat. “But be more careful next time.”

With that, she stepped away toward the medics, leaving Viviane taking a deep, shaky breath.

On the black and white floor tiles, the victim lay supine, his light skin an unnatural shade of pale blue. A frothy substance had escaped the corner of his mouth, crusting against an intubation tube still inserted down his throat. Rebecca noted his limpness, the way his hands fell unnaturally at his sides, fingernails tinged with the same blue that marred his pallor.

“Tell me what happened here.” As she turned to the medics, surprise jolted through Rebecca. Not only that she didn’t know the pair on sight, but that she’d expected to.

I’ve lived on this island long enough to start feeling like a local.

If only the locals would ever treat her like one.

“We arrived to find your deputy performing CPR.” Going by his name badge, the paramedic was Steve Abramek. Sweat beaded his bristly red hair and even dotted his short beard. He looked back and forth between the body and Rebecca. “When asked, Deputy Darby reported she’d been administering CPR for twelve minutes.”

Poor Viviane. In circumstances that late, twelve minutes felt like a lifetime.

“Deputy Darby mentioned something about fentanyl?”

Abramek armed sweat from his forehead, avoiding the nitrile gloves he still wore. “Yes, ma’am. I recently transferred from an area with a high number of opioid incidents and was seeing two or three fentanyl overdoses per shift. The second I saw his constricted pupils and low rate of respiration, I suspected opioids right away.”

At his side, the EMT, one Donna Bianchi, blew out a long breath. “Good thing Steve did, because I thought we were looking at a heart attack or stroke when we arrived.”

Abramek nudged Bianchi with his elbow. “Under pressure, it’s hard to tell the difference if you don’t know what to look for.” He turned his attention back to Rebecca. “Anyway, Donna began administering Narcan while I established an airway and started an IV. We dumped a shitload into his system, but…” He shook his head.

“Didn’t even gasp for air.” Donna gazed down at the body, her wide mouth pursed with regret. “Not once.”

“What happened next?” Rebecca withdrew a notepad, the motion fluid with frequent practice these days.

“After twenty-six minutes of no response, I called medical control and explained the situation. Physician told us to cease all measures.” Abramek pressed his lips into a line. “We could have locked and loaded to the hospital, but he was gone.”

Bianchi gestured to Viviane. “Your deputy was a big help, covering us while we worked.” She looked back at the body, blinking rapidly. No doubt they’d hoped for a different outcome than what lay before them.

Viviane nodded her thanks for the compliment. “Bailey Flynn is en route.” She checked her watch, as if she could speed up the medical examiner’s arrival through sheer force of will. “Sorry, Boss. I haven’t done anything else. These guys are the ones who called for Bailey after the physician told them to call it.”

“That’s fine. Saving lives is our first priority. Everything else has to come second.” Rebecca knelt beside the body, the cool tile sending a chill through her uniform pants. Opiate use and fatal overdoses had infiltrated all tiers and walks of life. And now there was a possibility that epidemic had made it to Shadow Island.

Under different circumstances, Rebecca would have expected to find needles, spoons, something that screamed overdose in the most textbook sense. But here, there was nothing. Just a man who looked as though he’d drifted off after savoring his last scoop of ice cream. There wasn’t even a crumb of the waffle left in his paper holder on the table. That meant he’d eaten everything he ordered.

“And there was nothing on him to indicate drug use?” Rebecca shifted her weight toward Viviane, offering her support and understanding without words.

“I checked his pockets when we got here to look for whatever he’d taken. Or an EpiPen that might tell us he had an allergy. There was no paraphernalia.” Lines of fatigue were etched into Bianchi’s forehead. “He doesn’t look like a junkie to me. There aren’t any obvious marks on him I can see. The lack of drug-related items on or near his body makes me wonder…” She glanced at the paramedic, then at the ice cream counter.

Abramek met Rebecca’s gaze full-on. “The clerk stated that our patient here seemed perfectly fine when he ordered his ice cream. Minutes later, he’s dead from what I suspect is an opioid overdose. And if I had to put money on it, I’d call it fentanyl. Just saw too much of it in the field, you know?”

Yeah, Rebecca did know. Experience was sometimes as good as, if not better than, any lab test.

She studied the victim’s bare arms. His sleeves were pushed up, presumably by the medics as they’d searched for a cause for his condition. His skin was free of the stereotypical needle marks that showed on so many opiate users. Maybe he’d popped pills?

That was another thing about fentanyl. It could be injected, snorted, smoked, or made into tablets.

Could he have been high before entering the parlor? Ordering ice cream would have likely proved too much for him to handle, unless he was a longtime user who’d built up a high tolerance. If this was fentanyl, like the paramedic surmised, he’d likely have consumed the drug after arriving at the parlor.

But how?

Rebecca needed answers only the victim could give.

The bell above the door jingled faintly as Dr. Bailey Flynn stepped inside, her pale face a mask of professional resolve. Rebecca’s gaze settled on the thick wad of black plastic tucked into the straps of her kit.

A body bag.

She gave Rebecca a short nod and a shooing motion, kneeling to get to work as Rebecca and Viviane moved out of her way.

Bailey started questioning the medics as she checked the man’s nonexistent vitals. Although the first responders had already declared the time of death through medical control, Bailey had jurisdiction over this. Her questions were all part of her thoroughness at the beginning of an investigation.

Taking the interruption as a dismissal, Rebecca turned to their witness, the man who’d called in the medical emergency.

“Paulo.” She approached the booth, where the young cashier was visibly controlling his breathing. “Do you feel up to talking?”

Though his gaze remained fixed on the back wall of the parlor, he nodded.

He might have been willing, but Rebecca wasn’t sure how capable he was yet. She decided to go slow with him. “Did this man seem off to you? Was he having breathing problems, or did he seem ill?”

“He…he just wanted sea salt caramel ice cream.” Paulo’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “I prepared it for him, and then I went to the back. I wasn’t gone more than a couple minutes, but after I came out and started wiping down the case…” He gestured helplessly toward the man on the floor.

Rebecca placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Take me through what happened next.”

“I…I called 911 right away. They told me to do chest compressions. I did, I swear, just like they said, but he…he wouldn’t wake up. Then Deputy Darby showed up and took over.” A tear made its way down Paulo’s cheek, and he looked on the verge of collapse.

“Hey, you did everything you could.” Rebecca knew exactly how the poor man felt. TV shows made out like CPR was a magic cure-all. The sad fact was, it rarely brought a person back from whatever had stopped their heart in the first place. More often, it was just a bandage until further steps could be taken.

“Sometimes, despite our best efforts, it’s not enough.” She offered him her most reassuring smile. “Take a moment. You’ve been through a lot.”

As Paulo slumped back against the bench with a grateful nod, Rebecca turned to find Bailey motioning her over.

“Sheriff.” Bailey exchanged her nitrile gloves for a fresh pair, her voice steady despite the gravity of her words. “Based on what the medics have told me, an opiate overdose is a possibility. But so is a heart attack or stroke, or even a severe allergic reaction or choking. The pupil constriction does point to overdose, but considering the patient didn’t respond at all to Narcan…” She pursed her lips. “I won’t commit to anything before running some tests.”

“Is fentanyl a possibility?” With a gloved hand, Rebecca picked up a bifold leather wallet she’d noticed earlier, where the medics had likely placed it when searching him.

“It’s possible.” Bailey’s fingers moved carefully over the man’s body as she continued her examination. “Fentanyl sure is the demon we’re seeing most these days. It’s so potent, so deadly. Going by what the medics just told me, how fast the victim went down, and the fact that the witness didn’t notice anything at first, it could be the cause, but again, I won’t know⁠—”

“Until you’ve run your tests. Got it.”

Rebecca flipped open the worn leather to find an ID. Hunter McCay, the name read, with an address not far from the ice cream parlor. A local man, his life snuffed out silently amid the pastel decor and sugary scents of a place usually so upbeat.

Bailey unfolded the body bag and, with the help of the medics, laid it out alongside the victim. “Based on initial statements, onset of symptoms was within minutes. If…” she gave Rebecca a stern look, “this was fentanyl, that tracks. It doesn’t take much to kill.”

Because fentanyl was fifty to one hundred times more potent than morphine, even tiny amounts could cause fatalities, especially when illicitly mixed into other drugs. Users often didn’t know they were consuming fentanyl, which could lead to an accidental overdose.

“How long will blood tests take?”

Bailey rolled her eyes. “You’re wanting them yesterday, right?”

Rebecca showed all her teeth. “Of course.”

The M.E. glanced at her watch. “I can order the specific test inside my lab and get results in a couple hours. That might give you time to determine if a drug, any drug, had been in his possession if⁠—”

“If it’s even a drug that did this. Understood.” Rebecca gritted her teeth. “And if I discover the drug hadn’t been in his possession and, instead, was…” She waved a hand at the dozens of ice cream flavors and the vast array of confectionary additions behind the counter.

Bailey groaned and lowered her voice. “An unintentional overdose is tragic enough, but if drugs are being distributed in food, then the entire community could be at risk.”

Now that the medical examiner had said the quiet part out loud, Rebecca groaned too. Surely not. Chances were good this was a tragic but isolated incident.

Right?

She tucked the wallet into a plastic evidence bag.

She found herself doing something she rarely did. Praying.

Please be unintentional. Please be unintentional.

The melancholy hum of the parlor’s freezers filled the void left by the absence of chatter and laughter. Rebecca watched as Bailey, her expression solemn, zipped up the black body bag with quiet efficiency.

“I’ll start the tox panel the second we arrive and keep you updated.”

The brevity of Bailey’s actions made the hairs on the back of Rebecca’s neck stand up. Usually, Bailey was more than willing to chat while she worked, and she took her time doing so. Now she seemed in a rush to leave, gesturing for the medics to help her move the body out the door.

A twinge of worry ran down Rebecca’s spine. Was Bailey just hurrying to get to her lab to process this man’s blood? Or had the medical examiner read the same articles Meg had told her about? That could also explain her strange actions. But only if Bailey believed them.

“Today started bad, and it’s not getting any better. But at least there’s only one body here and not a whole graveyard full.” Bailey slipped the handle straps of the heavy body bag onto her hand.

“Very true.”

Bailey narrowed her eyes on Rebecca. “Don’t touch a damn thing in here until you hear back from me. Got it?”

Rebecca shot her a guilty smile. “But⁠—”

Bailey wagged a finger in her face. “But nothing. Lock this place up and wait to hear from me. If it’s fentanyl and I don’t find pill or powder residue or some such thing in his pockets, then you’ll have to test products and surfaces here. That’s best left to professionals, and you know it.”

Dammit. Bailey was right.

“But—”

The wagging finger got closer to Rebecca’s nose. “But if you go against my warning, then glove up and tell everyone to avoid touching their faces. Fentanyl is up to a hundred times stronger than heroin, so let’s not take any chances. There are stories where even inhaling the dust is deadly.”

Now it was Rebecca’s turn to narrowed her eyes. A ton of stories about fentanyl had been debunked. She kept her mouth shut, though.

She didn’t open it again until Bailey was out the door.

She turned to Paulo. “We need to test any surface the victim touched as well as anything he consumed. Did he go anywhere else? To the bathroom or anything?”

“No. The bathroom is locked, so only customers can use it. And he didn’t get the passcode from me, so he couldn’t have gone in there. After I gave him his ice cream, I went to the back to finish some prep work.”

Everything indicated McCay had ingested the drug while inside the ice cream shop. If this was indeed a drug overdose, Rebecca reminded herself. But her gut was churning. It, though they had no proof, thought he hadn’t brought the drug in with him.

She didn’t need to glance around to know there was no other place the man could have gone inside the small shop. “Viviane, take McCay’s keys and check his truck. See if he has anything in there that’s suspicious. Although the evidence doesn’t support it, he might have taken some type of drug before coming in. We’re going to be thorough. And I’m sorry, Paulo, but you’ll need to close the shop until we complete our investigation.”

Viviane picked the keys up from the floor where the medics had emptied McCay’s pockets.

Rebecca surveyed the counter full of ice cream tubs, the silver buckets of gummy bears, candy pieces, and nuts, and the bottles of flavored syrups. Sampling would take a while.

“Leave it to the professionals.” Bailey’s voice rang in her ears.

Paulo bobbed his head jerkily. “Phil, my manager, is on his way now.”

“Good.” Rebecca gave the clerk another reassuring smile. “Why don’t you try to relax as much as possible? I need to get something from my vehicle, but I’ll be right outside.”

In the parking lot, the air carried the sharp tang of the ocean, a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness that hung inside. Rebecca strode to her cruiser, where she grabbed a set of fentanyl test strips, her fingers brushing over the plastic packaging. These tiny strips were suddenly the front line in a battle.

As she turned back to the ice cream parlor, Rebecca froze, staring at the small, sealed bag of test strips in her hand. Would this many be enough? She had a vision of testing every gummy bear in the place. If Viviane didn’t find anything in McCay’s truck, if Bailey didn’t turn up any residue in his clothes, it would take a miracle to hunt down the source.

And Rebecca didn’t believe in miracles.

4

When Angie Frost had called to invite her husband to lunch at the Seabreeze Café, Deputy Hoyt Frost had jumped at the chance. Now, sitting across from her in their usual red leather booth with chrome trim, he cradled a steaming mug of coffee and watched Angie take a bite of her BLT. Midday sunlight filtered through the window, casting a shadow on the table between them. As usual, they’d been talking about work and his indecision over when to retire.

“Sheriff’s just buried, no pun intended.” Hoyt sipped his coffee. “After what we uncovered at the cemetery, she’s got her hands full.”

Angie reached across the table, her touch light on his wrist. “It’s a heavy burden. But I thought Rhonda Lettinger with the VSP was handling the aftermath of all those bodies.”

Hoyt set down his coffee and went to work on his pot roast. “She is, along with a whole group of Bureau agents. It’s a full-time job. But even though Rebecca wasn’t here when the illicit burials were going down, I see how the discovery is weighing on her. She feels responsible.”

“That’s just in her nature, dear. Like you, Rebecca takes her oath of office seriously and feels the buck stops with her, whether she was here or not. You two are a lot alike in that way. Nothing you do will keep her from assuming accountability for what happens on this island.” After a pause, she lowered her head to catch Hoyt’s downcast gaze. “There’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?”

“I keep thinking about retirement, Angie, but…” He sprinkled a dash of salt on his mashed potatoes. “How can I leave now? There’s too much unfinished business.”

Angie raised an eyebrow. “Unfinished business?”

“All those people who were allegedly murdered by the Aqua Mafia. We still don’t know the story behind each of them, because we…” He corrected himself. “Because I didn’t see what was happening. Wallace and I, we were supposed to protect this island. Wallace knew and was trying to stop them in his own way. He’s gone now. So it’s up to me to make it right.”

Angie squeezed his wrist. “You did what you thought was best at the time. You both did. No one knew the Yacht Club would turn out to be…what they were.”

“Didn’t know, or didn’t want to know?” Hoyt countered, an edge of self-reproach sharp in his tone.

“Hey.” Angie’s voice cut through him. “You’re one of the good ones, Hoyt. You’ve dedicated your life to keeping the peace.” She paused, giving him space to absorb her words. “Don’t put this all on yourself. You said Rhonda was handling it, and she will. It’s her unfinished business, not yours.”

“Maybe, but I’m not retiring until things are settled here. Until Rebecca, Trent, and Viviane aren’t left trying to balance on a tightrope. Oh, and Jake too. He’s only transferred into this crap and has no real stake in the game.” His teeth hurt from grinding them. “Even then, I’ll be a phone call away.”

“Of course.” Angie’s expression was determined. “Rebecca needs us now more than ever. With all the nonsense those online articles are spewing, she doesn’t need the additional stress of feeling abandoned.”

Hoyt jerked his head back in shock. “Wait. What? What online articles? Is there a new fluff piece about Rebecca? What are they saying now?”

Angie glanced up. “It’s not a fluff piece. It’s a hit piece.”

“The hell?” Hoyt stared at his wife, hoping she was joking, but she immediately picked up her phone and started typing.

“Look at this nonsense.” She turned her phone so he could see as she scrolled through a barrage of sensational headlines that accused Rebecca of everything from corruption to conspiracy. “Rebecca’s being painted as some sort of criminal mastermind. It’s ludicrous.”

“Mudslinging vultures…” Hoyt grunted. His mind raced, considering the impact to Rebecca’s reputation. He knew all too well the damage such claims could wreak, even if baseless. Still, burdened by his own complicity in past oversights, he didn’t want to broach the subject with Rebecca directly.

“I need to make a call.” He pulled out his own phone. Navigating with deft familiarity, he dialed Meg Darby’s number.

Angie leaned over to read his screen and nodded her approval.

“Hey, Hoyt.” Meg’s crisp voice came through the line, always ready to tackle the next issue. “I bet I can guess why you’re calling me.”

“Have you seen these stories about Rebecca?” Hoyt remembered he was in public and dropped his voice, looking around quickly. It didn’t seem like anyone had overheard their conversation.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Meg huffed out a rush of air. “It’s been causing quite a stir. Mostly from Nathan Warner at the hotel. He’s got a knack for fanning flames.”

“Is anyone else dumb enough to buy the shit Nathan and those mudslingers are peddling?” Hoyt knew the buzz of gossip could engulf an island like a tidal wave. People talking in checkout lines, chatting after church, and messaging back and forth with the latest theories.

“Most folks know better.” Meg’s calm response reassured him. “But it’s that vocal minority we need to worry about. They’re persistent.”

“All right.” Hoyt nodded despite knowing she couldn’t see the gesture. “How are we going to stop this?”

“Well, public shunning has never worked on Nathan before. The man has no shame. But my morals won’t allow me to yank his business license either. So I’m fresh out of ideas.” There was a grumble in the background, and Meg laughed. “Dale says you and him could take Nathan out for some night fishing and forget to bring him back.”

“I always said your husband was a smart man.” As enticing as he found the idea of getting rid of their island’s weakest link and loudest whiner, burying Nathan at sea was probably inappropriate. “Mama always said the best defense against rumors was transparency and truth.”

Meg humphed. “You mean you want to get out ahead of the lies? That’s an even better plan. If a bit less fun.”

Having spent years navigating the undercurrents of island politics, Hoyt knew challenges were part of the territory. But this kind of targeted defamation against one of their own struck a chord deep within him. He felt a duty to protect not just the law but those who served it with honor. “I think it’s time we set the record straight for everyone. A town hall meeting. We need to address Rebecca’s role, the Yacht Club, Richmond Vale’s part in it, the whole mess.”

“You want to air out all the dirty laundry?” Angie leaned across the table. “That’s brilliant. Rebecca’s been tight-lipped about everything so far, so most people don’t know just how deep the corruption went.”

“Is that Angie I hear? Tell her I said hi. Also, I agree. It’s time to bring everything into the open. I’ve dug up quite a bit at town hall too. We could all have a show-and-tell. I’m sure I can talk the mayor into it. He’s been wanting to host one to discuss all the repairs we’ve had to do after the hurricane and the bombings.”

“Exactly.” Hoyt smiled at his wife and held the phone an inch away from his ear. “Meg thinks it’s a sound plan. She’s going to talk to Mayor Doughtie about organizing it.” He watched as Angie relaxed back into the booth.

“Public support could mean everything right now.” She nodded her approval.

“That sounds like a great plan, Meg. Can you get started on that and keep me updated?”

“I can, and I will. I’ll call you later.”

With that Meg, hung up. Staring at the half-eaten lunch in front of him, Hoyt realized he’d lost his appetite.

Angie gestured to his plate of food. “You want me to get a box and take that home for you, dear?”

Before he could reply, the crackle of his shoulder mic cut through the hum of café conversation. Static bit at the edges of Rebecca’s voice.

“Frost, we’ve got a situation at I Scream You Scream. Can you stop by the station and grab a box of fentanyl test strips on your way here?”

He needed to double-check he’d heard that right. Cuing his mic, he shifted around in his seat so the entire café wouldn’t overhear the conversation. “The entire box?”

“Yep.”

That didn’t sound good.

Hoyt stared at the radio. What the hell had happened that a few hundred test strips might not be enough? He realized he hadn’t responded and cued his mic again.

“Yeah, Boss. I’ll grab it and be right there. Make sure to glove up.”

Angie was already in motion, her hand slicing through the air to catch the attention of Betty Hiaasen, Seabreeze Café’s owner. “I’ll get the bill. You get moving. This sounds bad.” She gave him a tight smile.

Bad was too mild a word for the cascade of cases darkening their doorstep lately. As he rose from the booth, Hoyt stretched over the table to press a quick kiss to Angie’s cheek, the familiar touch grounding him momentarily.

His boots felt weighed down by the gravity of his responsibilities. Cases like these were a far cry from the peaceful retirement he envisioned, but he couldn’t turn his back—not now.

As Hoyt strode out of the Seabreeze Café, the brisk wind tugged at his jacket, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement. The island had once been a haven of tranquility, or so he’d thought. Now it was a hotbed of tension and turmoil.

Each case seemed to bleed into the next, a relentless tide of darkness they struggled to hold back. This was exactly why he couldn’t retire—not yet. Rebecca needed him.

The island needed him.

5

I was parked just within sight of I Scream You Scream, my nondescript sedan lost in the sea of locals’ cars. I was basically invisible, and that was my goal. This was all so much easier than I’d anticipated.

The scanner next to me squawked and buzzed with the local police frequency. No one spoke over the channel now. But I’d already heard the call I’d been waiting for.

“Code blue at the ice cream parlor.”

The words had been music to my ears. I leaned back in my seat, the worn springs creaking under my weight.

The back-and-forth played like a morbid symphony. Then the police came, followed by an ambulance, and both stayed for nearly an hour. Waiting had been excruciating, but when the medical examiner’s van finally showed up, I knew I’d won.

A second police SUV had recently shown up, and a woman with a blond ponytail had hopped out. That must have been the sheriff. “Shutting down the shop now, huh?” I surmised, knowing the police would wrap the place in yellow tape, turning it into a sterile crime scene. It was the first such site, but it wouldn’t be the last. “It’s futile, lady. My game’s just begun.”

A few days ago, I’d slipped a good-sized doze of fentanyl into the flaky sea salt container behind the ice cream counter. When the guy working the register had gone to the back to tend to some task, I’d been so excited at the idea of having carte blanche on where to hide my little secret, nothing else had mattered.

Keeping things fair, I’d mixed the salt and fentanyl up good before placing an order for my own cup. Fear and excitement had stirred in my belly as I’d watched the kid behind the counter create my order.

With flair, he’d sprinkled a healthy pinch of the contaminated salt on top of the ice cream. I’d watched each grain fall, wondering which one might usher me to an early grave.

Suicidal much?

I laughed at the thought, though it was actually a pretty good question. Was I suicidal? Was I hoping for peace from a life that was anything but?

I didn’t think so, though I had to admit the idea of being the recipient of the bad salt sent a thrill through me. Excitement I hadn’t felt in a long time.

In reality, my motives for poisoning the salt were much more complicated than wanting to tap out of life.

It all started when I’d walked into the Seabreeze Café two days before my trip to the ice cream parlor…

My hands were steady as I emptied a packet of powder into the saltshaker at my table. Not a single soul had even noticed as I’d turned the shaker over and over to mix the drug throughout the grains.

“Mind if I take the condiments, sir?” The server glanced at her watch, a pointed way of telling me to get the fuck out.

I happily handed over the shaker as well as the other bottles on my table. I even did the decent thing and asked for my check so she could finish closing up.

As I fished through my wallet for cash, I watched as she set my tainted shaker on a tray of about twenty-five others. The one from my table had blended right in with the rest, though a part of me had expected it to glow red to signal its malevolence.

But nope.

Like con artists with their shell games, the little server spun the tray, sending my special shaker to who knew what table.

There was a certain thrill to that, the not knowing. And for the first time in years, I’d felt alive. The irony wasn’t lost on me that it’d taken the possibility of death to make me feel that way.

The next morning, something had compelled me to try my luck. To test the fates. To chase the high I’d been blessed with the evening before.

Returning to the Seabreeze Café for breakfast, I’d counted all the salt and pepper shakers I could see. More than twenty-five. And only one of them tainted.

Not bad odds at all.

I’d allowed the host to choose a table for me, increasing the randomness of what I was doing. I’d even gone with the server’s recommendation for a meal, increasing the randomness even more. After all, she could have suggested a stack of pancakes, a food I wouldn’t ordinarily salt. If she had, that would have been part of the game, the gamble.

“Honey, you’ll love the Pirate’s Bounty Breakfast.”

She’d been right. Biscuits and gravy accompanied by thick strips of bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs, and hashbrowns smothered in cheese.

With the steaming plates in front of me, I’d stared at the saltshaker on my table a good long while. I had a choice. Go big or go home.

I went all in.

As I upended the shaker over my food, those minuscule crystals took an eternity to fall. Taking a bite of that salted food had been so exhilarating that, at first, I’d thought I dosed myself.

Nothing in my life had ever tasted so good. I swallowed and waited for the symptoms to start. Shortness of breath, the fuzzy buzz.

But they never came.

I finished my meal, paid my check, and walked outside like I was gliding on clouds. Maybe I’d drugged myself and gotten lucky enough to escape a lethal dose. Either way, I felt alive. That was a new sensation.

Colors were vibrant again. The birds had never sung sweeter. A breeze tickled my skin, my hair, my eyes. The mundane life I’d grown used to had turned magical again.

I’d been reborn, and the feeling was addicting. Like any junkie, I craved more.

Every meal after that, I ate at one of the places I’d dosed. Every meal tasted better than the last, because I knew I couldn’t keep up my string of good luck forever. I was still alive. And I hadn’t felt this refreshed in ages.

I giggled. A mental health professional would view my actions with alarm. Was I suicidal and only trying to convince myself otherwise? I didn’t have the knowledge to make that determination, so I left the idea in the dark recesses of my psyche.

My life had sucked enough that I deserved to feel amazing, no matter how I managed it.

“You’re a magnificent bastard,” I said, addressing my reflection in the rearview mirror. “You’re rewriting the rules of Russian roulette. Either way it ends, it’s going to be life-changing.”

Two medics and a woman with dark hair came shuffling out the door, lugging a long black body bag. “Unlucky bastard.” I imagined his last moments of blissful unawareness as the venom coursed through him. Pleasant? Perhaps. When spinning the chamber against the Reaper, not knowing the outcome was part of the thrill.

This new game was filling a void in me, deep and gnawing, that I hadn’t known existed. Not until I’d finished that first meal at the diner and walked out healthy. One time, and I’d been hooked.

And I’d come out a winner every time since then. The ice cream had been particularly delicious.

I’m addicted to the risk. It’s better than any drug because I’m the drug.

I wasn’t an idiot. When my time was up, well, I guessed I’d meet those who’d gone before me into the great beyond. Knowing I’d be reunited with those I’d lost filled another kind of void I didn’t like to dwell on.

Because I didn’t care about the outcome, I had nothing to lose. I’d set a game in motion, and I wasn’t a quitter. I’d play until I didn’t have any chips left to throw in the pot.

Knowing my next meal could be my last really was the best way to live. I savored every bite, every morsel, and when I was finished, I celebrated that the executioner’s blade had failed to fall. A euphoria of my own making consumed me. It was the best thing in my life.

“Ten days,” I whispered. “Morley gave me ten days to spread chaos across Shadow Island.”

This little rock in the ocean, with its diners and mom-and-pop shops, had no idea what had stormed its shore.

It would find out soon enough. Some poor soul had already lost the game he didn’t even know he was playing.

I was several steps ahead of the cops. I lifted an imaginary radio mic to my mouth and mocked the scanner and the police who didn’t know I was listening. “Dispatch, we have a potential serial situation. Advise caution to all units.”

I couldn’t resist the urge to keep chasing this high. The stakes were life-and-death, and I was all in.

6

After staring at the fentanyl test strips for a long time, Rebecca finally heeded Bailey’s advice to “leave it to the professionals” and headed over to the McCay residence with Viviane while she waited for the medical examiner’s findings.

The sky hung heavy with sorrowful gray clouds as she and Viviane parked outside Hunter McCay’s quaint, weather-beaten home. Rebecca steeled herself for the task ahead, her fingers lingering on the ignition key before finally pulling it free. Death notifications were never easy, and she was getting way too much practice on this little island.

She was about to knock on someone’s door and destroy their entire life. And she couldn’t let sympathy or empathy take over. Although McCay’s death appeared to be an overdose, it wasn’t yet clear if it was accidental or intentional.

Domestic partners and family members were always the first suspects in murder investigations. While delivering the news, Rebecca would also need to gauge every action and reaction on the chance the person she was talking to was involved.

They walked in silence, the rhythmic crashing of distant waves faintly audible as they approached the door. Rebecca knocked firmly, her heartbeat echoing the thuds against the wood.

Moments later, a woman appeared, her eyes wide and brimming with the innocence of ignorance. Rebecca had pulled up Melinda McCay’s license photo before coming over, so she’d expected the thin, dark-haired woman, but looking up at Mrs. McCay’s nearly six-foot height, Rebecca was reminded that sometimes pictures could be misleading.

Melinda McCay was about to have her world shattered, and Rebecca would be the hammer.

“Mrs. McCay, I’m Sheriff West, and this is Deputy Darby.” Rebecca made sure her voice betrayed none of the turmoil within. “May we come in?”

“Of course. Come in.” Mrs. McCay ushered them into a living room adorned with seashells and family photos and sat down, her hands clasped tightly in her lap like a lifeline. “Does this have anything to do with why my husband has been gone for the last four hours? Did he do something?”

Rebecca was tempted to ask why she asked the question but decided she could always circle back if needed. She had to break the news first.

“Mrs. McCay.” Rebecca looked directly into the woman’s eyes. “There’s no easy way to say this. Your husband, Hunter…he’s dead.”

The words landed like a physical blow. Mrs. McCay’s face drained of color as a gasp escaped her lips. “What? No, that’s not possible. Hunter will be home soon. He just went out for a drive to clear his head.”

“No, ma’am. Your husband died at the ice cream parlor earlier today.” Rebecca leaned forward and allowed a moment for her words to sink in before speaking again. “We just came from there.”

Mrs. McCay crumpled before Viviane’s hand found her shoulder—a silent anchor in the storm of grief. “No…that can’t be true.”

Rebecca pressed on, hating to pierce Mrs. McCay’s grief with questions but knowing she must unearth the truth. “Did Hunter have any history of drug use?”

“Drugs?” Mrs. McCay’s voice was barely a whisper, her disbelief palpable. She shook her head vehemently, the motion causing loose strands of hair to frame her anguished face. “No. He struggled with alcohol, but he’s been sober more than two years now. I’d know if he’d been using…anything else.”

Rebecca noted the conviction in Mrs. McCay’s tone, the certainty that spoke of intimate knowledge of her husband’s battles. It was the confidence of someone who had lived through the worst of times and had seen the telltale signs of addiction up close. Rebecca took out a notepad to jot down the woman’s responses.

“I…when you showed up, I was worried he’d gotten pulled over for drunk driving again. Or…something. But…” Melinda McCay pushed her hair back with both hands, staring sightlessly into the distance. “Even when he used to drink, he never touched drugs. And he couldn’t hide his drinking from me. I can’t believe he’d start something new without me noticing. How did this happen?”

Viviane offered her a tissue, and Melinda took it. She grabbed a throw pillow and clutched it to her chest like a life preserver, not bothering to dab at the tears flowing down her cheeks.

The only other sound in the living room was the ticking of an ornate grandfather clock. Rebecca rested her elbows on her knees as she watched Melinda.

“Mrs. McCay.” She hated that she had to push like this, intruding on the woman’s misery when she deserved time and space. “Did Hunter have any recent medical issues? Prescriptions he was taking that contained opiates?”

Mrs. McCay shook her head, pressing her face against the pillow. “No, nothing. He’s been the picture of health since he stopped drinking. After a recent minor surgery, the doctor wrote a prescription that had opiates in it, but Hunter refused to fill it. He knew he had addiction issues and didn’t want to take any chances.”

“There wasn’t anything that happened recently…anything at all that might’ve led him to seek out pain relief?” Viviane’s gaze scanned the room, seemingly for clues.

“No. I told you, he was doing well.” Melinda’s fingers gripped the fabric of the pillow tighter. “We were doing fine, moving past his alcoholism.”

“Can you think of any reason he would’ve gone to the ice cream parlor alone today?” Rebecca’s pen hovered above her notepad.

“We had a fight.” Melinda’s features contorted with guilt. “It was something stupid, about my parents’ visit over the holiday. He said something nasty about my mother, and I tore into him over it. He said he just needed to get out of the house for a bit. I know he often went for ice cream when…when he wanted a drink.”

Rebecca observed the subtle shift in the woman’s demeanor, the way her shoulders slumped as if the admission carried the weight of the world. It painted a portrait of their domestic life, one not without its bumps but far from the tumult that addiction so often brought.

After getting the required specifics about the time he left and what Melinda had been doing since then, it was time to wrap the interview up.

“Mrs. McCay, we appreciate your cooperation. Here’s my card, and this one is for the medical examiner’s office.” Rebecca handed over a card. “They can answer any questions about…arrangements.” She hesitated a moment, then held out a second card. “And this one is for Pastor Brett. He’s been a comfort to many in times like these. He offers counseling that doesn’t have to be spiritual in nature. Many residents of the island have turned to him when experiencing loss or grief.”

Melinda looked up at Rebecca, tears brimming once more as she took the cards with a trembling hand. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying.

Viviane nodded, her expression somber. A shared sorrow permeated the room.

“Of course. We’ll be in touch with any updates. And if you need help, don’t hesitate to call.” As Rebecca stood, her mind was already turning over this new information. Hunter McCay’s death was looking less like a conscious choice. But if he hadn’t carried the drugs into the parlor, how had he come in contact with them? It was imperative to keep anyone else from harm’s way.

Together, Rebecca and her deputy made their way to the front door, stepping back into the weak daylight and leaving the victim’s wife to find whatever peace she could.

Rebecca’s thoughts churned with the puzzle of McCay’s death as she and Viviane moved in unison across the McCays’ dormant lawn.

“That hasn’t gotten any easier.” Viviane’s low voice carried an undercurrent of relief to have the task behind her.

“And now we need to find out how her husband died from a drug overdose when he wasn’t a user.” Rebecca’s gaze landed on the horizon where the sky met the short line of trees at the end of the block.

Before Viviane could reply, the shrill ring of Rebecca’s cell phone cut through the quiet. She fished it out of her jacket pocket, and Bailey Flynn’s name flashed on the screen. Rebecca’s pulse quickened.

“West.” Rebecca’s tone was all business. “What’ve you got for me?”

“We ran the initial tox screen on McCay.” Bailey’s voice was tinged with the same weariness that Rebecca felt. “It came back positive for fentanyl and only fentanyl.”

“Are we certain?” Rebecca pressed. Pure fentanyl wasn’t something someone would purposefully use unless they were a hard-pressed heroin addict. Or a dealer who hadn’t mixed it in yet. Or a complete idiot. Maybe this was a simple case of accidental cross contamination. “Could this be a mistake?”

“Cross-checked twice. No mistake.” Bailey’s confirmation was unequivocal. “However, after a full-body search, I’m not seeing any signs this man was a drug user. Unless he was a pill popper.”

“That tracks with what his wife told us.” Rebecca scratched her nose. “She said he struggled with alcohol, but never drugs.”

“I’ve sent off a strand of hair for follicle testing, which will tell us if he’s used any drugs in the last ninety days.”

“Thanks.” Rebecca pocketed the phone and met Viviane’s questioning look. “Fentanyl,” she repeated, the word tasting like bile.

“Damn.” Viviane’s eyes mirrored the gravity of the news.

Rebecca reached for her keys as they approached the vehicle. “Pure fentanyl, not mixed with anything, according to Bailey. His wife reported there were no indications of any prior drug use, so I think this looks like accidental ingestion. To my knowledge, this is the first time we’ve had fentanyl on the island.”

Viviane bobbed her head, reassuring Rebecca her assessment was accurate. As a lifelong resident and the daughter of the previous dispatcher, her deputy and friend would know if the drug had ever made its way onto Shadow Island before now.

Rebecca slid into the driver’s seat. She might not have answers yet, but she was determined to get them. “I need to talk to Frost. And we need to get a HazMat team to the ice cream parlor.” She started the cruiser. “We’re missing something here.”

7

Rebecca’s gaze lingered on the rainbow array of ice cream flavors, her mind churning faster than the frozen dessert machines in the back. Things had moved quickly after she’d hung up with Bailey, with a HazMat team on the scene only a half hour later. Once they’d declared the shop safe to enter, the crime scene techs had arrived soon afterward.

Outside, Viviane had supervised the techs as they methodically swabbed McCay’s truck. It hadn’t taken them long to confirm that no residue of fentanyl was inside the vehicle.

In the shop, Rebecca watched as experienced hands moved meticulously, the techs collecting samples from every container and testing surfaces that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. She hoped Paulo’s meticulous cleanliness wouldn’t prove a problem for finding the source.

All the lights were on, and they used their flashlights to check as well. The powder, if it was in powder form, could be lingering on any surface McCay had touched before transferring it to his mouth or nose, the same way people could pick up a virus. Or they could be looking for a hidden needle or other sharp object that might have been poisoned and left lying out inconspicuously.

The crime scene techs were impressive. Using specialized wipes and swabs, they tested the counter, the credit card reader, and the table where the victim had sat. Since McCay had eaten all his ice cream and cone, they’d also tested the paper his order had been wrapped in. Everything was coming up clean.

They either performed tests there on-site or had samples sent to the lab for more complicated testing. Rebecca learned that the fats, sugars, and proteins in the ice cream made it impossible to use the strips she’d collected from her SUV to check for the drug.

She rubbed the back of her neck. Learning that lesson made her even happier she and her deputies hadn’t tried to do the testing themselves. She could see one of them, even her, dipping a strip into the vat of caramel ice cream Paulo had told them he’d used to make McCay’s cone.

“Leave it to the professionals” indeed.

Everything was going well until Phil Manfred, the owner, arrived. He’d watched the process unfold like a tragic play, his face contorted with frustration as his hands clenched his bald head.

“You don’t understand.” He wrung a dishtowel in his hands. The way he glowered at the techs left no doubt in Kathrine’s mind he’d rather be wringing necks. “This shop…it’s all I have. You’ve already tested the ice cream he ate. And the caramel tub. Neither of them tested positive for drugs. What makes you think the drugs came from my store?”

“In two words, sir…cross contamination.” She gave him a hard stare. “The health department noted several rule violations when they arrived earlier. Because of that, we have to assume that more than those few things have been contaminated.”

That shut him up, but only for a few minutes.

“But—”

Rebecca held up a hand. She kept her voice calm despite Manfred’s agitation. “We need to ensure everyone’s safety first. This is nonnegotiable. I’m sure you don’t want any more customers becoming ill.”

“Nonnegotiable?” Manfred’s voice cracked, pulling Rebecca out of her search for possible dangers. “What about my mortgage? My daughter’s tuition? Sales are already slow at this time of year. No one wants sweets right after Thanksgiving and before Christmas. Especially not cold ones. All this will chase away the few people who might have come here. How am I going to cover my bills this month?”

Viviane turned to level a disapproving frown at him. “A man died, Mr. Manfred. After eating in your shop. It could’ve been one of your employees, you, or even your family. If we don’t find the source, no one is safe here.” Her words cut through his complaints, sharp and unyielding. “How good is your business going to be if your customers keep dropping dead?”

“Or you get your pants sued off because you opened too soon,” Rebecca added.

Her twinge of approval at Viviane’s blunt approach mixed with concern. With the press portraying Rebecca as a maverick with questionable ethics, every action risked feeding into that narrative.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Viviane didn’t need to worry about that, though.

“Fine,” Manfred spat, finally caving under the weight of Viviane’s logic and Rebecca’s unwavering stance. He removed his horn-rimmed glasses and began to vigorously clean them with the dishtowel, muttering unintelligibly under his breath.

The problem was that they weren’t sure what they were looking for. Fentanyl could come as a powder, pill, or liquid and could be mixed into almost anything, meaning it could be many sizes, colors, or forms. Worse, if it was pure, the amount needed to kill a man the size of McCay was smaller than the tip of a pen.

A person blowing their nose into a napkin laced with fentanyl could die if they inhaled the drug. On the call, Bailey had said ingestion was likely, but inhalation wasn’t out of the question.

Rebecca knew they were missing something. And she needed to figure out what it was.

“Paulo, can you go through the exact steps you took to make Mr. McCay’s cone again?” He’d already answered once, but the clerk had been in shock. Rebecca wanted to make sure his answer was consistent.

The young clerk stood stiffly near the wall, carefully not touching anything and staying out of their way. Using his hands to mimic his actions, he told her each detail.

“Sea salt caramel.” He stepped forward to point to the tub with a glossy swirl of brown and white. “It’s our specialty. The tourists love it during the summer.”

The tub of sea salt caramel had been the first thing sent off for testing and was confirmed as being negative for any type of drug.

“We buy the base but add ingredients to make it our own, more special.” Manfred puffed out his chest with a mixture of pride and defensiveness. “That combination of flavor is what we’re known for. It brings people from all over. We receive the base caramel ice cream and then mix in proprietary chunks of salted caramel when someone orders that flavor. Freshness is one reason it holds so much appeal.”

“Frost, can you call to see if there are any results for the caramel flavoring and the chunks of salted caramel?” Rebecca rolled her neck to release some of the tension she was holding.

“Yeah, Boss.”

Rebecca turned, nailing Manfred with her gaze. “I need to go and inform the man’s family of what happened to him. I’m sure they’re worried sick.” What she didn’t share was that the family might be able to shed light on the victim’s history of drug use, if any.

Phil Manfred dropped his head and turned away. Hopefully that meant he was finally thinking about more than just lost revenue.

“Darby, you’re coming with me. Frost, Coffey, call me if anything comes up with the testing. Mr. Manfred,” Rebecca addressed the manager’s back, her tone brooking no argument, “you’ll need to stay closed until we clear this up.”

Manfred spun around, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Fine. But if this turns out to be nothing…”

“Then you reopen, and everyone can be assured the place is safe,” Rebecca finished for him. “But until then, we take no chances. I don’t want any kids coming in here after school and ending up the same way as Mr. McCay.”

8

Hoyt stood in the walk-in refrigerator in the back of the ice cream parlor, watching a crime scene tech do their methodical work. Their thoroughness was getting them nowhere, and Hoyt was pissed. He wasn’t going to stop until they had some answers and life could return to normal.

If they could track the drug to any of the base mix packages, as unbelievable as that might be, then they would know where to go next. He shivered from the cold, then nearly jumped out of his skin as his cell phone echoed off the frozen walls around them.

Glad for the slight reprieve, Hoyt stepped out of the freezer, pulled his mask down, and answered. “Frost here.”

“Hoyt, it’s Meg Darby.” Her voice rang in his ear with the same self-assured tone that had carried her to the chair of the Select Board. “I’m with Mayor Doughtie at town hall.”

“Go ahead, Meg.” Hoyt shifted his attention to Jake, who paused midmotion, poised to open a container with a box cutter. The tech he was helping gave him an inscrutable look behind her mask and relieved him of the cutter to open the container herself.

Meg had been let out of the hospital less than a month ago after surviving a serious car wreck that had left her in a coma, and everyone was feeling protective of her. Her phone call in the middle of the day put both men on edge.

“Good news. We’ve set up a town hall meeting for tomorrow at three in the afternoon. Rebecca needs our backing as soon as possible. The mayor’s already gotten a few complaints and questions.” Meg’s annoyance was nearly tangible, even through the phone. “If the residents want answers fast, this is the earliest we can do it. Sorry it’s in the middle of the workday, but we’ve got the holiday tree lighting tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow?” Hoyt felt like an idiot. With the fentanyl mystery eclipsing all else, he’d forgotten their exchange at lunch. He’d even forgotten the reason behind it until she’d brought it up again. “Right, the meeting. To put an end to those rumors going around about the boss. I’ll be there.”

What’s up? Jake mouthed. Hoyt shrugged.

Jake cocked his head, his pale-blue eyes narrowing.

“Excellent. And Hoyt, you know this as well as I do. It’s just a few voices hollering, but they’re loud. Like I told you earlier, Nathan Warner’s at the heart of it, stoking those fires high.”

“Right. Nothing new for him. He lives to cause trouble.” Hoyt’s jaw clenched at the mention of Warner’s name, images of previous encounters with the man and his smug defiance flashing before him.

Meg’s voice was filled with resolve. “We can’t stop the papers from blasting their crackpot theories, but we can make sure everyone knows they have no basis. And Rebecca might like deflecting any praise for her past heroism, but it’s time this town knew the sacrifices she’s made. Tomorrow we can tackle this head-on. Show Rebecca the support she deserves.”

Hell yeah.

“See you tomorrow, then.” Hoyt ended the call.

The soft chime of the ice cream parlor bell sent a bolt up Hoyt’s spine. Until now, he’d associated that sound with carefree summer days. He tensed, wondering who might be infringing on their crime scene. The building was wrapped in tape warning people away, but the front door wasn’t locked.

Paulo should’ve still been outside, but it wasn’t his responsibility to keep people out. Hoyt headed for the front of the store to check it out, with Jake following silently behind.

Hoyt relaxed at the sight of Rebecca and Viviane walking through the prep area of the parlor, looking around as if searching for something.

“Back here, Boss.” Hoyt raised a hand to catch her attention. A quick glance showed Paulo was still huddled at the table closest to a heater where he’d been perched since his boss left.

“Did you find anything yet?” Rebecca moved to stand next to him.

“Nope.”

Rebecca swept her gaze over the shop until it rested back on Hoyt’s face. “McCay struggled with alcohol and had a few DUIs, but nothing related to drugs. His widow insisted on that.”

Hoyt dropped his voice so the witness wouldn’t overhear. “Paulo doesn’t have a record, either, and we’ve never seen him running with that kind of crowd. So I don’t think it came from him.” With Deputy Greg Abner gone, killed in a shootout with a Yacht Club assassin, Hoyt knew he was the one Rebecca turned to for knowledge of the island and its inhabitants. “We’ve checked everything even vaguely associated with what McCay ordered.”

“Excuse me. I just remembered something.” Jake pushed past Hoyt, headed for the front door.

Glancing at Jake’s retreating back, Hoyt debated how to bring up the town hall meeting with Rebecca. “Uh, Boss, could I have a private word with you? It’ll just take a minute. Please?”

Both of Rebecca’s eyebrows jumped at the softly spoken plea.

“I’ll go see if Jake needs any help out front.” Viviane turned on her heel and followed Jake out.

Hoyt stared at Rebecca, wondering if it was really so rare for him to say please.

“What’s up, Hoyt?” Rebecca moved closer and dropped her voice. She rarely used his first name when he was on the clock.

Realization dawned on him. She thought the phone call was something personal, and that was why Jake had taken off. And in a way, it was personal, but not for him.

Either way, he couldn’t dither now that she was worried for him. “Boss, I’m not sure how to say this, but there’s been a lot of really bad press about you recently that’s caused some negative rumors to circulate around town.”

“Oh, that?” Rebecca waved it off as if it was nothing but a fly to be swatted. “Yeah, I heard about that. People will find something else to talk about sooner or later.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, Meg and I discussed it, and she spoke with the mayor. They’ve scheduled a town hall meeting tomorrow to address the issue. They plan to set things straight. It’s possible most people don’t know how bad the corruption was. Or how much you did to stop it. I’m going to be there to say what I know. You’re welcome to join, show the town you’re on top of things.”

She paused, her thoughts visibly churning as emotions flickered across her face.

“I appreciate that, Frost. I really do. I’ll do my best to make it, but…” She looked around them with resigned annoyance. “I can’t just take off. Even if it means letting people talk shit behind my back. You’re free to go and speak on my behalf, but if I need you, then the rumors will just have to run their course without either of us there to refute them. The facts will have to do the talking for us.”

“Well, that and Meg and Angie. They’re planning on being there regardless, standing with you or for you. I’ll be there, too, unless you need me. Either way, metaphorically or literally, I’ve got your back.” He nudged her arm lightly, his own sense of duty mirroring hers. “Besides, we all know how much you hate public speaking.”

Rebecca snorted, her earlier annoyance wiped away by gratitude. “It’s not my favorite thing, no. Mostly because I never know what to say. But if it’s something like a question-and-answer forum, I could handle that. If I can find the time to get there. When is it?”

Before Hoyt could reply, Jake opened the front door. There was a mixture of triumph and disbelief painting his features. “Paulo just remembered something!”

Outside, Paulo had his face cradled in his arms. His body shook.

Sitting down next to him, Rebecca patted the young man’s back. “Deputy Coffey says you remember something. Can you share it with me?”

Paulo lifted his head, wiping his running eyes and nose on his sleeve. “I forgot that I’d added sea salt to the top of Mr. McCay’s ice cream.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “That’s okay. I’m glad you remembered it now. The crime scene techs have probably already tested it, so I’m sure it’s fine.”

Paulo shook his head. “No. After serving Mr. McCay, I was straightening up and cleaning the counters like I do every shift. Because the sea salt is in a container without a lid…” He brought his hands together to make a bowl.

“A saltcellar?”

“Yeah, that. Well, the saltcellar doesn’t have a lid, and I didn’t want the cleaner I was spraying to get into it, so I moved it way up to the shelf of stuff that looks like decorations.”

Hope kicked Hoyt’s heart rate up a few beats.

Rebecca glanced over at Jake. He nodded and ran back into the shop.

She pushed to her feet, giving Paulo another squeeze. “Thanks so much for letting us know. We’ll check it out right now.”

As Hoyt and Viviane followed her back inside, Hoyt shook his head. “Who salts their ice cream?”

Viviane shrugged. “Hell, I dip French fries into my Frosties so who am I to judge?”

Inside the shop, Jake held an object that seemed absurdly mundane in the context of a drug investigation—a squat glass container that was nearly four inches in diameter. Inside revealed what appeared to be large flakes of salt.

“It was there.” Jake pointed to a shelf containing an array of antique-looking kitchen equipment from eras past. It was easy to see why the saltcellar had been overlooked up there.

Hoyt examined the small glass container, its contents now a sinister clue rather than a simple condiment. Any added fentanyl powder would blend seamlessly with the salt.

“Good work, Coffey.” Rebecca seemed pleased and relieved that they might have found the smoking gun of their case. “Turn it over to the techs. They can test a sample here, but I want a full analysis of the contents, no matter if the sample is negative or positive. Concentration, other substances, purity levels…we need to know everything. We have to compare the results to what Bailey found in McCay’s system.”

Jake nodded and headed to the back. Rebecca turned to Hoyt. “We need to loop in the DEA. They should be informed that fentanyl has made its way into our community through such…such an unconventional vector.”

“Unconventional and generic.” Hoyt wondered how many people could have died if McCay hadn’t eaten his ice cream in the shop. If he’d left, how long would it have taken them to track it back to the source? And how many other people would have ordered the parlor’s most popular flavor? He counted his blessings that the ice cream shop’s business was slow at this time of year. “This means McCay wasn’t targeted. Anyone could have eaten that salt.”

Rebecca held up her finger, giving her best impression of Bailey Flynn. “If the salt is indeed the culprit.”

They both smiled. They’d know soon enough.

9

The Seabreeze Café shimmered with the nostalgia of days gone by, its red leather booths and shiny chrome accents a testament to a past era. Charles Richter settled into the familiar comfort, the scent of grilled meat and brewed coffee wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket.

Across from him, Megan and Danny fought amiably over their shared chocolate milkshake, their laughter tinkling through the chatter of a nearly full diner. A shake before a meal was a rare treat for them, and they were enjoying it completely.

Danny, who was proudly “all grown up” at seven years of age, had insisted he didn’t need a booster seat anymore. His head barely cleared the top of the table as a result of his stubbornness. Megan had reminded Charles that she was double digits in age and hadn’t needed a booster seat in years. She could easily reach the ice-cold shake. Danny, however, had to hold it in his lap to drink from the curly straw.

It was adorable to Charles, and he wondered if he could sneak a photo of them. Anytime they noticed a lens pointed toward them, they immediately posed in ridiculous ways or hid under the table. It was always extremes with kids their ages.

Then he noticed his wife casually swiping on her phone while grabbing a couple of good candid shots. Rachel caught him looking and winked conspiratorially. They made such a great team. It made his heart clench. He smiled happily. This was what family dinners were supposed to be like.

“Remember the triple-decker dessert we had at Aunt Marie’s?” Megan teased her younger brother as she popped the cherry they’d saved from the top of the shake into her mouth.

“It was too fancy and hard to eat.” Danny slurped up the remnants of the shake. “This is way better.”

Charles took a hearty swig of his own banana shake, the sweetness a perfect counterpoint to the savory meal still to come. Beside him, Rachel blew gently on her hot chocolate, the cloud of steam carrying the rich aroma of cocoa. She glanced up at him with those warm eyes that he’d fallen in love with so many years ago.

“Happy to be back?” The corners of her mouth curved in an understanding smile. When he’d suggested going out for dinner, she hadn’t even put up a token of resistance, despite the piles of holiday leftovers in their fridge.

“Absolutely.” Charles’s voice was a contented rumble. “I love your family, but there’s something about diner food that just…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hand as if trying to pluck the right word from the air.

“Grounds you,” Rachel finished for him, nodding.

He appreciated the elegance of the Thanksgiving feast, the artful plates his in-laws had served with pride. All nine courses. Yet here he was, yearning for the simplicity of a soup-and-sandwich combo. The craving had gnawed at him since they’d packed up the car and waved goodbye to Richmond’s culinary snobbery.

“Uncle John’s turkey was…something.” Charles recalled the sous vide bird that had been the talk of the evening. “But give me a bowl of tomato soup any day.”

“Your roots are showing,” Rachel teased, her fingers brushing his arm affectionately.

“Guilty as charged.”

The couple sat in comfortable silence for a moment, their kids’ banter providing a lively backdrop to their quiet companionship. Charles’s heart swelled with a sense of belonging that no gourmet meal could ever replicate.

This was his world, unpretentious and honest. The straightforwardness of diner grub and his family around the table were all he ever needed.

The clink of silverware and the hum of conversation lulled Charles as Betty Hiaasen approached their table with a tray balanced expertly on one hand. The smell of fried chicken had preceded her, filling the air with the promise of comfort food. She slid plates in front of each of them as if performing a well-rehearsed dance.

“Here you go, my dears.” Betty’s voice carried over the warm timbre of a nearly full restaurant. “Crispy chicken tenders and fresh fruit for the young ones.”

Megan’s and Danny’s eyes lit up at their meals, greedy fingers already diving into the chicken before she could set the plates down. When they’d placed their order, the fresh fruit as a side dish had been a compromise, since the kids were having a shake before their meal. Not that the kids disliked fruit. But informing them they couldn’t have both fries and a shake had taken some gentle persistence on Charles and Rachel’s part.

“Glad I let those tenders sit after pulling them out of the fryer. Otherwise you’d have burned your tongues.” Betty grinned as she passed over Rachel’s meatloaf sandwich, smothered in gravy like a savory blanket over mashed potatoes.

Finally, Betty set down a large bowl of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich in front of Charles. Steam wafted up to greet him.

“Thanks, Betty.” Charles eyed his meal with the satisfaction of a man whose cravings were about to be sated. He plunged his spoon into the thick red soup, watching as the creamy surface broke to reveal its velvety depths.

It was nearly too hot to eat, but that didn’t stop him as he took a big slurp. Almost perfect, he thought, noting the absence of a familiar tang. Just needs a pinch of salt.

He picked up the sea salt and sprinkled a generous portion over his soup, then stirred it well to enhance its flavor. With the first taste, the soup reached an ideal equilibrium, triggering a rush of nostalgia. It was so simple, so tasty.

“How’s your food?”

Charles lifted his gaze at his wife’s question and noticed she was talking to the kids. Both of them had decimated their chicken strips and only slowed down because they were picking through the various kinds of fruit in their dish. “You guys were hungry, huh?”

Danny waved a chunk of honeydew melon on the end of his fork and nodded as he popped the fruit into his mouth.

“Well, slow down.” Rachel laughed as she passed her son a napkin. “If you keep eating like that, you’ll choke to death.”

The kids were growing like weeds. Just a few months ago, the child-sized portions would have been enough for them. Now Charles was worried the kids might still be hungry when all the food was gone. His little girl was going to be a teen in just a couple more years.

“Try this.” Charles scooped a spoonful of soup from the side of the bowl, thinking it would be cooler than the middle where he’d eaten from. He extended his spoon toward Megan, who accepted it readily, her face brightening at the taste.

“Yum!” She licked her lips. “It’s really good, Dad!”

Always wary of culinary adventures, Danny eyed the spoon suspiciously.

“Come on, bud. Give it a chance. You might find something new you like. It’s made from tomatoes and a lot of the same seasonings as ketchup,” Rachel coaxed, setting aside her own distaste for tomatoes for the sake of broadening their son’s palate. She was always so focused on bettering the lives of others.

“Okay…” Danny relented, bravely taking a tiny sample from the spoon Charles held out to him. A momentary pause followed, during which Charles watched his son’s expression shift from apprehensive to pleasantly surprised.

“Hey, it’s not bad,” Danny admitted, a small victory in the ongoing campaign to diversify his diet.

“See? Always worth trying.” Rachel shared a knowing look with Charles, who returned it with a hint of pride.

“You want it?” Charles offered. “I can get you kids your own bowls, or you can share this one.” His sandwich wasn’t going to be enough to tide him over, but he didn’t want his kids sitting around hungry. Besides, he could always make another sandwich once they got home.

“Nah. This fruit is better than I thought it would be.” Danny shoved a large seedless grape into his mouth, eyeing Charles’s large soup bowl warily.

Megan was in a phase where she was trying to be a good role model for her little brother, and she shook her head despite glancing longingly at the bowl across from her.

“They just sucked down an entire milkshake, dear. Their stomachs probably haven’t caught up to the amount of food they’ve eaten yet. You two take your time with the fruit. Don’t inhale it the same way you did with your chicken tenders.” Rachel pointed her fork at their children.

With a mischievous grin, Megan stabbed a thick slice of banana and loudly sucked in air, pretending to inhale it.

“Nothing beats diner food after a week of haute cuisine, eh?” Charles broke off a piece of the grilled cheese to dip into his soup.

“Absolutely.” Rachel smiled as she cut into her sandwich, her eyes still carrying the spark of their earlier conversation. “It’s the simple things that bring the greatest comfort.”

“My belly feels…funny.” Danny’s words came out slower than usual.

“Good funny or bad funny?” Charles couldn’t help smiling. There was something about tomato soup that always brought back the warmth of childhood winters.

“Like warm. And fuzzy.” Danny’s little brow furrowed in confusion, but his lips curved upward. So it must have been a good thing.

“Ah, that’s the magic of good food, buddy.” Charles leaned back against the booth, and his gaze swept over his family. The cozy scene ignited an ember of nostalgia, making his heart swell again. The diner’s sheen, with its red leather and gleaming surfaces, had him half expecting to see tinsel and hear faint jingles. Christmas was right around the corner, and that was a time he cherished with his family.

His eyes half closed, and his head swayed slightly, making those lovely colors into streamers. Or maybe they were garlands. He was so happy, he felt almost sleepy. Like he could just drift away. He looked down at the creamy tomato soup. It was a cheery Christmas red, nearly intoxicating in its perfection.

Charles finished off his soup with a contented slurp. A warmth spread through him. He grinned again, feeling blissful, his lips tingling with a giddy bliss.

“Charles?” An uncertain note underpinned Rachel’s words. “You okay?”

“Never better.” His voice was thick with unshed emotion.

Then his daughter’s words cut through, distant as if underwater. “I feel funny, but it’s nice.”

Charles tried to focus on her, but her features swam before him. A surge of euphoria swelled within him, sweeping over his body like a tidal wave. It was joy, yet so intense, it morphed into worry—a concern for Megan he couldn’t quite grasp.

“Rachel?” He sought an explanation from her face, because the sounds she was making didn’t form words he could understand. She reached across the table, her movements urgent, pulling Megan close as the girl’s body slackened.

“Honey! Something’s wrong with Megan. Danny? Oh, my god, baby, can you sit up?” Rachel’s voice spiked with panic.

Charles barely heard his wife’s pleas. His head wobbled, and his vision streaked and wavered as he turned to look at his kids. Danny had his head down on the edge of the table. Megan was slumped to the side.

And Rachel…for some reason she was standing up, leaning over the table. Like a stop-motion movie, he watched his wife grab his daughter’s arm and try to lift her over the table.

He wanted to stand, to help Rachel with whatever she was so worried about. Something about Megan? But his limbs wouldn’t obey. In a desperate attempt to communicate, to offer some reassurance, he opened his mouth, but no sound came out, leaving him in silent terror.

Something was wrong. But what? His kids fell asleep at the table all the time. They were just precious little babies. What was so wrong with that?

Megan’s limp body hung from Rachel’s grip, the only thing keeping her from sliding out of the booth.

They should have gotten the kids booster seats. They looked like adorable sleeping babies slumped down like that. How many times had they gone out to dinner and Charles had to scoop them up at the end of the meal to carry them out to the car?

So precious, those memories. His children. So precious.

“Charles? Help me! What’s wrong with you? Talk to me!” Rachel’s cries pierced the fog enveloping his senses.

Help? Why was she so scared? Charles tried to take a deep breath, to chase away the sleep that was dragging him under.

While the world turned hazy and his consciousness retreated, his last thought was a vow, an internal command to fight through the haze. Protect them, his mind urged, but darkness edged in, stealing his ability to do anything.

As Rachel’s anguished cries grew distant, Charles succumbed to the void, the chaos of the diner fading into nothingness.

10

Rebecca had been cycling through possibilities while Jake rushed the saltcellar to the forensic lab in Coastal Ridge. As far as she could figure, the best-case scenario would be a one-off accidental contamination. That was what she was hoping for.

If that wasn’t the case, they’d have to trace the salt’s journey until they could pinpoint where the fentanyl had been added. That would also mean there could be a much wider contamination zone, possibly covering several states and countless victims. Thankfully, they had support from the DEA, which would verify that nothing was missed and that all test results were accurate.

Rebecca stood in the middle of I Scream You Scream, ready to scream. “Please tell me there’re no other trace of drugs in this shop.”

Jake, just now returned from the forensic lab, glanced at Hoyt before turning to the lead crime scene tech striding into the room.

Zahra lifted her hands in a don’t shoot the messenger way. “The sample from the saltcellar was positive in one of the five samples.” She held her finger and thumb together until they were practically touching. “Each sample was just a couple grains each. We’ll know how much of the drug was added once the rest have been tested.”

Hurry up and wait was not Rebecca’s favorite game.

“Let’s assume the salt is the source.” She rolled her neck. “How did the drug get into the cellar?”

Viviane shook her head, her black ponytail swinging. Her dark eyes were narrowed with contemplation as she turned to face Rebecca. “It had to be an inside job, right?”

“According to Paulo, where the container normal sat was easily within reach of customers…” Rebecca’s voice trailed off, racing through further possibilities. “We’ll track down possible manufacturers and food deliveries tomorrow. For now…”

A crackling static broke through her thoughts, followed by Elliot Ping’s tense voice from the dispatch radio. “All units, we’ve got multiple medical events at Seabreeze Café. The 911 dispatcher sent medical first, who are now requesting police as well. It’s potentially more overdoses. One adult male, two children, male and female. They’re all related.”

Hoyt’s hand shot to his pocket and ripped out his phone with a white-knuckled grip. He dialed a number, pressing the phone tight against his ear.

Rebecca noted the sudden pallor of his skin but had to respond to the call first. “Dispatch, inform medical that it might be fentanyl and to use Narcan. Keep us updated.” She released her mic and was about to ask Hoyt what was up when he frantically spoke.

“We had lunch at Seabreeze. She took the leftovers home. Angie, please pick up.” He choked out a desperate mantra as his fingers tapped against his thigh. “Pick up. Pick up.”

Rebecca sucked in a deep breath and, like everyone else, held it while waiting for Angie to answer the call from her husband.

“Angie, thank God. Don’t touch the leftovers from lunch, and don’t go anywhere else to eat.” Hoyt’s voice cracked with relief. “No. I’ll explain later. I love you. And don’t give any of the food from the diner to Boomer either. Not even a bite.” He ended the call, shoving his phone into his pocket with a trembling hand.

Rebecca exhaled, but her breath caught on its way out. The incident at the ice cream parlor was not an isolated one. The deputies exchanged looks that carried the weight of their unspoken fears of how widespread this issue could be.

“Let’s move out, people,” Rebecca commanded, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. “Frost, you’re with me.” As shaken as he was, she didn’t want him driving anywhere.

As a unit, they piled out, with a belated order for Paulo to go ahead and lock up for the night. Neither Rebecca nor Hoyt said a word on the short trip to the diner.

As usual for the dinner rush, the parking lot at Seabreeze Café was full. Two ambulances were parked out front, their swirling lights acting like a beacon for the cruisers bearing down on them.

Rebecca skidded her SUV to a halt amid the tumult. She stepped out, her attention immediately drawn to the grim ballet of medics working around the ambulance where two small bodies lay on stretchers. One was a boy, about eight, with brown hair and freckles. He resembled the slightly older girl lying on a second stretcher next to him.

“Officer on-site!” Rebecca bellowed with her command voice, though her underlying concern was unmistakable as she approached a paramedic attending to the children. “Status?”

“Alive, but critical. Appreciate the heads-up on what we’re dealing with here.” This paramedic Rebecca recognized. Kendric Hayes, who’d assisted in a murder case during Hurricane Boris. While he talked, he never paused his ministrations of the kids, whose faces were ashen, their breathing shallow and erratic.

Jake and Viviane clambered out of their cruiser and rushed to Rebecca’s side.

“Narcan is safe for kids, right?” Rebecca felt a surge of doubt. She was no expert, and it looked like she needed to up her knowledge of such things—fast.

Hayes ripped open a drawer in the back of the ambulance and dug around inside. “Yep. Two doses already.”

“Rebecca!” Betty’s voice, tight with panic, beckoned Rebecca away from the ambulance. She turned to find Betty supporting a distraught woman with blond hair a few shades darker than the girl’s and a spattering of freckles across her pale cheeks. “This is Rachel, the mom and wife. Her husband’s inside. They’re still working on him.”

“Frost, get in there. Tell everyone to stop eating. No one touches another bite. Get names and contact information, and tell them they should head to Coastal Ridge to be checked out. And make sure the medic inside knows to use Narcan.”

“On it, Boss.” Hoyt ran inside.

“Deputy Darby, no one else goes in. Watch the front. Deputy Coffey, post up at the rear exit. Tell Deputy Frost to direct the diners with no symptoms there. They can go around to their vehicles. We don’t want to clog the front until the ambulances are away.” Rebecca bobbed her head at them. “Let the medics work and give the family some privacy. Make sure no one reenters once they’ve exited.”

The pair scrambled to take posts at the front and rear.

She cued her mic. “Dispatch, contact Meg Darby, and have her assemble a team of volunteers. She needs to coordinate with Betty Hiaasen to make sure no one who ate at the Seabreeze in the last few days have been sick. They also need to know that any leftovers might be tainted.”

“Copy, Sheriff.”

Rebecca stepped up beside Betty and addressed the mother. “Rachel, I know this is a terrible situation, and I’m so sorry, but I need to know what they ate. It’s very important.”

“Charles…my babies…” Rachel managed as she tried to control her breathing, her voice raw with agony. Each word was a struggle, a testament to the unspeakable horror gripping her soul.

“Rachel, look at me.”

The woman’s wide eyes met Rebecca’s.

“I need to know what they ate.”

“Chicken tenders. Fruit.”

“What about Charles? Is that what he had?”

“Soup. Um, and a sandwich.”

“Did you eat any of the same food?”

Rachel shook her head, tears trailing down her cheeks when she squeezed her eyes shut.

Rebecca’s gaze lingered on Rachel’s face, a visage shattered by grief and disbelief. Her mind raced, piecing together the shards of evidence with methodical precision. “Did Charles or the kids add salt to their meal?”

Through her tears, Rachel managed to nod, the words catching in her throat. “Only…only Charles.”

“Did the children eat any of his food?” Rebecca probed further, remembering her own childhood of innocently sharing bites at the family table.

“Yes.” Rachel’s voice broke anew. “He loved the soup…said it was so good. He wanted them to try…” A sob choked her words. “What’s wrong with the soup?”

Betty’s expression tightened, a mixture of shock and horror dawning as Rebecca’s questions unearthed a grim reality.

“Did you have any of the soup, Rachel?” Rebecca peered into her eyes, but the woman was in shock, which could have explained why her pupils were so large.

“No,” Rachel whispered. She shook her head, scrubbing a hand across her eyes. “I…I don’t like tomatoes. Oh, God, please don’t take my babies.”

Rebecca turned to where Rachel was staring as the ambulance doors were closed.

Hayes, who’d just loaded Danny into the ambulance, called to Rachel. “If you want to come, you need to do so now.”

Rebecca gently nudged Rachel toward the medic and the waiting ambulance. “Go look after your kids. We’ll keep you updated on Charles.”

Rachel remained rooted, staring into the restaurant where Hoyt was standing guard over two more medics still working on Charles. She only hesitated a moment, but Rebecca could see how much the decision cost her before she ran and jumped in the ambulance to be with her children, leaving her husband behind.

Rebecca shifted her focus to Betty. “Tell me what happened.”

“Charles and the kids…they were fine one minute, eating dinner, and then…” Betty’s widened eyes reflected the shock of witnessing a family unravel. “The kids passed out first. Then he followed. It all happened so quickly. We couldn’t get them to wake up. I even tried some smelling salts I keep in the first aid kit. What could have caused this?”

“Did anyone else get sick?” Rebecca avoided Betty’s question, not wanting to stoke hysteria.

“Nobody else.” Betty’s face was etched with confusion and fear. “Just them.”

“Thank you, Betty.” Rebecca took a deep breath, steeling herself against the onslaught of what-ifs that threatened her composure. There was no room for hesitation, no space for doubt.

With a resolute nod, Rebecca turned on her heel and strode into the nearly empty café, with Betty close on her heels. Diners were shuffling out the rear exit even as they checked out the paramedics’ activity. A few remained, seeming uncertain what to do about their unfinished meals and unpaid checks. The air was thick with muted concern, the worried murmur a low hum amid the chaos.

Rebecca’s jaw clenched as she faced Betty, who was standing far enough back not to get in anyone’s way. “We need to shut down the café until further notice.”

Betty helped Jake finish ushering out the remaining patrons, insisting that their meals were on the house. Rebecca’s mind whirred. How far had this poison spread? Was it possible the container of salt hadn’t been contaminated at I Scream You Scream? Could the drugs have been added to the salt before it reached the island?

There was only one salt container at the ice cream parlor. But the café had shakers at every table and along the counter bar. If it was in the salt before it got there, why weren’t more people affected?

There, next to the remnants of a family meal interrupted by tragedy, lay Charles. Beside him were strewn empty Narcan cartridges. They’d given him an IV with what she assumed was also Narcan and had established an airway. The EMT was squeezing a bag, trying to force air into his lungs, but nothing seemed to be helping.

Charles’s body was still, the finality of death casting an eerie quiet over the space around him. Even though the medics continued to work on him as they loaded his gurney into an ambulance, Rebecca held no hope. She had seen too much death. The husband and father was gone.

After a quick detour into the kitchen, Rebecca headed over to the table where Charles had eaten his last meal, carrying a clean glass of water and an empty glass.

She removed a fentanyl testing kit from her pocket and, after donning a pair of gloves and a mask, unscrewed the cap of the saltshaker with fingers she fought to keep from trembling.

After dropping the sample into the empty glass and adding a teaspoon of water, Rebecca dipped the test strip into the liquid, then laid the strip across the rim, gaze fixed on the indicator line. Minutes stretched like hours, with no second exonerating line appearing.

“Fentanyl,” Rebecca announced quietly, the word slicing through the empty diner. She knew she’d gotten lucky, given, as Zahra had explained, how easily a low number of fentanyl grains could be missed in a test.

At her pronouncement, Betty’s gasp was a soft echo that rippled through the dining room.

Rebecca reached for her radio. Hoyt was right in front of her, but Viviane and Jake were still outside at their posts by the exits. “All units, we need to initiate an immediate shutdown of all public dining on the island. Dispatch, I’m going to need you to call Deputy Locke in early.”

Static crackled over the line before Viviane’s voice responded. “Copy that, Boss. What’s the situation?”

“Opiate contamination of the salt. This could be more widespread than we realized.” Rebecca’s thoughts raced as she considered the implications. Every grain of salt now seemed like a tiny granule of terror. “Secure all eateries, candy stores, gas stations, bars, you name it. Any place that prepares food of any kind. Until we know where this came from, we can’t risk anyone else consuming it.”

11

The static buzz of the police scanner was like white noise, a lullaby for the damned. I lounged on my bed, half in shadow. The parking lot glow from outside seeped through the blinds and cast slanted bars across the walls.

Like my own little jail cell.

I had nothing else to do right now. The rush of my last Russian roulette meal had faded, and I was wallowing in the silent misery of my normal life. There wasn’t even the quiet tick of a clock to keep me company. Life had moved past such devices. Now a person had to use their phone.

While my phone could tell me what time it was, that was about all it could do. It wasn’t like I had anyone to call. No one to talk to. No one to reach out to. I had one number I could use, but that man wouldn’t pick up anyway. He’d be angry at my intrusion into his life.

All I had to look forward to was my next meal.

Voices crackled to life, jolting me from my trance. “All units, we’ve got multiple medical events at Seabreeze Café…it’s potentially more overdoses…”

I bolted upright, propelled by shock that morphed into exhilaration as I picked up snippets of the alert. Multiple medical events. At Seabreeze. My handiwork. I couldn’t believe it. That was where I’d gotten the idea for the saltshakers.

Morley’s proposition had been clear. I was to sow as much chaos as possible on this little island in ten days. It didn’t matter how I did it or what I did. As long as it created a headache for law enforcement.

Days had passed without so much as a peep, and now this. Now I had multiple victims all in one day. The hum of activity at the little café surely qualified as the requisite chaos. Giddiness from surviving my last meal there rushed back, mixing with the satisfaction that I was achieving my goal. I was one step closer to the biggest payday of my life.

Although I’d been left to choose how to wreak havoc here, my benefactor promised to sweeten the pot with a bounty of fifty thousand dollars for every life I took. And all of that was gravy on top of the cool one mil he was paying me. Plus the fact he’d said he’d wipe out my gambling debts too.

My scanner continued its update. How much more money had I just added to the kitty?

“One adult male, two children, male and female. They’re all related.”

Children?

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Kids. Two of them. I hadn’t given much thought to kids getting caught up in this. Yet if this little family died, I’d be up another hundred fifty.

Did children even salt their food? Kids liked sweet things, sure, but it hadn’t occurred to me they’d go for salty stuff. Maybe if I’d had a kid, I’d have known their eating habits better.

I should have thought things through and not let the big payout cloud my judgment.

But really, did it matter?

The empty void growing inside me couldn’t register emotion anymore. Kids died from drugs all the time. News outlets were always droning on about the nation’s drug crisis. This was a problem bigger than me. I wasn’t responsible for someone else’s child.

Just like an addict. Not giving a shit who gets hurt because of my actions. But at least this time, I’m not the one hurting. And I’ll be able to start fresh.

I tossed the radio aside and reached under my bed, pulling out a notebook and a pen with a chewed cap. The pages were filled with neat, coded scribbles only I could decipher. Each line represented a place I’d left a little extra seasoning in a saltshaker. Dates, places, doses—all carefully documented, but written so only I understood their meaning.

“Seabreeze has three victims. The ice cream place had one.” I spoke aloud to give myself the illusion of company. “Two hundred thousand will be a nice addition to the pot. But I can do better. And the more people who die, the more chaos that will create, which will delight my puppet master for sure. Perhaps Morley will even give me a bonus.”

I tapped the pen against my teeth. My pulse thrummed in my ears as I drew tally marks next to the code name I’d assigned to the Seabreeze Café.

This part, the documentation, was such an integral part of my mission. I didn’t even have to think in order to translate my shorthand into recognizable names and numbers. My fingers danced over the paper, a dance of death, and I was the choreographer.

I found beauty in the randomness of who would fall victim. It was my own private game, and the whole island was playing, whether they knew it or not.

It was chaos, and it was gorgeous.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, excitement bubbling up inside me. “You’re one hell of a genius.”

I’d visited plenty of establishments. The fish taco place, the fancy bistro by the abandoned marina, and even the place where all the servers were singing happy birthday to some embarrassed kid.

But maybe I’d gotten too cute with the Russian roulette aspect of the chaos. Sure, people randomly dropping dead around the island would create mass hysteria. But the body count was fairly low, so it might not qualify as disruptive enough.

My supply of fentanyl was limited to one small baggie. I’d chosen to distribute a little of it at every eatery on the island. One doctored saltshaker per restaurant was the best use of my limited supply.

As a gambler, I was riding a winning streak. The thrill was something else and almost better than any big payout. “Almost. I’ve got to be careful.” My hand stilled. “Pride comes before a fall.”

But I shrugged off my own warning. What was life without risk? Without the threat of losing it all? I knew plenty about loss. The adrenaline from the assigned task and my fear of getting caught made everything sharper, more colorful. It was the difference between just existing and actually living. I’d need to win a few more times before I started taking my own advice.

No one listened to losers.

“Which is why I have no one to call. But let’s see. What are my odds?” I scratched out some calculations on the hotel stationery. The cheap pen felt clunky in my hand, the ink flowing uncertainly as I attempted to calculate the chance that I, the architect of chaos, might taste my own poison.

“These three places pick up their saltshakers. This one has two salt boxes they use on everything. But then these five seem to leave everything on the table overnight. And there’s been no chatter on the scanner about anyone dropping dead there. Not yet at least.”

I tapped the pen against my lips.

“Why haven’t more people died? There aren’t many people on this island, and the places weren’t exactly busy when I visited them. I need more information. Like how many hands touch the salt after I’ve been there. Too many variables…” My voice trailed off, a grin spreading across my face at the thought of the danger.

The numbers weren’t adding up, so I scratched them out.

“I could be caught in my own snare.” I leaned forward, knowing the walls were my only confidants. “Dying would mean I wouldn’t have to face the consequences for any of the terror I brought to this town. An easy escape.”

“All units, we need to initiate an immediate shutdown of all public dining on the island.”

The sheriff’s voice crackled through the scanner, severing my reverie. Another surge of adrenaline shot through me, my heart pounding against my rib cage with the force of a sledgehammer.

They knew.

“Damn.” I threw the notebook aside, the numbers now worthless. “Sheriff, you clever bitch.” I could imagine the smug expression of the FBI castoff. “Have you figured out the game? Are you closing in?”

A different woman’s voice answered. “Copy that, Boss. What’s the situation?”

“Opiate contamination of the salt. This could be more widespread than we realized.”

I rose and paced the room, each step echoing the rapid drumbeat of my pulse. There was a tightness in my chest. They were onto me, onto my method.

Overdosing wasn’t the only way I might die. That coward’s way out of this mess might not be an option if the cops got to me first. Especially if I killed those two kids at the diner.

“Death by police? I hadn’t considered that.” My fingers twitched. “If the sheriff lady and her four deputies are going to take me out, then I need to make it into a spectacle.” Even if I couldn’t collect my winnings, I refused to end all this as a loser.

I was on a winning streak. If I could pull this off, the rewards would be legendary. I picked up the police scanner and spoke to it as though the cops on the other end could hear me. “Game on, Sheriff.”

12

At the Seabreeze Café, Rebecca waited until the last patron had left and the diner was quiet. Betty was back behind the counter. For the first time since Rebecca had met her, she wasn’t bustling around. She stood motionless, her eyes downcast.

“Betty, we need to ask you about your salt supply.”

Betty looked up, surprise flickering across her careworn face. “You mentioned salt outside, said it tested positive for drugs. What the H-E-double hockey sticks is going on, Rebecca? Sheriff. Pardon my language.”

Never before had Rebecca seen Betty flustered. “We’re not sure yet. But I Scream You Scream had a deadly overdose earlier today too. The saltshaker behind the counter used by the staff to make their signature salted caramel…that’s the only place we got the positive result for fentanyl.”

“Well, I know it’s not back here. I taste a sample from every pot of soup, every sauce that goes out of my kitchen.” Betty squared her shoulders and planted her fists on her hips. “I also randomly check my food throughout the day to make sure everything is up to par.” She waved at a tall stack of saucers next to the grill that she clearly used to sample her food. “I’m not dead or even sick.”

“Then what’s different about the salt on your tables?”

“That’s sea salt.” She pointed an accusatory finger at the offending shaker. “We set both types on the inside tables. I’m proud of my food, but some folks insist on adding extra seasoning to my dishes.”

Understandably, the ice cream parlor didn’t keep condiments on the tables. Here at Betty’s, diners at every seat inside had access to several bottles and containers. Each one was an opportunity to poison a random person. Maybe it wasn’t just the sea salt this time.

Rebecca turned and noticed Viviane standing in the main walkway that cut through the center of the restaurant. “Darby, test the rest of the basket on that table.”

“On it, Boss.” Viviane turned to carry out the order.

“Plus,” Betty continued, “it runs cheap, given how close we are to the source. Dasalan Food Supply on the mainland sends us a batch every two weeks or so.” Her forehead creased. “Just got our latest shipment four days ago. I’m not sure the last time I refilled the shaker Charles used tonight. The staff picks them up at the end of the night and tops them off as needed.”

“Dasalan, huh?” Rebecca watched Viviane, who’d gloved and masked up and was now hovering over the table, waiting for the test strips to indicate a positive result. She turned back to Betty. “Do you use sea salt in any of your cooking?”

Betty shook her head, her shoulders no longer looking so tense. “No. It’s only for the tables. In the back we use kosher salt. But it all comes from the same place.”

“Do you know if Mr. Manfred at I Scream You Scream gets his salt from the same supplier you use?”

“Phil? I don’t know.” Betty’s lips curled at the edges. “But I’m sure he’d love to answer that question for you.”

“Well, he hasn’t seemed to appreciate anything we’ve asked him so far.” Rebecca sensed a story.

“Don’t listen to his complaining. That man’s always itching for a new gripe. Considering he works with customers, his whiny attitude is shocking. You know, he tried to convince me to stop serving my shakes? Claimed I was cutting into his business.” She rolled her eyes. “As if ice cream isn’t available at every other restaurant and grocery store on the island.”

“He’s just jealous that his ice cream can’t come close to your homemade shakes.” Betty’s characterization of Phil Manfred lined up with Rebecca’s original opinion of the ice cream parlor owner. She pulled out her phone and dialed Manfred’s number, but it rang through to voicemail.

Despite her antagonism with the man, Betty seemed worried too. “Not answering?”

Rebecca shook her head. What if Manfred had accidentally consumed some fentanyl? He’d had such a flippant attitude about the danger. “Looks like I’ll have to pay him a visit.”

Looking over her shoulder, Rebecca gestured for Viviane to join her. “I’m sorry, Betty, but you’re going to have to stay closed until we can get to the bottom of this.”

Betty waved her off. “I’d rather lose a couple nights’ receipts than have another customer die. Do you think the kids will make it?”

“Yes.” Viviane stepped up to join them at the bar. “The medics still here told me the kids made it to the hospital. Looks like they’ll pull through. They likely didn’t ingest enough to be fatal, and the Narcan was enough for them.”

“And Charles?” Betty clasped her fingers tight together.

Rebecca and Viviane shared a look, with Rebecca nodding for Viviane to go ahead.

“I’m so sorry.” Viviane bit her lip. “They said he was pronounced dead on arrival.”

Betty’s hands and mouth tightened, but she said nothing more. For her part, Rebecca tried not to imagine Rachel Richter thanking her lucky stars for her children’s lives while simultaneously mourning the loss of her husband.

Clearing her throat, Viviane gestured around the room. “The rest of the condiments on that table are cleared, Boss.”

“That’s good to hear.” Rebecca felt some of the tension in her back dissolve. “But we’ll have to call in forensics for the rest.”

Betty sucked in a breath. “I’ll wait here while they work, if that’s all right.”

“It’ll have to be outside.” Rebecca eyed her, imagining her hovering over the shoulder of every forensic tech who entered her kitchen. “You can make sure Hoyt stays on task.”

Betty snorted, a little levity amid the madness her beloved restaurant had become. “That man already has a wife.”

“We’re going to run over to Phil Manfred’s house to see if we can find a connection between these incidents.” With that, Rebecca guided Betty outside while Viviane called forensics.

After updating Jake, Hoyt, and Trent as to where they were heading and that a forensic team was on its way, Rebecca and Viviane hopped in Rebecca’s SUV and took off. The drive to Manfred’s was short, and Rebecca used it to get Viviane caught up on what she’d learned from Betty.

“Whatever’s happening, it’s bigger than just a few salty meals, isn’t it?”

“Seems like it.” Rebecca fixed her eyes on the road ahead. “And if Manfred’s been using the same supply…” She let the implication hang in the air.

“Could be a coincidence,” Viviane offered, though the skepticism in her tone suggested she didn’t believe that.

“Or it could be a lead.” Rebecca parked on the street in front of Manfred’s house. They both climbed out, and Viviane held back a little, letting Rebecca be the one to knock.

The worn wooden door creaked open, revealing Manfred’s haggard expression as he squinted against the glare of his porch light. “What now?” Despite his less-than-pleasant greeting, he stepped aside to let Rebecca and Viviane enter his cluttered living room. “Let me guess. Now you want me to evacuate my house.” Manfred’s eyes narrowed almost to slits. “Is there fentanyl here too? Should I tear up my floorboards for you?”

Rebecca’s jaw clenched as she regarded him, the gravity of the situation rendering her normally expressive face stoic. “We found fentanyl in the salt at the Seabreeze Café. Another man is dead, and two children were poisoned but should recover.”

“Oh, shit.” Manfred sank onto a green couch, gazing off into the distance. “So it’s not just my place. Was it in her ice cream?”

“It was in the salt. Sea salt, same as yours.” Rebecca took the chance to glance around the house. There were family pictures hanging everywhere, including one of Manfred posing with a dark-haired girl wearing a graduation cap and gown. Both looked happy as they leaned into each other for the photo. “We need to know about your supplier.”

“Dasalan Food Supply.” He didn’t hesitate in his response. Clearly, the severity of the situation had broken past his need to complain about everything. His voice held an edge of seriousness that wasn’t there before. “I’ve always used them and never had a problem. Every two weeks, they make a delivery to me. Last batch came in four days ago.”

Viviane, who had been silently observing, finally spoke up. “So right around the same time as Betty’s shipment.”

Salt from the same supplier had been delivered on the same day to two different businesses. And now people were dying after using it. That was too much of a coincidence.

A new crease formed between Manfred’s eyebrows, signaling his growing concern. “They offer weekly or biweekly deliveries. I never even paid attention to it, except to make sure all my stuff was accounted for. Like I said, I’ve never had a problem with them before.”

“Was the sea salt you used this week delivered on your last shipment?”

Manfred pulled out his wallet and started going through it. “Yes. We’d run out the day before, and it was refilled immediately.” He held up a business card. “This is the woman who’s in charge of my account. If Betty uses them, she probably has the same contact.”

Grateful for his change of attitude, Rebecca took the card and thanked him before leaving him to try to enjoy the rest of his evening.

Once they returned to the SUV, the glow from the dashboard illuminated Rebecca’s features as she pulled out her phone, the digits of Dasalan Food Supply already cued up. A series of mechanical rings filled the vehicle until the impersonal voice of an answering machine cut through, signaling after-hours emptiness.

“Damn.” She thumbed the end call button with more force than necessary.

“Guess we’re taking a little field trip in the morning,” Viviane predicted, her tone matching Rebecca’s disappointment.

“First thing.” Rebecca scanned the digital map on her phone screen. The route to Dasalan Food Supply was displayed in a stark blue line, just inside Coastal Ridge, outside her jurisdiction. She locked her phone, the screen’s light winking out and surrendering them back to the shadows.

Rebecca sighed, already anticipating a rough day tomorrow. But she would do whatever it took to make sure no one else’s evening meal out ended up their Last Supper.

13

The early lights of dawn had softened to a light-blue hue over Coastal Ridge as the SUV’s tires hummed against the concrete. Rebecca and Viviane made the turn off the bridge and headed to Dasalan Food Supply to get some answers.

Forensics had turned up no other positive results for fentanyl at Seabreeze the night before. They’d also carefully removed the contaminated container to the lab for further testing. Rebecca wanted to breathe a sigh of relief with the drug gone from her island, but a nagging itch at the back of her brain told her this case was far from over.

With one hand on the wheel and the other on her travel mug, Rebecca wove her way through a cluster of industrial buildings huddled against the chill of an unkind sea.

“Looks as welcoming as an IRS audit.” Viviane’s sarcasm was a thin veil over the tension that hooded her features.

They pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript warehouse with a facade as bland as the sky above. Rebecca couldn’t help but agree with Viviane. The plain building could have housed anything. Nothing about it said “fresh and fast,” like the company logo promised.

Even the entrance was bland and cheerless. The reception area inside was antiseptic and unwelcoming, with fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead.

Rebecca approached the front desk, badge in hand. “Morning. I’m Sheriff Rebecca West from Shadow Island. I left a message last night. We need to speak to someone in charge of your salt deliveries.”

The receptionist, a young woman with a headset covering one ear, looked up. The humdrum feel of the building seemed to have seeped into her soul. She swallowed hard, a fawn caught in headlights. “Just…just a moment, please.” She pressed a button on her phone and spoke in a hushed tone too low for Rebecca to decipher.

The door to the back offices swung open, and a woman in her fifties appeared. She extended her hand. “Shirley Moore, delivery coordinator. What seems to be the problem?”

“As I told your receptionist, we need to go over some of your deliveries. Two people are dead. Two children were hospitalized.” Rebecca wasted no time on chitchat when lives were on the line. Still, she shook the woman’s clammy hand. “It appears they may have suffered an overdose of fentanyl overdose from sea salt your company delivered to two different restaurants on the island.”

Moore recoiled as if struck, her professional mask slipping. “Oh, my god.” She clamped a hand over her mouth and motioned them toward her office. “Please, come with me.”

Viviane stepped up behind Rebecca, silently signaling the hierarchy between them.

No. Rebecca corrected her assessment. Viviane was showing her that she had her back. And that felt good. She was at least a little less alone.

They followed the delivery coordinator down a narrow corridor lined with framed pictures of employees of the month. Moore’s office was a small, orderly room, every pencil in its cup, every paper in its stack—nothing like the chaos that had been delivered to Shadow Island.

“Please, sit down.” She waved at a chair in front of the desk while she took a seat behind it. “Tell me everything.”

Rebecca settled into the chair, its faux leather cold and unyielding beneath her. She laid out the facts, each word a weight added to Moore’s shoulders. Viviane remained standing, observant and attentive, in the corner of the room.

“What were the names of those restaurants?” Moore’s fingers hovered over her keyboard, the click-clack of keystrokes punctuating the tense silence that had settled over the room.

Rebecca told her and waited as Moore pulled up the information they needed.

“We source our sea salt in large shipments.” Moore spoke as she typed, and Rebecca spotted a tremor in her hands. “They arrive prepackaged from the manufacturer, Malone Salts, sealed and ready for distribution.”

“Prepackaged,” Rebecca echoed. “You’re saying that if there was tampering, it happened before the salt reached Dasalan.”

“Exactly.” Moore glanced back and forth between the two officers, drops of sweat forming on her brow. “It’s conceivable that multiple tainted boxes could have ended up on the same delivery truck, especially if they were part of a single batch. And…”

“And other compromised boxes might be out there, poisoning more than just Shadow Island,” Viviane finished.

“Correct.” Moore’s hands stilled, and she looked at Rebecca. “Unfortunately, I can’t give you a full list of all businesses that received this shipment without a warrant. That would violate our privacy policies.” She stood and opened her office door. “However, my assistant and I can call those companies to request their permission, while you wait.”

Moore called over the receptionist, and they disappeared into her office. Rebecca leaned against the wall. “I think it’s time we get the DEA involved.”

She pulled out her phone and connected with Special Agent Marten at the DEA. After explaining the situation, Rebecca heard the clacking of a keyboard through the line. “I’ll open an investigation into Dasalan on our end, and handle getting a warrant for any companies that are being prickly about giving out their information. They’ll need to stop all deliveries until we can figure this out.” The clacking stopped. “Are you the point person on the case?”

“Yes.” Rebecca gave Special Agent Marten her information, and the clacking resumed.

“I’ll be in touch with any new information.”

Rebecca tucked her phone away. Moore’s door opened, and the receptionist breezed by them to reclaim her position at her desk. Rebecca and Viviane entered the office just as Moore was pulling out pages from her printer.

She handed the warm paper to Rebecca. “Any information you have on the sabotaged batches would help us track potential risks in other deliveries. We can also find out where it was harvested before it was boxed and shipped to us.”

“Of course.” Rebecca accepted the list. She skimmed the names of local diners, tourist spots, and small-town cafés, a web of potential disaster sprawled along the coast. They were in Rhonda Lettinger’s jurisdiction, although she was busy with the cases of the bodies found at Oceanview Cemetery. Rebecca briefly wondered if Rhonda would even answer when she called, since she was up to her neck with the cemetery situation.

“Could the delivery driver have tampered with the product?” Rebecca’s question sliced through the air, direct and uncompromising.

“Tampered with…?” Moore’s mouth opened slightly before pressing into a thin line. “We don’t run surveillance inside the trucks themselves. It’s…theoretically possible.”

“Who are the drivers who delivered to the two establishments I told you about?” Rebecca held her pen over her pad, ready to write.

“It’s just one driver, Bob Colton, for the route your island is on.” Moore’s discomfort was evident as she tapped into another database. “He’s relatively new, only been with us a few months so far. There’s been no hint of trouble with him. No complaints from customers. No delays in delivery times.”

“As per the DEA, I need you to halt all deliveries of the sea salt. No matter where they’re going. Pull your drivers off their routes and have them explain the situation to their customers.” Rebecca watched as Moore’s expression darkened with realization. “We’ll need his current route for both the island and mainland. Including the names of the businesses he makes stops at.”

“The bulk of his route is on Shadow Island.” Moore scrolled through the details. “We have contracts with nearly every establishment there.”

“Can you get us in contact with Mr. Colton?” A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine. Nearly very establishment? That meant almost no place on the island was safe. It was a damn good thing she’d decided to close all businesses that served food.

“He’s working now. All our drivers check in once they’ve made a delivery so we know where they’ll be next. I can get you Bob’s schedule for today’s run.” Moore printed off a thick stack of pages and handed them to Rebecca with a tight, scared smile.

“Thank you, Ms. Moore. I’ve spoken to the DEA and they will be in touch. They’ll work with you to track down everywhere that salt supply traveled before reaching you.” Rebecca rose from her chair.

“Of course.” Moore offered a curt nod, which Rebecca and then Viviane mirrored.

They stepped out of Moore’s orderly office, and the door shut behind them with a soft click.

Morning sunlight reflected off the hood of the cruiser as Rebecca squinted against the rays. She keyed the radio as they approached the vehicle.

“Dispatch, update on the fentanyl case. We’ve got the name of the delivery driver, Bob Colton. We’ve also learned that he delivers to nearly every restaurant in town. Shutdown orders for all places that prepare food on Shadow Island remain critical. We might be looking at widespread contamination. I want boots on the ground, door to door, to make sure everyone is complying. No stone unturned. Got it?”

“Got it, Sheriff.” Elliot’s voice echoed through both Rebecca’s shoulder mic and the cruiser radio as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Next step?” Viviane hopped in the vehicle, automatically reaching for the papers Rebecca was holding.

“Call the other jurisdictions on this list and let them know what we’re dealing with. And ask if they’ve had an uptick in fentanyl overdoses. We might not be the only place hit with this.” It would put a quick end to the case if Bob Colton was the man behind the mayhem. But knowing her luck recently, Rebecca doubted it would be that easy.

14

“All right. Time to get this done.” Hoyt pushed himself up from his desk, his knees protesting the sudden movement. He snatched his hat from the corner and settled it onto his head.

For the last hour and thirty minutes, the deputies had been working the phones. Trent had even stayed late on his day off to help with the calls.

Every restaurant on the island had to be contacted to make sure they knew to stay closed for the day. Most of them wanted updates on the case, which slowed their progress in getting through the list of establishments.

The deputies were also communicating with the DEA, but different agents kept calling back to ask more questions. Jake had agreed to serve as the liaison with the agency when Hoyt made it clear his patience was gone.

Trent and Jake were running through the list of establishments on the island that served food. Jake had cracked a joke about not realizing there were so many choices and said he was going to have to eat out more…once this threat had passed.

Hoyt couldn’t help but think about the inevitable fallout. Morale in town would take a nosedive, and the local businesses, especially the restaurants, were about to suffer a blow that could shutter them for good. And they were still reeling from the bombings that had torn apart the town just weeks ago.

No one wanted to close right after getting up and running again. Several places weren’t even answering their calls, and he hoped that meant they’d closed down as ordered.

“You two keep making those calls. And keep it simple. We don’t want to start a panic. Just stick to the facts.” Hoyt’s voice held a tired edge as he addressed the other deputies.

“Sure thing, Frost.” Trent cracked his knuckles. “Are you going out?”

“Yeah. I’m going to hit the restaurants that aren’t answering. You young bloods can sit and do the deskwork. I’m ready to take a drive.” Hoyt tossed them a wave as he walked out.

The door swung shut behind him with a finality that echoed his thoughts. The streets outside were quiet, ominously so. As he made his way to his cruiser, Hoyt couldn’t help but feel responsibility settling on his shoulders like a leaden cloak.

This was an important task, but he needed to wrap it up before the town hall this afternoon. He could use this excursion not only to warn everyone but to also publicize the meeting and gauge public feelings on the matter before it even started.

As Hoyt put the cruiser into drive, he tried to go over exactly what he would say to everyone.

But after about four seconds, he tossed that thought right out the window.

This wasn’t going to be a one-size-fits-all situation. He’d have to listen to each person’s concerns and address them directly.

He’d have to face the disbelief, the anger, maybe even the despair of the townsfolk. He’d have to look the restaurant owners in the eye and tell them their livelihoods were under attack by an unseen enemy. But this town knew him, trusted him. If anyone was going to deliver this news, it should be him.

So it only made sense to start with the easiest one first. And the closest.

The pungent aroma of freshly ground coffee wafted through the air as Hoyt approached Bean Tree Coffeehouse. They should have been closed, but clearly, they weren’t. He pushed open the door, the bell above chiming his entrance. The cozy interior, usually abuzz with chatter, was quieter than normal.

Vinnie, one of the managers, nodded at him. “Morning, Frost.” His voice lacked its usual warmth. Despite Frost glaring at him, he somehow managed to not look guilty, though he was quick to make excuses. “Look, I heard about the mess. But you’re not seriously shutting us down too, are ya? We’re a coffee joint, not a restaurant. We don’t even use sea salt. Or have saltshakers set out. So we should be fine.”

“Is that why you were dodging our calls?” Hoyt fixed him with a level gaze. “Unfortunately, none of that matters. This fentanyl situation is bigger than just sit-down meals. It’s anything that could’ve come into contact with contaminated salt. And that includes your pastries.” Hoyt turned and waved his hand at the case of fresh baked goods.

“Hell, I can’t toss ’em out!” Vinnie’s hands flailed toward the display. “I just made them!”

“That’s why we called you last night.” Hoyt planted his hands on his hips. “And left messages. And why Locke called you again before you opened. But you didn’t answer the phone. Did you think dodging our calls was going to work?”

Vinnie sighed. “I was busy. And everyone was saying it was sea salt. I don’t use sea salt. And I checked the box the salt came in. It looks fine to me.”

“This isn’t tainted Halloween candy we’re talking about. You can’t just look at it and tell.” Hoyt leaned against the counter. “Plus, we don’t know how or when the contamination happened. Give us time to at least track this down. You don’t want a customer to drop dead in your place, do you?”

“I really didn’t think our stuff would have the same risks. And people rely on us to get their mornings started right.” Vinnie gulped and stared at the bar set up for patrons to doctor their coffee just the way they liked it. His shoulders slumped, defeat etching lines across his brow. “All right, dammit. I trust you and the sheriff. We’ll shut down.”

Hoyt clapped him on the shoulder, recognizing the sacrifice behind the compliance. “And we appreciate that. We won’t let you down. If you see anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, call us. We rely on you as much as you rely on us.”

At that, Vinnie perked up, just the slightest bit. “Yeah. It’s going to take a community effort to get this island back to how it should be.”

“That’s the spirit!” The interaction had gone surprisingly well. Maybe things weren’t as dour as Hoyt had feared. “In case you haven’t heard, there’s a town hall meeting at three this afternoon. Spread the word. I hope to see you there.”

One business down. Now he only had the rest of them to deal with.

15

The alley behind the Golden Dragon Chinese restaurant in Coastal Ridge was a narrow corridor of shadows and refuse, a place overlooked by the cheerful seaside tourism just blocks away. Rebecca peered through her windshield at the man they had tracked down with help from his employer.

“Darby, that’s him.”

Bob Colton was unloading crates from a nondescript white delivery truck, his movements sluggish and mechanical.

Rebecca opened the door of her cruiser. She’d alerted Coastal Ridge PD to her presence in their jurisdiction and received permission to question the man on their turf. Taking the lead, Rebecca strode down the alley, her badge glinting as it caught a stray beam of sunlight. “Bob Colton?”

He looked like he’d been carved from a cliff face, weathered and eroded to a hollow shell. His eyes were red-rimmed, sunken deep within their sockets, and bleary with exhaustion—or something else.

He turned slowly, his face registering no surprise, only the slightest flicker of annoyance. “Yeah?” His voice was gravel, roughened by too many cigarettes or too many late nights.

“I’m Sheriff West from Shadow Island. We need to ask you some questions.”

Colton glanced at her badge with disinterest and a roll of his shoulders. “Now’s not really a good time, Officer. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’m behind as it is.”

“Unfortunately, it can’t wait. And it’s Sheriff, not Officer.” Rebecca stepped closer, cutting off his path to the next crate.

“Officer of the law is still an officer. But whatever.” He did the shoulder roll again, his irritation as evident as the dark circles under his eyes. “Listen, I understand you have a job to do, but so do I. I don’t have time for twenty questions.”

“Neither do we.” Rebecca crossed her arms, staying planted in his path. “But sometimes, we have to make time.”

Colton sighed, a long exhalation that seemed to deflate him further. “Fine. But I’ll keep working while we talk. Agreed?” Rebecca’s first impression of Colton was as cold as the sea breeze that snuck between the buildings.

“I’m afraid not.” Rebecca shook her head, watching as Colton hoisted a heavy package onto his dolly. She pointed at the boxes he was unloading. “This is about what might be in those packages, and I need you to stop and answer some questions.”

Rebecca kept a close eye on Colton’s actions, noting how his hands trembled slightly, though whether from strain or nerves, she couldn’t yet tell. She jotted notes, each observation a potential piece of the puzzle. Meanwhile, Viviane stood sentinel, her keen eyes missing nothing.

Colton sagged against his half-loaded dolly. “What’s wrong with my boxes? Did I forget part of someone’s order?”

“More like the opposite, actually.” Rebecca noted that every box in the truck was sealed. “We found something extra. The salt you delivered to Shadow Island was laced with fentanyl.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and accusatory. But Colton’s reaction was muted, his face impassive. “Fentanyl is everywhere these days. Haven’t you heard? There’s an opioid epidemic. Doesn’t surprise me.”

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed, searching for any flicker of guilt or recognition, but she found none. The man seemed completely unfazed by the news. “Did you tamper with any of your packages, Mr. Colton?”

His retort was swift and immediate. “Of course not.”

Viviane shifted, fists on her hips.

“Besides, the salt is boxed inside the case and wrapped in plastic to keep it from getting damp. If I’d messed with those boxes, it would have been obvious. Did anyone complain about receiving a tampered box?” Colton’s voice gained an edge. He held up his electronic clipboard and waved it in the air, causing Viviane to tense up. “Because I don’t have a record of any complaints like that. So what makes you think I had something to do with this?”

“We’re just covering our bases.” Rebecca didn’t like that he was treating them more like complaining customers than officers of the law. “Did you stop for any reason during your deliveries? Allow anyone else access to your truck? Needles can make it through boxes. Even boxes wrapped in plastic.”

“No. No, I didn’t. All the boxes were sealed each time.” For the first time, uncertainty wiggled into his tone. “I think. I don’t know. I can’t guard my truck while I’m inside unloading the dolly.”

His admission rippled through Rebecca, confirming her suspicion that Colton’s inattention to detail might have opened avenues for foul play. “You’re responsible for the goods you’re delivering. Aren’t you worried about the food being stolen or tampered with?”

As impossible as it seemed, Bob Colton managed to deflate even more. His shoulders hung low, and his face lost its brief animation as he stared at her with dead eyes. “There’s no point in trying to stop it. Drugs are everywhere. And some people are just unlucky.”

Rebecca kept her gaze on him. His indifference was a stone wall, impassive and unyielding.

“Are we done here?” Colton’s voice was threadbare from exhaustion, or perhaps from something more corrosive—a deep-seated apathy.

“For now.” Rebecca put her notepad away. “But you’re going to have to stop all your deliveries and head back to Dasalan. We’re working with the DEA on this, and they’ll be getting in touch with you with a few more questions.” Or at least, that was what Special Agent Marten had told her when she and Viviane had coordinated with him earlier.

Colton simply nodded and turned back to his dolly, stacking boxes with jerky movements.

“Sir?” Rebecca’s annoyance bubbled beneath the surface. “Mr. Colton, I’ve instructed you to halt all deliveries immediately.”

He looked between the boxes and the back door of the Chinese restaurant that he’d propped open. “I’m gonna get fired if I don’t make these deliveries.”

“No, that won’t happen.” Rebecca scribbled a note on the back of her business card. “Here. If anyone has a problem with this, tell them to call me.”

Colton pocketed the card and then disappeared into the back of the restaurant empty-handed, leaving his half-loaded dolly alone by his truck, with its doors wide open.

Viviane pivoted to face Rebecca. In the subtle arch of her eyebrow was a question that didn’t need voicing. She wanted to know what they should do next.

“Let’s get back to town.” Rebecca twisted her torso to stretch her back muscles that she hadn’t realized were holding so much tension.

As they walked back to their SUV, Rebecca mulled over the interview. Colton’s nonchalance was disturbing. It wasn’t just detachment. More like a complete sense of apathy, unconcerned by anything that affected others or even himself. Then again, if Colton was an addict, he might just be in a low between his highs.

Viviane lowered her voice, despite Colton still being inside the restaurant. “If he’s been sloppy with his deliveries, maybe someone’s taking advantage.”

“Or maybe he’s part of it.” Rebecca slid behind the wheel and keyed the ignition. She watched Colton walk back to his truck and begin loading more boxes onto his dolly before disappearing through the back door of the restaurant.

Apparently, Bob Colton struggled with following orders. Anger bubbled up in Rebecca, and she forced herself to take some deep, calming breaths. Beside her, Viviane couldn’t even find words. “He’s…wha…Boss?”

Rebecca held up a lone finger, and as she mentally counted, she put up another finger for each count. Finally, she let out a long exhale. “I’m pissed too. But I have an idea.”

She climbed out of the SUV and popped open the liftgate. Grabbing a steering wheel lock club, she moved to the back of Colton’s delivery truck and closed the two doors with a loud clank. She secured the two claws of the device through the truck’s handles and extended the rod to create tension between the claws before locking it and dropping the key into her pocket.

After an uptick in car thefts, all the deputies had begun carrying steering wheel lock clubs to hand out to residents who requested them. Not many had taken advantage of the program, and Rebecca found using the lock in this manner to be thoroughly satisfying.

She’d expected Colton would rush out of the restaurant when he heard her shutting the doors on his truck, but he stayed inside. Maybe he didn’t care about his deliveries as much as he claimed, or perhaps he simply hadn’t heard the commotion. Either way, now he’d have no choice but to return to his headquarters and stop all deliveries.

When Rebecca climbed into the SUV, Viviane’s smile was bright enough to light up the whole front seat.

“That was pretty devious. He’s gonna go apeshit.”

“Noncompliance isn’t an option. I think Mr. Colton might realize that, once he returns to his truck.”

Viviane laughed before turning serious. “Where to?”

“Back to Shadow Island. Let’s hope the surveillance cameras there saw what Colton missed or ignored.” Rebecca put the cruiser into gear and backed out into the street, checking her rearview mirror. A smile spread across her face as Colton emerged from the restaurant and discovered his locked truck, letting his empty dolly fall to the ground.

16

The steady hum of the SUV’s engine was a comforting constant as it ferried Rebecca and Viviane back to Shadow Island. The sky showed signs of pale blue through the gray-tinged clouds on the first day of December. Tiny lines of light managed to break through as the sun slowly moved past its apex.

Inside the vehicle, Viviane’s fingers danced across the keys of the onboard laptop, tapping into databases that lay bare the bones of people’s lives.

“Look at this.” Viviane scanned the screen. “Bob Colton had no run-ins with the law until last year.”

“Really?” Rebecca desperately wanted to peek at the screen but kept her focus on the road. “What happened then?”

“Drunk and disorderly conduct, and then an assault charge at a poker game not long after. That’s quite a pivot from law-abiding citizen to local troublemaker.” Though her voice hinted at sarcasm, Viviane’s brow furrowed in contemplation.

“Sounds like something set him off.” Rebecca’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel. “People don’t just change overnight without a reason.”

“Exactly my thoughts.” Viviane scrolled down the digital rap sheet. She clicked through tabs with practiced ease, a job she’d done countless times as the dispatcher for their small sheriff station, where everyone pitched in to get the job done. “There’s something more.”

Rebecca eyed her deputy, urging her to continue.

“Looks like Colton had a habit of playing poker and was pretty bad at it. He made some comments to the arresting officers about gambling debts, but I don’t see any indication they followed up with him about that.”

“Search through his social media. I’m sure he wasn’t posting about gambling debts there, but maybe there’s something that can tell you what caused his shift in personality.”

Viviane maintained a running commentary as she pulled up Bob Colton’s Facebook profile. “That’s a really old profile picture. He’s at least thirty pounds heavier in it, and not a bad thirty pounds. He looks fit.”

Rebecca glanced over. The transformation was stark. More than just a headshot, the photo showcased Bob Colton’s muscular body as he stood on a boat, holding on to a pair of water skis while giving the camera a thumbs-up. He was smiling, his full cheeks stretched wide. What could have caused a healthy-looking man like that to turn into the burned-out, apathetic husk of a worker they’d just encountered?

Drugs was the first thought that entered her mind.

“His appearance may not match the man we met today, but his posts sure do.” Viviane tapped on the screen, frowning. “Seems like our Colton has been busy online.”

“Let me guess, conspiracy theories and doomsday preaching?” Rebecca’s tone made it clear she’d seen this pattern before.

“More like someone screaming into the void. He’s angry, Boss. Really angry.” Viviane’s eyes narrowed as she read a post. “‘The pharmaceutical industry will kill freely if it means an extra dollar in their pocket.’ He even spelled everything right.”

“Considering what we’re dealing with, that’s a worrying sentiment. Fentanyl is a synthetic drug developed in a lab by the pharmaceutical industry he’s ranting about.” Rebecca kept her attention on the road ahead, but her mind was working through possibilities. This could explain why Colton was so blasé when he heard about the drugs in his delivery. Coincidence or criminal conspiracy? “Is anyone listening to him? Engaging with this stuff?”

“Less and less.” Viviane clucked. “It’s like watching someone being swallowed by quicksand, reaching out for help, and everyone just steps back.”

“Alienation can lead to dangerous things. His anger could have turned to apathy as people stopped listening to him.”

“I can’t blame people for keeping their distance. He also posted that humans are a virus and we deserve to be wiped out. Go figure, that didn’t get a lot of likes. The one before that was a post about how people will pretend to care until they have a better option and abandon you.” Viviane kept scrolling. “‘Capitalism will destroy us like we deserve.’ That one is older and has a couple of likes and some comments agreeing with him.”

An angry, angry man.

Viviane went silent as she scrolled faster and faster. “Holy shit.”

“Found something?” Glancing over, Rebecca saw a pained look on Viviane’s face. “What is it?”

“Maybe the turning point for him. It’s a bunch of condolences for his loss.” Viviane’s voice trailed off as she clicked through the digital breadcrumbs. “Condolences, sympathies, asking if he needs anything, asking if he’s okay after…oh, boy. His son died.”

Rebecca pulled onto the bridge heading to the island. “How did he die?”

“I can’t tell for certain. He didn’t post anything about it. It’s just when people started posting on his page. Let me look up his son.” Viviane was quiet for a moment. “Walker Colton, twenty-four, died of an overdose after taking fentanyl-laced heroin.”

Rebecca’s heart thudded, both out of sorrow for the man’s loss and the relevance to the case. “That would certainly cause a man to change.” She sensed the pieces coming together in a mosaic of tragedy, motive, and opportunity. “When did this happen?”

“About three months before Colton started posting all that dark stuff.” Viviane clicked back to the social media, scrolling to Colton’s earlier public activity. “Before that date, he mostly posted about family barbecues, fishing trips, and birthday celebrations. It looks like it was just Colton and his son. There’s no mention of the son’s mom. Oh, there’s a photo of him displaying a bracelet he won at a poker tournament. That’s from about a year ago.”

“A single dad making the best of life before the world turned upside down for him. But also a man who seems to enjoy gambling and might owe some people a favor or two.” Rebecca glanced over at Viviane with a mix of curiosity and determination.

“Right. So he goes from your average Joe to a whack job ranting about humanity and the pharmaceutical industry.” Viviane gestured to the screen. “He escalated quickly. Using the same drug that killed his son to kill others.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. He could be a grieving father yelling into the void in an attempt to deal with his pain.” Although Rebecca’s gut twisted with the same suspicion. “Or he could be seeking revenge for his son’s death. Or he might be paying off some steep gambling debts by doing someone else’s dirty work. We can’t get tunnel vision.”

“Should we bring him in?” Eagerness vibrated through Viviane’s question.

“Not yet. We need more than just a troubled past and a few angry posts. If that was all we needed, we could have arrested Nathan Warner years ago.” Rebecca grimaced at Viviane.

Nathan had been a nuisance since day one for Rebecca, and she’d never understood what she’d done to get on the man’s bad side.

“First, we’ll see if Phil Manfred or Betty Hiaasen ever received an unsealed package from Colton. And we’ll go from there.”

“You want me to ask Manfred to meet us at his shop?” Viviane was already reaching for her phone.

“Yeah. You know the drill. When all else fails, go back to step one.”

17

Rebecca pushed open the door of the mostly unlit I Scream You Scream ice cream parlor. The bell’s tinkle was drowned out by the grating sound of Phil Manfred grinding coffee beans behind the counter. His scowl seemed a permanent fixture beneath the fluorescent lights.

“Deputy Darby and Sheriff West, I’m here like you asked. To what do I owe the displeasure?” The compliant attitude from last night had clearly receded, and the man was back to being annoyed by everything.

Rebecca ignored his barbs. “We’re sorry to bother you. I need to see your security footage from last Friday.”

“Oh, sure. Sure. Sure. Sure.” Manfred threw his hands up dramatically. “While we’re at it, want me to disrobe for a strip search? Want to take a gander at my credit card statements? I think I’ve got an old high school report card somewhere you can critique. I can’t believe people think they can just show up and make demands of me and expect me to be all cheery and happy about it.”

Still grumbling, he led them through the back into a cramped office that smelled faintly of dairy, fruit, and sugar.

Rebecca followed, shaking her head. Betty was right. The man really did look for any excuse to complain.

“Here.” He gestured to a dusty desktop PC sitting on a desk cluttered with sticky notes and crumpled receipts. “Knock yourselves out.” On his way out, he pointedly glared at Rebecca’s steaming travel mug.

Viviane leaned forward, the mouse clicking rapidly under her fingers as she navigated the grainy, time-stamped images. Rebecca peered over her shoulder. Manfred, Paulo, and another teen she didn’t recognize zipped around the back of the parlor at ten times the normal speed as Viviane watched on fast-forward.

“Stop. There.” Rebecca pointed at the screen. “That’s Colton with his dolly.” Colton appeared, hauling boxes into view. Rebecca squinted as Viviane replayed the snippet several times, but the camera’s angle offered no definitive proof of boxes that had been tampered with. Viviane clicked the video forward one frame at a time.

“Dammit.” Frustration knotted Rebecca’s stomach. She’d been hoping to get a bit of solid evidence here. Or at least a promising lead on whether Colton was the man she was looking for.

“Anything?” Manfred’s voice carried a note of impatience, though he’d dialed back the irritation.

Rebecca glanced up, noticing he was holding a steaming cup of coffee now. Maybe he really did need his caffeine fix. “I can’t tell. He never brings his delivery into full view of the camera. Do you have any other CCTV cameras?”

“That’s the only one.” Manfred peered at the screen, and his scowl returned. “That’s supposed to be pointed at the back door. Not the hallway. It must have slipped down on the bracket again. I’ll have Paulo tighten it up if you ever let him come back to work again.”

Rebecca ignored the jab. “Thank you for your help.”

“Anytime, Sheriff.” Manfred said the words, though they all knew he was anything but sincere. “Let me know when you want to dig through my trash for clues.”

“Will do,” Viviane chirped, playfully rolling her eyes as they stepped out of the stale office and made their way through the parlor. Manfred’s grousing followed them all the way until they left the shop, the bell jangling behind them.

“Back to the distributor? Maybe they’ve gotten something from their supplier.” Viviane gave what seemed to be a casual glance left and right as she walked to the cruiser, but Rebecca noted she was carefully surveying their surroundings. Just like she should be.

“Maybe not.” Rebecca tapped the number into her phone, squinting against the glare of the overhead sun. “We have another place to check.”

Viviane leaned against the SUV, an eyebrow raised in anticipation.

“Seabreeze Café. Betty speaking.”

Rebecca marveled at the vast difference between the two business owners. “Hey, Betty. It’s Sheriff West. We need a favor.”

“Let me guess. You want to see our security footage?” Betty replied, her intuition as sharp as the knives she used to slice lemons for tea.

Rebecca snorted and put the call on speaker so Viviane could hear too. “How’d you know?”

“Well, it’s the only thing that makes sense after you went and talked to my supplier.” Betty sighed. “They called to warn me about a possible contamination in my order. I can put two and two together. The next logical step would be to see if the delivery guy tampered with my order.”

“You got it. Any chance you’re looking to change career fields?” Rebecca cut a glance at Viviane and waggled her eyebrows.

“And have to deal with the riot that would happen if I wasn’t making my famous shakes?” Betty barked out a dry laugh. “I’m perfectly happy where I am. Thank you. Did Phil give you any grief?”

“Wouldn’t be Phil if he didn’t.” Viviane leaned in closer to the phone to chime in. “In fact, he said we could go through his trash next.”

“Ha. I’ll be nicer than Phil. I promise. That man could start a feud with a potted plant.”

Viviane and Rebecca exchanged a grin.

“Come on over. I’ll have everything ready for you. I’ll leave the patio door unlocked. See you in a bit.” Betty ended the call.

It was a quick drive over. The café was normally a hub of activity in the middle of the day, but when they walked through the side patio door with the Closed sign hung from it, everything was silent. Betty greeted them from behind the counter.

“Ladies! Come on back. I’ve got the whole delivery day cued up.” She pointed at a tablet lying on the counter.

“Appreciate it, Betty.” Rebecca stretched up to see what she was working on. “What are you doing back there?”

“Just because I can’t be open doesn’t mean I can’t clean and take inventory. If it turns out the food’s no good because someone poisoned it and I have to toss it, I’ll know exactly what I lost. I usually do inventory in January after the holidays, but I guess I’ll get a jump on it this year.” Betty shrugged. “And doing something is better than sitting around doing nothing.”

Two completely different ways of looking at things. Phil was whining and complaining. Betty was taking the opportunity to get work done.

“Since I knew what you were looking for, I went ahead and pulled up the footage.”

Rebecca stepped up to the bar seat and reached for the tablet. Just as Betty promised, the screen displayed a video with a time stamp from Friday. She clicked Play.

On screen, Colton maneuvered through the café’s back entrance. His dolly was laden with boxes, and he carried one under his arm. Something about the way he held it piqued her interest. She paused to look closer.

“He’s using his arm to keep the flap down.” She started it again, watching as he carried the box in, set it down, and quickly unstacked the dolly so the unsealed box was at the bottom.

“He’s trying to hide it.” Viviane pointed to the screen. “And now we see why.”

On the screen, Betty walked up, smiling and talking to Colton. As he turned to respond, Rebecca froze it again. “And he’s hiding something in his shirt. Look there.” His company polo was tucked in, but as he turned, they could make out a lumpy shape about the size of a fist along his waistband.

“What’s he doing?” Betty leaned over.

“It looks like he’s hiding a box that was open before he brought it in.” Rebecca backed up the video. She wondered if this could be the evidence they were looking for. “Do you know what was in the box on the bottom there?”

“Um.” Betty bit her lower lip. “I can’t remember. I’m sorry. He brings the boxes in, but they don’t stay where he leaves them. My staff opens and unpacks them, putting everything where it belongs. If that box was open, it wasn’t anything they mentioned to me.”

“That’s fine. We can just play it and see what gets unpacked.” Viviane tapped the screen.

In the video, Betty walked off. Colton came and went once more, this time sliding a stack of boxes off the dolly instead of restacking it. Betty walked past again, ignoring the delivery while she was focused on something else. A bit later, the short order cook came by, along with the busser, and they started sorting and unpacking.

Rebecca glanced at her watch. The town hall meeting would be starting soon. But this was her first priority. She returned her attention to the figures in the video.

The men took turns grabbing boxes, repositioning them, and opening and unpacking them. It was a long and tense wait for them to reach the bottom. Finally, the busser picked up the last box and set it directly on the counter.

As they’d suspected, one flap was already free. It flipped open when it was picked up. Inside was a blue box and several single-serving bags of chips. Rebecca paused the playback again before it was carried out of view. “Can you tell what that is?” She spun the tablet around so Betty could see.

“That could be the box of sea salt I ordered to refill the shakers.” Her lips were pressed into a grim line. “Or it could be the regular salt. The salt was stacked on the bottom of the box with the bags of chips on top. Dasalan always puts heavy stuff in the bottom of otherwise light boxes to even out the loads.”

“Can you print out this frame?” This was a tangible thread they needed to pull.

“Sure thing.” Betty clicked a few keys, and somewhere in the back, a printer whirred to life.

Two deaths, two kids in the hospital, and Colton’s hands all over the salt should be enough to get a warrant to search his house.

First, she’d have to head back to the station to make copies of the delivery paperwork Dasalan had given her. She would need to fill out the warrant request form, along with an affidavit explaining why she thought it was needed.

There were never enough hours in the day, but Rebecca was going to damn well make good use out of all of them.

She knew Meg and Hoyt had coordinated the town hall to try to clear her name after the attack pieces. But this meeting could accomplish more than that. It could also be the perfect place to educate the community about the dangers of fentanyl.

18

The town hall, a relic of the island’s Colonial past, with its whitewashed brick and arched windows, sizzled with an electric tension that seemed to seep from the very mortar. The wooden chairs, arranged in neat rows, groaned under the weight of the island’s concerned residents. Hoyt stood at the back of the stage, his posture rigid, the lines of his uniform sharp against the disquiet of the crowd.

It was a fairly good turnout, with only a few empty chairs. Hoyt stood off to the side of the stage while Mayor Doughtie sat behind a folding table.

Meg approached the podium with a grace that Hoyt always marveled at. When she spoke, her voice was a calming balm over the rising whispers. “I want to thank each of you for coming this afternoon. I know rumors have been going around, and we’re here to address them. Your voices will be heard.”

Phil Manfred’s voice was the first to break the silence. “The restaurant closures are killing our local economy.” His scowl was so harsh, Frost could count the wrinkles around his eyes even from the stage.

“Each concern will be addressed.” Meg’s tone was unflappable even as she shot Manfred a vicious look. “But let’s get everyone seated first.”

Nathan Warner’s acerbic retort cut through the room like a knife. “And what about West? Isn’t that who we’re here for?” His voice was taut with suspicion. “We’ve all read the news reports about her. She’s not who she claimed to be.”

“And who did she claim to be, Nathan?” Meg shot back immediately.

Hoyt didn’t bother to hide his grin. He stepped forward, speaking clearly into the microphone. “Far as I know, she didn’t claim to be anyone except Rebecca West. What about that do you think is wrong, Nathan?”

“Well, how about that the first thing West did when she got here was to cozy up to Ryker Sawyer, son of the Yacht Club leaders?” Nathan sneered, looking around for people to agree with him. “How can we trust someone with that sort of judgment?”

Hoyt’s jaw clenched at the accusation and the casual familiarity Nathan used to talk about his boss.

“Ryker worked with many of us here. In fact, it was Ms. Shuping who entrusted him with a key to Sheriff West’s home.” Meg stressed Rebecca’s title. “He was a well-known and trusted handyman. Unfortunately, we only learned that trust was misplaced recently. You often hired him for jobs at your motel. Did you know he was the son of criminals?”

Nathan faltered, his face reddening as murmurs broke out among the townspeople. Hoyt watched as latecomers picked their seats, distancing themselves as far from Nathan as possible.

“Let’s not forget,” Meg continued, her voice gaining strength, “that Sheriff West came to our island for a vacation, looking for time to recover from the physical and mental stresses of her previous job. Yet when she was asked to help, she immediately threw herself into solving a murder case that touched the lives of everyone here.”

Hoyt lifted his chin. “That’s right. Sheriff Wallace was the one who approached her while she was still moving into her rental home. She was reluctant at first. But she agreed to help because I’d just had surgery and Deputy Hudson’s wife had just given birth to their daughter. Only Deputy Locke was working, and Wallace needed help looking for a missing teenage girl.”

A few “that’s right” and “oh, yeahs” rippled through the crowd.

He paused, taking in the audience as they settled into their chairs. “I’m sure you all remember how that turned out. And after rescuing three young girls from a trafficking ring, Rebecca tackled a murder case head-on, which inevitably led us to scrutinize the Yacht Club.”

“Thank you for raising that point, Deputy Frost.” Meg pressed her fingertips together. “Before she was ever voted in as sheriff officially, Sheriff West dedicated herself to serving this community.”

Hearing Meg’s endorsement, Hoyt felt a surge of pride toward both Meg and Rebecca, who he knew were more than capable of steering their island back to tranquility.

A woman’s voice rose above the rest, sharp as a shard of glass. “Alden Wallace’s death was tragic, yet it conveniently left a vacancy for this West woman to slide into, didn’t it?”

The accusation hung in the air, a noxious cloud threatening to choke them all.

“I wouldn’t call his death convenient. Not for the island, not for West. She’d only agreed to work the one case, covering for us as interim sheriff.”

Trent Locke stepped forward, his stance broad and commanding. “And to address something I’ve seen in comments on those articles that have everyone on edge, Sheriff West wasn’t responsible for Sheriff Wallace’s death.” Trent’s voice resonated with a rare tremor of emotion. “I shoulder that blame.”

Hoyt’s pulse quickened at the unexpected confession. The crowd’s restlessness ebbed slightly, replaced by a quiet curiosity.

“Explain yourself, Locke,” someone called out.

“I trusted the wrong people, people like Nathan here.” He jerked his thumb at the hotel owner, who immediately sat down in his chair and slumped as low as possible without actually falling off. “I didn’t follow standard operating procedure. When Wallace was shot…” His expression contorted with pain, forming wrinkles that didn’t normally exist on the man’s baby face. “I was so shocked, I didn’t react properly. West was in danger, and Sheriff Wallace had been shot. And I failed them both. West saved herself and then started first aid on Wallace.”

Trent’s admission laid bare his own vulnerabilities before the community. The sheriff’s deputy was mortaring his guilt into a foundation of resolve.

“Sheriff West showed me what I refused to see for years. What many of us saw but turned a blind eye to. The real danger of the Yacht Club’s influence. She ended that.” Trent’s shoulders squared as though ready to absorb the consequences of his words.

“So you’re saying we shouldn’t take to heart all the things the papers are saying about her?” a man’s voice called out.

Meg Darby’s voice, calm and steady like a lighthouse in stormy weather, attempted to navigate through the tempest of grievances. “Honey, I’ve always said you should never take the papers as gospel. Didn’t they also say it was going to rain today?”

A few people chuckled at that, and the mood lifted.

“Then what should we believe?” asked the same man.

“Your eyes.” Meg leaned forward on the podium. “You have them, same as me. Maybe you haven’t been around Sheriff West as much as I have. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in this room who’s been pulled out of a wrecked car by her, but I know plenty of others have been saved by her.”

“West saved me from getting blown off my roof.” Hoyt recognized Walter Bolland’s voice and recalled that awful night when he and Rebecca had fought against hurricane winds to put Walter’s ladder back up when he’d been stranded on his roof.

“She saved me. Twice.” Hoyt bit back a gasp as Serenity McCreedy stood up, her shoulders back and her chin raised proudly. “Well, more than that, really. She never stopped trying to save me, even when I didn’t want it. In fact, she still hasn’t stopped.”

Hoyt had never expected to see Serenity here. He knew Rebecca had called to let her know the Yacht Club was destroyed and she was safe. But they thought they’d only ever see her in a magazine from one of her modeling jobs.

“She saved my friends from horrors most of you could never imagine. You looked the other way and chose to listen to rumors instead.” Serenity made it clear who she blamed. “The fact that anyone on this island could even think Rebecca is anything but kind and moral just shows how willfully blind people can be.”

Nathan stood up again. “Well, if she took down the Yacht Club the way she said she did, then why are there teenage girls killing each other? Why are there drugs closing down our businesses?”

“The Yacht Club was a bunch of losers, but even they had standards. They didn’t want anything to do with the more amateur criminals.” Trent looked pointedly at Nathan.

“Crime is a complex issue,” Mayor Doughtie added, his tone diplomatic yet tinged with urgency. The man was the mayor, but even before she was elected to chair the select board, everyone felt as though Meg ran the town. It was no surprise she was running this meeting, and the mayor didn’t seem to mind. “It’s not something that can be resolved overnight. Sheriff West has acted swiftly to combat it at every turn.”

An older woman in the third row of seats stood up. “Why isn’t she here to tell us the truth about what you’re labeling rumors?”

Hoyt didn’t hesitate. “Sheriff West isn’t here right now because she’s out trying to hunt down the person who poisoned the salt at our local eateries. I think that’s more important than battling conspiracy theories and wild rumors.” His gaze fell on Nathan until the man squirmed and looked away.

The doors creaked open, cutting through the fraught atmosphere, and Rebecca walked in with Viviane at her side. Rebecca’s stride was assured, her eyes locked on her phone as she finished typing and tucked the device in her pocket. She gave a quick nod to several people but stumbled when she saw Serenity.

A smile stretched wide across her face. Serenity blushed and quickly sat down, hiding among the crowd after giving her a little wave.

Rebecca took the three steps up onto the stage, and Meg moved to the side, gesturing for Rebecca to take her place at the microphone.

“Apologies for my delay.” Rebecca’s voice broke through the hum of whispered conversations, commanding attention without strain. “I was caught up in a case. If someone can bring me up to speed on what you were discussing, I’d be happy to answer any questions.”

The air shifted. Rebecca’s arrival had not only calmed the audience but also reignited a flicker of faith.

“We were wondering where you were and why you expect all our stores to be closed down because you can’t get a handle on the drug problem on our island.” Nathan heavily stressed the word our as if Rebecca wasn’t part of the community.

Rebecca didn’t flinch. “I was getting a warrant for a person of interest in the fentanyl cases and coordinating with a neighboring jurisdiction to serve it.”

Beside Hoyt, Trent stifled a snort as a round of gasps went around the room. He straightened his spine. Rebecca might hate public speaking, but she sure did have a flair for it.

19

Rebecca was shocked at how many people had turned out in the middle of the day. Even Serenity McCreedy had taken time to travel here from New York. Her heart swelled a bit as she took a moment to look around the hall at all the people who had shown up for her.

And those who’d shown up against her too.

“I know you all have questions and concerns about the restaurant closures. Let me give you all the information I’m able to share about an ongoing investigation. We’ve had two deaths and two hospitalizations from fentanyl overdoses. As some of you may know, this substance is insidious and deadly, and it’s important we all understand the risks.”

A murmur rippled through the audience, and she plowed on, hating every moment of this.

“Considering how easy it is to conceal such a drug and not yet knowing how many businesses may have been contaminated, we’re asking for everyone’s patience. The restaurant closures were done out of an abundance of caution to keep everyone safe.”

Rebecca paused for a few moments, so everyone could process the severity of the issue. She placed a box on the podium.

“Narcan is a drug that can reverse the effects of an opiate overdose if given soon after exposure to the drug. I spoke with Dr. Jane Olson at the community health center, and they’re offering this lifesaving drug for free and without a prescription. They can answer your questions about opiates and the threat they pose. I’m not a medical professional, so please direct related questions to those who are.”

There was a bit of whispering and talking until a young man slowly raised his hand.

“Yes?” Rebecca pointed at him.

“Um. So, uh…” He looked at two other people in their late teens, a girl who was chewing on her lip and a guy with a bruise on his cheek. “We ate at Seabreeze yesterday. I was fine. Mostly. But, um, my girlfriend got pretty sick afterward. And my buddy here got dizzy and fell down. Do you think maybe we…got dosed? Or something?”

“We thought it was food poisoning or something, but…well, it’s Betty’s.” The girlfriend hunched her shoulders.

“I’m not a medical professional, but it’s possible you got a minor dose of the drug.” Rebecca spoke slowly, so no one could misunderstand her words. “Did you use the salt at the table?”

“I used the sea salt.” The girl raised her hand slightly. “But then my mouth felt funny, and I stopped eating. When we left, I felt bad, and I started puking when I got home. I was going to toss my leftovers, but he ate them instead.” She pointed to the guy with the bruise, who looked embarrassed.

“Definitely go down to the health center and see Dr. Olson. She can test you and answer your questions.” Watching everyone’s reactions, she spotted a handful more people who were looking unsettled. “That goes for anyone. If you think there’s even a chance you ingested any of the fentanyl, please go to the health center and get checked out.”

A murmur went through the room, though most seemed to be nodding along instead of building up a head of steam.

Feeling like she was taking on a maternal role, Rebecca shifted the focus. “If you have any questions about the establishment closings, the threat of fentanyl, or even those tabloid articles about me, I’ll answer them if I can.” She felt ill even thinking about it, knowing she’d have to wage a war against her own expressive face while answering.

A hand shot up, then another, impatience and fear morphing into fervent gestures. Phil Manfred’s hand immediately darted up as well. The rest of him followed as he rose to his feet, his arm still waving above his head. “When are we going to be able to reopen our businesses?”

“Mr. Manfred.” Rebecca managed to keep her voice steady despite the spark of annoyance raising her temper. “Your restaurant has been closed for exactly one day.” She let the words hang between them, allowing the townspeople to digest just how recently everything had happened. “A man lost his life there, and we haven’t even had time to mourn him properly, while you’re worried about profits.”

The room collectively gasped, the weight of her words settling over the crowd like a shroud. Manfred sank back into his seat, looking abashed.

Good.

“Listen.” Rebecca locked eyes with him. “I understand your concern, but safety comes first. You’ll be the first to know when it’s safe to reopen. I will personally call you to keep you updated on the case. Until then, I suggest you reevaluate what truly matters in this situation.”

She glanced around the room, catching sight of faces creased with worry and frustration. It was a look she’d come to know well since her arrival on Shadow Island.

A desperate voice called out. “It seems we have more crime now than we used to.”

The fear was evident, and she understood it. “Crime isn’t new to this island. It was always here, simmering beneath the surface, partially hidden by the outrageous actions of a select few.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Rebecca’s hands rested lightly on the podium as she focused on keeping her stance grounded yet open. “I’m going to continue finding those responsible and putting them behind bars, just like I’ve been doing. Every time something crops up, my staff and I will deal with it as quickly as we can.”

Hoyt cleared his throat and addressed the last person who’d asked a question. “Think of it like a slow leak in your kitchen.” His voice carried across the mutterings of the crowd. “You don’t know it’s there, rotting the floor you’re standing on. But once you look closer, you find more damage than you ever imagined.”

His analogy struck a chord, rippling through the audience as they considered the truth of his words. A flicker of hope shot through Rebecca, bolstered by her own determination to peel back layers of long-festering issues.

“Thank you, Deputy Frost.” Rebecca scanned the room, meeting the eyes of the people she’d sworn to protect. “The Yacht Club’s influence ran deeper than any of us realized. Criminals got the idea that this was a good place to be because it’s hard to focus on the small crimes when much larger ones are happening at the same time.”

She let her words hang in the air. The crowd shifted uneasily, chairs scraping against the linoleum floor of the town hall, a symphony of reluctant acceptance.

“I know you’re all tired…tired of the fear, the uncertainty. I am too. But unraveling years of havoc takes more than a few months. It’s a process, and I’m asking for your patience. Rebuilding trust, ensuring safety…it doesn’t happen overnight. But give us time, and I promise to work tirelessly to make this island the sanctuary we all deserve.”

“Why should we trust you?” Nathan called from his seat in the middle of an oddly empty section of chairs. “You’re an outsider. Since you’ve come here, it’s been nothing but chaos and death.”

Rebecca’s chest twinged, a sting of truth in his words she couldn’t deny. “I first came here as a child, Nathan.” Memories of playing on the beach with Ryker came flooding back. “And when I returned here last spring, I just wanted peace. Now I own a home here and plan on staying. Believe me, I want things to calm down as much as anyone. If there’s going to be any peace here, I have to make it.”

She glanced at Hoyt, who gave her a quick smile and nod.

Rebecca took a measured breath, her hands clasping the edges of the wooden podium, the grain rough against her fingertips. “I understand that trust has to be earned. That’s why I came here to address your concerns.”

Nathan shifted, not yet placated. “If you’re so trustworthy, why aren’t you and your deputies using body cameras?”

“Pen cameras are currently in use by the entire department,” Rebecca explained, her voice firm but not defensive. “Any footage can be accessed through the town hall via a Freedom of Information Act request. And if the budget allows, I’ll be putting in an order for body cameras.”

A rumbling swept through the crowd, a mix of approval and continued doubt.

“Why pen cameras?” Nathan shot back, sounding slightly desperate. “That’s some eighties spy flick crap there. What are you trying to conceal with those?”

Rebecca leaned forward on the podium, speaking directly into the microphone. “By purchasing the pen cameras from Ralph Montgomery at Shadow Sports, we were able to gather evidence against Mitchell Longfellow and Richmond Vale without them knowing they were being investigated.”

“That’s right.” Ralph Montgomery, looking like a slightly younger Sam Elliott, stood up. “Sheriff came to me after she got out of the hospital after getting shot up. She knew someone had set her and her team up. The sheriff suspected Vale and Longfellow were part of that, so she couldn’t let them know she’d purchased cameras that would record their interactions with the deputies.”

Nathan shook his head but didn’t open his mouth.

Ralph looked at the people sitting near him. “So I wrote a generic receipt that wouldn’t raise suspicions. Let’s not forget what those two lowlifes cost us that night.”

Everyone in town knew what had happened during that ambush and how one of their own had died, leaving behind a wife and newborn baby.

Just thinking about Darian made Rebecca’s throat tighten, and she struggled to clear it before speaking again. “As members of the Select Board, Vale and Longfellow had access to all our spending. If they had survived, they would have been charged with crimes committed during their time on the Select Board. But their criminal connections caught up with them, ending in their murders.”

A hush fell over the gathering, and Rebecca wondered if she’d been a little too open about that part.

Hoyt moved toward the microphone. “What we need everyone to remember is that Sheriff West was elected by us, democratically. She deserves the chance to fulfill her promises. She already accomplished one when she took down the Yacht Club.”

A number of people nodded, giving Rebecca either a thumbs-up or a smile.

He paused dramatically, his gaze swinging back and forth at his neighbors and friends. “Let her continue to work, and you’ll see even more progress. Think about what she’s accomplished in less than a year, before she was formally elected, and what more she can do during the rest of her four-year term.”

The collective exhale of the crowd was almost audible as the tension began to dissipate, replaced by a tentative sense of hope.

The knot in Rebecca’s stomach loosened ever so slightly as she acknowledged that this was just the beginning of a long path to trust. “Thank you.” Through the microphone, her voice echoed in the now quiet hall. “This community means everything to me, and that’s why I need to get back to work. My deputies and I won’t stop until we find out how fentanyl is killing our neighbors.”

Meg stepped up, wrapping one arm around Rebecca’s waist and gently moving her away from the microphone. “Thanks to Sheriff West, our town is safer than it has been in a long time. But each of you has a civic duty to help our law enforcement officers. If you have any information that can aid their investigation, please contact the sheriff’s station. With that, we’ll go ahead take a quick break before we move on to the next agenda item for the meeting, the status of the town’s repairs.”

As a few attendees left, scattered conversations blossomed like wildflowers in a field. Rebecca lingered at the edge of the dais with the microphone standing before her, a silent sentinel. The once raucous hall now echoed with the soft shuffles and chatter of the crowd, their shadows flitting across the walls in the late afternoon light.

A spark of pride flickered in Meg’s eyes. Her coiled braids framed her face, offering a sense of composed elegance in contrast to the earlier mayhem. “Rebecca, this island is a stubborn old rock, but so are its people. You’re moving mountains one pebble at a time.”

Rebecca smoothed the front of her blouse, which was a bit rumpled from a long day and leaning over the podium. “Still…” Her voice dropped. “I promised change, safety⁠—”

“And you’re delivering,” Meg interjected firmly, placing a reassuring hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “Change scares folks, especially when it’s fast and not asked for. But they’ll come around. You’re steering this ship through rough waters. Doubt is part of the journey. It’s what you do with it that counts.”

“All right.” Rebecca let Meg’s words fortify her. “Let’s keep moving forward, then.”

The two of them stood together for a moment longer, their silhouettes a tableau of solidarity against the fading light. With a final squeeze to Meg’s hand, Rebecca left the stage and headed out to face whatever storms might come, anchored by her commitment to the rocky, resilient haven that was Shadow Island.

20

Rebecca strode out of the town hall, and her phone pinged in her pocket as she approached Viviane, who was waiting for her outside. Pulling the device out, Rebecca checked the email she’d just gotten.

“The warrant came through. We can search Bob Colton’s apartment.” She glanced at Viviane, who fiddled with the hem of her uniform sleeve, a telltale sign of nervous energy. “Darby, get Coastal Ridge on the line. We’ll need backup to serve this one, since it’s in their jurisdiction.”

“On it, Boss!” Viviane slipped into the passenger seat of the SUV and started making phone calls while Rebecca drove the short distance from the town hall to the bridge off the island. Moments later, Viviane hung up. “Coastal Ridge PD will rendezvous at the apartment.” The shadow of a smile on her lips suggested she relished the forthcoming action.

It could have been Viviane’s commitment to justice and deep-seated desire to end the case, but Rebecca thought Viviane’s love of Betty’s milkshakes might’ve been fueling her desire to get things back to normal. Once this case was over, Rebecca was going to spring for milkshakes for all the deputies.

She maneuvered the SUV over the bridge that connected their jurisdiction to Coastal Ridge. The structure stretched gracefully over the water, a testament to human engineering. As they crossed, Rebecca’s phone shrilled in its holder, the screen displaying a number she recognized. “Sheriff West here.”

“Good evening, Sheriff. Special Agent Marten with the DEA here,” said a weary voice. “As you know, we were testing the Malone Salts warehouse supply for indications that the fentanyl may have entered the supply chain there. All tests for contamination came back negative.”

“Thanks, Agent Marten.” That pointed to the contamination happening either in the Dasalan Food Supply building or afterward. Shirley Moore was still investigating the Dasalan site. “We appreciate your team’s thoroughness.”

“Anything to help, Sheriff West. Good luck with your search.” The line went dead.

The evening sunlight glinted off the windshield as they pulled into the parking lot of Bob Colton’s apartment complex. Two Coastal Ridge officers stood waiting outside their cruiser, their expressions grimly set against the task ahead. Rebecca got out, passing them the warrant.

“Remember, we’re looking for fentanyl.” She scanned the document one last time before locking gazes with each officer. “Glove and mask up, and stay sharp.”

“Understood, Sheriff,” one of them replied, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves with a snap that broke the quiet tension.

Together, they marched toward Colton’s apartment. Rebecca knocked authoritatively on the door. It swung open, revealing Colton, his face slack with surprise. His eyes darted from the badge to the paper clutched in Rebecca’s hand.

“Robert Colton,” Rebecca passed over the paper for him to read, “we have a court order to search the premises.”

“Wha…I don’t understand.” Colton scanned the paper and looked back up at her. His expression was a mask of confusion, but Rebecca saw fear there, too, underneath.

“Please step outside, sir,” Rebecca instructed firmly. “Keep an eye on him, Deputy Darby. Make sure he doesn’t try anything.”

“Got it, Sheriff.” Viviane’s stance was unyielding as she settled into her duty.

As Viviane led him to a spot on the sidewalk outside where she could watch him, Rebecca contemplated the disarray within the apartment.

It looked like a typical basic two-bedroom unit, with the front room and kitchen connected, no dining room, and a tiny hall that led to the two bedrooms and single bath.

But it also reeked of despair, the smell of stale beer colliding with the tang of unwashed clothes. Dirty dishes and laundry were scattered around both rooms, seemingly left without care or thought on whatever surface was handy.

Rebecca moved deeper into the front room, her gaze skimming over surfaces cluttered with debris. Each empty bottle, each crumpled fast-food wrapper, spoke volumes of the life that had unraveled here. A pang of something akin to pity was quickly swallowed by her commitment to the law and the need for unbiased observation.

Colton’s anxious gaze flickered through the open doorway, watching helplessly as his sanctuary became the scene of his potential downfall. Rebecca caught his eye for a moment, reading the dread etched into his features. She turned back to her search, her movements methodical and thorough as she sorted through every pile, one at a time. The room yielded nothing but the artifacts of Colton’s neglect.

“Sheriff!” The voice echoed from the bathroom, slicing through the quiet that blanketed Colton’s cluttered apartment.

Rebecca paused, her hands frozen over a stack of neglected mail on a rickety coffee table. Pivoting on her heel, she strode toward the narrow hallway, her shoes muffled by the grimy carpet.

Pushing open the bathroom door, Rebecca saw the medicine cabinet had been opened wide. Inside, amid the assortment of expired prescriptions and dusty toiletries, lay a plastic bag filled with a fine white powder. Her fingers itched to reach for her radio, but protocol demanded certainty.

Rebecca stepped back into the living room, where she had a clear view through the front door of Viviane standing watch by the apartment’s occupant, her dark eyes tracking every movement as she guarded the suspect. “Mr. Colton.”

Colton’s head snapped up at the sound of his name, a wary look contorting his unshaven face. “What?” His gaze darted past Rebecca’s shoulder, and he craned his neck to try to glimpse the evidence.

“Can you tell me what this is?” Rebecca held the bag aloft, her expression carefully neutral.

He squinted at the bag, his face scrunching up in feigned confusion. “I don’t know what that is.” His words were firm, but there was a tremor in his denial, a quiver that betrayed his ignorance as a facade.

Rebecca retrieved a test strip from the kit she’d brought with her and mixed a tiny amount of the substance into a cap full of water. She silently counted to fifteen as the strip soaked up the fluid. Seconds ticked by, and a single line became visible. She waited a few minutes for a second line to appear. It didn’t. “This is fentanyl.”

Colton’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it? Because from what I’m seeing, it seems like I’m looking at a murder weapon.”

“You are.” His voice was so low, Rebecca nearly missed it. “That’s…that’s my son’s stash.”

Rebecca allowed herself a moment of internal conflict. Pain was clear in his admission, the tangled threads of familial duty and desperation. But the law was clear, and her duty was unwavering.

“Robert Colton, you’re under arrest for possession of a controlled substance.” She followed with his Miranda rights.

Viviane snapped handcuffs around Colton’s wrists with a clink of finality and escorted him to the SUV. Rebecca cast a glance over the disarray of his life, knowing this was just one small victory in an ongoing battle. The cell door would slam shut, reports would be filed, and people she cared about would sleep a little easier tonight.

21

“Have a seat, Mr. Colton.” Rebecca gestured to the hard metal and plastic chair in the interrogation room of the sheriff’s station.

Viviane led him to a chair. He collapsed into it, his head hanging low as he stared down at his hands. The handcuffs echoed as they clinked against the metal table. Viviane checked the camera in the corner, her fingers deftly making sure it whirred to life, the red recording light a silent witness to the unfolding drama.

Rebecca sat down across from him and folded her hands neatly on the metal table, her spine rigid against the back of her chair. Viviane took her place behind Colton, standing by the door with an air of casual vigilance that belied the tension in her shoulders. She hadn’t yet perfected the lazy slouch that so many longtime LEOs had, but she was getting better by the day.

Sadly, she’d had plenty of practice in the last few months.

“Tell me about the drugs we just found in your apartment.” Rebecca locked her gaze on Colton’s face, searching for any flicker of emotion. She noted the way his jaw tensed despite the stoic facade he presented.

He half shrugged. “Like I told you before, they’re my late son’s stash.”

“Why are they still in your medicine cabinet?”

Another half shrug. “Just…I don’t know. Just couldn’t make myself get rid of it.”

She offered a disbelieving huff. “What? Keeping the drugs that killed your son made you feel closer to him?”

He closed his eyes and was quiet for so long that she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Silence was normally an investigator’s best friend, but after a couple minutes, she changed tactics.

“You want to know what I think?”

His eyes opened. “I’m breathless with anticipation.”

She ignored the snark. “I think you’re lying. What I don’t know is if you use the drugs yourself, or if you’re a dealer and that’s how you make extra cash. Having a delivery route has to make it easy to peddle drugs.”

“Neither. It’s not what you think.” His focus stayed on the floor.

“Neither? Then please enlighten us.” Rebecca maintained a clinical tone, betraying none of her curiosity. “Are you dabbling in pharmaceuticals? Moving heavy boxes can screw up your back, and opiates are good painkillers. I know plenty of people don’t trust big pharma now. Maybe you trust street drugs more.”

Rebecca had purposefully referenced his conspiracy theories, hoping he’d take the bait. Viviane shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her eyes never leaving the back of Mr. Colton’s head.

He didn’t even twitch. “It’s not like that either.”

Rebecca leaned back in her chair, spreading her arms wide. “It seems I keep getting it wrong. So tell me, Mr. Colton, what is it like? Why do you keep a baggie of drugs in your bathroom?”

“When my son died last year, it destroyed me.” His grief was palpable, hanging heavy in the air between them. “I lost my son, my best friend. In the days that followed, I lost the rest of my friends, my damn happiness. My whole world. It felt like I lost my life. Nothing mattered anymore.”

Rebecca observed the dull pain that clouded his eyes, the slump of defeat in his posture. Maybe it wasn’t the need for another hit that had Colton looking so down all the time. Maybe it was grief or depression. Despite herself, her heart squeezed for his loss. Still, she had to remain professional. “Tell me about it.”

“Those drugs.” Colton spat out the word like venom. “They’re everywhere. And it’s because of careless officers, like you two, that my son didn’t get the help he needed.” He finally lifted his head, focusing his glare on her. Layers of anger, pain, and hatred slipped through his eyes, punching Rebecca right in the gut.

She shifted in her seat. Men like Bob Colton were always looking for someone else to blame for their own pain and loss. “Your son’s death wasn’t our doing, Mr. Colton. And while I am sorry for your loss, that doesn’t explain why you’re in possession of the same type of drug that killed people who ate at establishments you delivered to.”

A lightning bolt of anger crossed Colton’s face that suddenly made him look alive. But just as quickly, it faded into resigned apathy. He slouched farther down in his chair, the very picture of a man who had nothing left to lose.

“Believe what you want.” He lifted one shoulder. “But I’m telling you the truth.”

“So tell me the truth about the drugs, Mr. Colton. Was that pure fentanyl we found? Or was it mixed with a different opiate?” Rebecca clasped her hands on the table in front of her. She understood the misplaced anger that came with loss. “Our labs will tell us soon enough, but I’d rather hear about it from you.”

“It was heroin laced with fentanyl, I think.” Colton’s throat worked visibly as he swallowed. “I found it. In my son’s room. After my boy passed, I went in there. I just wanted to be close to him. I was going through the CDs on his shelf when I found it.”

That still didn’t explain things, so Rebecca had to keep prying. “So you just kept it in your bathroom? Forgive me for saying so, but that’s an odd keepsake, the thing that killed your son. You could have opted for something more sentimental that carries less jail time.”

Colton let out a long sigh, as if he was exhausted. “I’m not sure why I kept it. I’ve thought about getting rid of it. Every damn day.”

“Why didn’t you?” Rebecca leaned forward slightly. He was hiding something. His refusal to meet her eyes hinted at deception.

“Because…” Colton paused, his breath hitching. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to get rid of his stuff.”

“But you did.” She dropped her voice and her head, matching his movements. “His room is empty. I was just there. You got rid of his CDs, his clothes, his shoes. But you kept his drugs. Why?” Rebecca didn’t state what she feared. It was possible Colton was suicidal and had removed connections to his son. If he felt dying the same way as his son would be poetic, he’d have held on to the fentanyl, and only that.

Colton shifted in his seat but didn’t speak.

“You called it a murder weapon.” Rebecca dragged out the words to catch his attention. “I’ve worked a lot of homicide cases. I’ve never once known a loving parent to keep the murder weapon that killed their child.”

“I was done, you know? Just wanted an out. A quick exit.” The words were mumbled so low, Rebecca barely caught them.

“You wanted to die the same way your son died?” She observed him, considering his words. He didn’t react to her question. Not even to shift in his chair. In fact, he held himself perfectly still. She was onto something. “That doesn’t sound like a good way to go. Opiate overdoses can be brutal. Surely, you know that, after losing your son the same way.”

“An overdose sounded better than any other way to go. I’ve never even owned a gun. What if I was a bad shot and missed?” A bitter laugh escaped him, jolting his body hard enough that Viviane startled from her position against the door. His laugh was devoid of humor, merely a release of pent-up anguish. It vanished in a heartbeat. “But I never did it. Couldn’t even do that right.”

Viviane leaned back but kept watching the back of Colton’s head.

Was this the truth of a broken man or the convenient tale of a criminal weaving a narrative to garner sympathy? Either one seemed possible to Rebecca.

“And what about your love of gambling? Do you owe a lot of money to people, Mr. Colton?”

“I’d hardly call it a love of gambling. I used to play poker. It’s one of the few forms of gambling where there’s actual skill involved. I wasn’t great at it, but…”

“You said ‘used to play.’ Does that mean you don’t gamble anymore?”

Colton’s snort echoed off the walls of the interrogation room. “Sheriff, every damn day on this planet is a gamble. We have no idea when we wake up if we’ll live to see the end of the day. I kept my son’s stash as a way of keeping control over my destiny. But like I said, I never found the courage.”

“So when you couldn’t take your own life,” Rebecca shifted gears, lowering her tone, “you decided other people should suffer. And that’s when you decided to kill others.”

“Kill?” Colton’s head snapped up, his eyes suddenly sharp with indignation. “Kill people? No. I never⁠—”

“Your truck. The poisoned salt,” Rebecca interjected firmly. “Last week you tampered with the boxes that you delivered to Seabreeze Café. You tried to hide it, carrying it under your arm. And you stacked other boxes on top of it. But we have it on video. And you had something tucked into your shirt. Was that the same bag of drugs we found at your apartment, or did you use a different one to contaminate the food you delivered?”

Colton’s expression crumbled, draining away to panic and confusion. “What? No, no. You got it wrong. I wasn’t messing with the salt. That’s screwed up. Why would I do that? I just wanted some chips. Stupid, I know. But I forgot to eat, and I was hungry. So I stole a couple of packs of chips out of the boxes. My job’s all I have left, but maybe, on some level, I don’t really care about that either. I’m no shrink, so I don’t know.”

Rebecca frowned before she could catch herself. “You stole a bag of chips.”

He slumped further into himself, a man unraveling before her eyes. “Yeah. Two, actually. At the time, I didn’t care much if I was caught. But I didn’t want the owner to say anything about them either. That’s why I stuffed them in my shirt. Then I ate them when I left.” He shook his head vehemently. “I’m not poisoning other people’s food. I’m not a monster.”

Viviane shifted uneasily from behind him, her dark eyes flicking to Rebecca, seeking direction.

“You won’t mess with people’s food. But you’ll steal it. Even though it could cost you your job, the only thing you say you have left.” Rebecca contemplated this information with no hint of accusation. “Self-preservation isn’t high on your list, is it?” Then again, why would it be, if he was seriously contemplating suicide by overdosing on his dead son’s drugs? This man was truly broken.

“Guess not.” Colton was back to mumbling, his voice barely audible.

It was like his confession had taken the last bit of energy his earlier anger had given him.

“I kept my son’s drugs. Yeah. But I didn’t mess with anyone’s food. I never even took the drugs out of the house. I didn’t want to risk having them taken away, in case I ever got up the courage to end myself. Just charge me with possession. I don’t care. I’ve already confessed.” He lifted his gaze to briefly meet her eyes. “But you need to look elsewhere if someone’s messing with food, because that wasn’t me.”

It was such a bizarrely straightforward admission that Rebecca was inclined to believe the man. And if he was holding on to the drugs as a means of suicide, he likely wouldn’t be willing to use them elsewhere. He kept them because he needed them for himself.

But there was no way to verify that. “I’ll get you a pad and paper so you can write your confession down.”

With a nod from Rebecca, Viviane stepped back. The two women exited, leaving Mr. Colton alone with the hum of the fluorescent lights and the whir of the video camera still recording him. Outside the interrogation room, Rebecca leaned against the cool cinder block wall, arms folded.

“Boss?” Viviane’s voice cut through the stillness, tinged with uncertainty. “He’s lying, right? He’s got to be.”

“He may not be.” Rebecca pursed her lips. “We tested the other salt boxes at both stores. None of them were contaminated. How would he know which box from the order was picked to refill the containers? And the video doesn’t actually show him tampering with the box that held the salt. But it did have the chips in it.”

Viviane crossed her arms and leaned against the wall opposite Rebecca, mirroring her. “But he had the fentanyl. That’s got to count for something.”

“Sure, possession is our hook, but it doesn’t prove intent to distribute or poison. We still need to hear back from the lab to see if it’s the same stuff. He didn’t seem sure of what was even in the bag, though he thought it might be heroin laced with fentanyl. We already know the stuff we’ve found was pure fentanyl.”

Rebecca thought about how Colton had acted during the interview. His beaten-down demeanor. It matched how he’d behaved when they talked in the alley.

Only once had she gotten the feeling he was hiding something. That caginess had been related to his own suicidal thoughts, but he’d confessed to them with only a little prodding. Understandably, most people would hide those thoughts simply out of shame. Now that he’d mentioned his suicidal ideation, would he be more or less likely to act on it? Either way, she’d need to let Coastal Ridge PD know what he’d confessed so they could put him on suicide watch.

“I want to believe we got our guy, but my instincts say there’s more to this story.”

“Your instincts?” Viviane echoed, skepticism lacing her tone. “You always say to follow the evidence.”

“And I still will.” Rebecca jerked her chin. “But sometimes, when the pieces don’t fit, you have to trust your gut. Listen to it. Follow it. Just don’t ever think it’s infallible. Evidence is always better. If your gut is still yelling at you, keep looking for evidence, but keep your biases in check.”

Rebecca pushed away from the wall and paced the length of the hall, her sneakers padding rhythmically against the linoleum floor. “For now, we can hold him on the drug charge. That gives us time.”

“Time.” Viviane glanced back at the interrogation room. “But if he’s not our guy, then it gives whoever did this time to target more places and people.”

Rebecca stopped pacing with a harsh sigh. “I know. That’s why we still need to keep the eateries closed for now.”

22

The evening breeze blasted Rebecca’s loose hair away from her face as she opened the back door of her home to let Humphrey in. The chocolate lab shook off some of the beach sand clinging to his fur before padding into the cozy kitchen, where the remnants of Rebecca’s dinner awaited cleanup. Since moving, she’d had a fence put up in her backyard, which allowed her to let Humphrey out for his last potty break before bedtime.

“Long day, huh, boy?” She scratched behind Humphrey’s ears before turning back to her evening chores.

As she washed dishes, her mind drifted to the overwhelming sense of loneliness that encroached upon her whenever she wasn’t preoccupied with a case. She rinsed her single plate, watching the suds spiral down the drain before dropping it next to the single cup and fork in the drainboard.

Single. As in one. Alone.

She looked down at Humphrey, who was waiting to see if she’d be sharing any leftovers. With a smile, she pondered putting Humphrey’s food on a plate and giving him a seat at the table for her meals.

Well, wouldn’t that just be pathetic? Maybe I could adopt a few dozen cats and embrace being a spinster.

Rebecca locked up the house for the night and retreated to the living room, sinking into her favorite armchair. Humphrey followed closely at her heels, his presence a silent vow of solidarity.

He rested his chin on the cushion while his tail wagged slowly, eager for an invitation onto her lap. She patted her legs, and he bolted onto the chair, turning once before dropping into position. His weight was a comfort to her, and she let her thoughts drift to Bob Colton.

She needed to be sure they had the right person in custody, no matter how much people like Phil Manfred bugged her to reopen their businesses. Rebecca was fully aware of the economic impact of her decision, but the safety of the island’s residents came first.

What if Colton’s not the killer? What if we reopen the restaurants just to have another person drop dead? What if I’m wrong?

Rebecca closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. It was one thing to reassure her neighbors in person but quite another to combat the faceless online masses who devoured every sensational headline without a second thought. She desperately wished she had someone to serve as a sounding board. Humphrey was great to cuddle with, but he sucked at spotting logic flaws in her cases.

Tonight, the silence of the house felt heavier, an unsung requiem for trust eroded. While this wasn’t the same one she’d been attacked in, the layout of her new place was identical to her old one. Only the furniture and wall hangings were different, really.

Just enough differences to make me feel like I’m in a distorted dream version of my old childhood vacation home. Except I’m all alone.

Deep down, Rebecca knew the isolation wasn’t just about geography. It was creeping into her bones, a deep wound to her soul that only time could heal.

Needing to feel some kind of connection to the rest of the world, Rebecca reached over Humphrey for her computer. Balancing the laptop on her trusty companion’s back as it rose and fell with his contented breathing, her fingers hovered over the keyboard. With a resigned click, she opened the browser and typed in the name of the local tabloid.

Shadow Island Whispers.

The irony of the paper’s name wasn’t lost on her. The article loaded, emblazoned with a headline that seared like a brand. Local Sheriff in Bed with Yacht Club Barons?

“Ridiculous.” Rebecca scanned the sensationalist drivel. But it wasn’t the article that held her attention. It was the torrent of comments cascading beneath it that drew her in, a digital undertow of malice and misinformation.

Watch your back. Morley doesn’t forgive or forget. Her heart skipped at the comment signed by TruthSeeker101.

The mention of Senator William Morley sent a chill down her spine. Her last major act in the FBI was building the case against him. The evidence was damning enough that he resigned his senate seat, allegedly to “spend time with family.” But his only criminal detention so far was a few measly days in a private correctional center. The charges against him were currently tangled up in the courts.

Morley was a ghost from her past with unfinished business, and although her name wasn’t ever officially connected with his case, Oscar Toullaine wrote an article tying her to it a few months ago. Had TruthSeeker101 read Toullaine’s piece about her?

Senator Morley had spoken to her the night he’d set her up. He’d wanted her dead then, and he probably still did after his arrest because of her. She’d been shot and would have died if her partner Benji and their boss hadn’t been watching out for her.

The smell of dirty engine oil flooded her nostrils. She exhaled hard, chasing away the sensory memory. This time, she would not be sucked into a flashback.

“Who the hell are you?” Rebecca clicked on the username to distract herself. But going to the profile didn’t give her any more information. What she did see were more comments by the same person, one of which was a cryptic message about law enforcement officers with personal vendettas.

Truthseeker101 wasn’t the only one saying such things. Illuminator6247 left a comment talking about uppity b*tches who try to make a name for themselves by incriminating well-known rich men.

The sexism, while annoying and infuriating, wasn’t anything new to Rebecca. It showed up in any article. Or post. Or picture. If it was online and about a woman, it had sexist comments.

It was the insinuation that she was targeting rich men that bothered her. She wasn’t surprised that whoever wrote it completely missed the fact that the main leader of the Yacht Club had been a woman. Or that they hadn’t minded that woman being killed while her husband was taken alive.

Why did I think coming to the comment section was a good idea? Most people don’t even bother to read past the headline anyway. I’d be surprised if anyone leaving comments even knows my name.

Still, she kept scrolling, skimming all the comments. It was like poking at a sore tooth. She knew she shouldn’t do it, yet she couldn’t stop herself.

With effort, she tore herself away from the screen, shutting down the computer with more force than necessary. The quiet hum of the laptop’s fan fell silent, leaving Rebecca alone with the echoes of vitriol ringing in her ears. Humphrey, sensing her unrest, turned his head toward her.

“Thanks, boy.” She scratched behind his ears absentmindedly. At least reading those comments had distracted her from thinking about Ryker.

Tawny eyes stared up from gentle ocean waves as pink water spouted out of the gaping wound made by a point-blank gunshot. Ryker’s weak hand reached up for her before falling back with a splash.

Reminding herself that her distorted flashback wasn’t reality, she nudged Humphrey off her lap and stood. Unsure of what she was going to do, Humphrey waited by her side, looking up at her with warm brown eyes. Rebecca shook her hair back, needing something to ground her in the here and now.

She moved through her night routine with mechanical precision. Front door, back door, setting a kitchen chair in front of the back door so she’d hear if it opened, checking every window in between, and then the guest bathroom. Once upon a time, the routine had helped to reassure her.

But ever since her double-crossing boyfriend let a killer into her own living room, Rebecca had felt uneasy at home. She made a mental note to investigate home security options. Humphrey and her Amory 1911 had proven successful before, and Ryker was no longer around to betray her. Maybe that was all she needed.

But tonight, she had no cameras. Each creak of the floorboards, each whisper of the wind against the windows carried a sinister undertone. Although her new home was nearly an exact replica of her former one, it felt foreign and cold without the warmth of her childhood memories.

Thoughts of Morley’s retribution nibbled at her mind, turning every shadow into a potential threat.

Rebecca settled into bed, drawing the covers tight around her as if they could ward off danger. Humphrey jumped up to lie next to her, flopping on his side so he was half on top of her. Ever since the attack in her home, the chocolate lab cried if he was not permitted to sleep on the bed next to her. Rebecca liked to pretend she allowed him up to placate him, but she knew it brought her comfort as well.

His heavy, warm weight was the only thing that let her sleep most nights. Tonight, however, rest remained elusive, chased away by the whispers of paranoia that crept into her thoughts. If some random internet troll had found Toullaine’s article connecting her to Morley’s legal troubles, the senator had surely seen it too.

Even if he wasn’t looking for her, every senator had staff who scoured the internet for their names, using key word alerts to highlight articles about them. And he would know where she was.

“Morley wouldn’t dare. He’s still dealing with the courts and is only out on bail.” She tried to convince herself, staring into the darkness. “Not now. Not after all this time. Besides, my name has been in the papers before, and he hasn’t shown up. He’s got a lot more to worry about than me and my tiny little jurisdiction.”

Humphrey groaned, wiggling against her. Rebecca draped one arm over him, petting his silky ears.

But she wasn’t convinced. In the unseen corners of the night, Rebecca knew the senator was ruthless. Her last conversation with him had made that clear.

“Well, you know as well as I do how easily the press lets things out. You think this is the first time important materials have been sold to the highest bidder? I had this gentleman purchase it for me just to keep my name out of it.”

“And what will you do with it?”

His answer had been a hail of gunfire that nearly killed her.

Humphrey whined, and Rebecca realized she’d balled up her fist in his fur. “I’m sorry, boy.” She opened her hand and smoothed down his ruffled fur, wishing she had someone in her life who could offer her more comfort than the silent yet devoted love of a dog.

23

The shrill ring of Rebecca’s phone sliced through the silence of her kitchen, although the first glimmers of morning light had barely crept through the blinds. She had just come back from her morning run with Humphrey and was mid-sip on a strong creamy coffee that steamed in the cool air.

The ringtone startled her, and her heart did an involuntary leap. Too many times, that sound had been a harbinger of grim news. She set her mug down with a clatter, small droplets splashing onto the worn countertop, as she checked the caller ID.

Forensic Department.

She exhaled a long breath. Answering the call, she pressed the phone to her ear. “Sheriff West here.”

“Morning, Sheriff. It’s Justin Drake. We’ve got those test results on Bob Colton’s baggie.” There was a tension in Justin’s voice that piqued Rebecca’s interest. “It’s positive for fentanyl, but you need to see the details for yourself. Can you come by?”

“Give me half an hour.” After ending the call, Rebecca looked down at the chocolate lab sprawled across her feet. “Humphrey, Mama’s gotta go in early again. Aren’t you glad we got our run done already?” She gave his head a brief pat.

His tail thumped once against the floor as she went to her room to get ready for her day. She grabbed her badge and holstered her gun beneath her coat. Her reflection in the bedroom mirror showed more than fatigue. The dark bags under her eyes were nearly black, and she decided to take a moment to throw on some concealer.

While she didn’t particularly mind if she looked like she just rolled out of bed, she didn’t want the townsfolk to see her running ragged. Having their sheriff look like death warmed over would make them worry even more. If a couple of layers of makeup could protect them from that, she was willing to do her part.

After transferring her coffee to a travel mug and booping Humphrey’s snout once more, Rebecca headed for Coastal Ridge.

It didn’t even feel strange having her personal truck at the station and her official vehicle at her house anymore. In fact, it saved her so much time and hassle, she was starting to appreciate it.

As she drove across the bridge, she soaked in the view she often took for granted. Fond memories of trips to the island with her parents threatened to invade her thoughts, so she pushed them aside for the rest of the drive and the brief walk up the sidewalk to enter the building that housed the forensic lab.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridors of the lab as she approached the forensic department. The scent of antiseptic and nitrile was sharp in her nostrils. Justin Drake was huddled over a microscope, conversing with a pair of technicians whose faces were grave and attentive. They looked up as Rebecca approached, acknowledging her with nods before returning to their tasks.

“Sheriff West, thanks for coming in. This is what I wanted you to look at.” Justin motioned toward the printouts spread across the steel countertop.

Rebecca leaned over the papers, not wanting to touch the table without gloves on, and realized she was looking at the stark lines of the chromatography test. “You said we were dealing with pure fentanyl from the two overdose victims.” She scanned the data again, trying to figure out what she was missing.

“Exactly, but that’s not what was found at Bob Colton’s apartment.” Justin traced his finger on the second line of the graph. “That one turned out to be mostly heroin laced with trace amounts of fentanyl. It’s still enough to kill someone, but it’s not pure like the first sample. I even went back and double-checked to make sure.” There was an edge of disbelief in his voice.

“Pure fentanyl is dangerous enough, but cut with heroin…” Rebecca was aware of the deadly concoction’s threat. Mixing the two drugs meant unpredictability and heightened risk of overdose. Death dealt out by an unknowable hand.

“Yeah, the combination of drugs is what you might expect to find on any street corner, considering how much cheaper it is to produce fentanyl. I personally think killing off your customers is a bad business model, but it’s popular among drug dealers, so what do I know?” Justin’s voice was grim.

Rebecca studied the chemical breakdown, the peaks and troughs like mountain ranges that spelled out the truth she needed to put into perspective. “But is the fentanyl from the second sample a match to the first one?”

Bob Colton could have mixed part of it with heroin and kept it for himself, despite the excuse he’d given.

“I thought you might ask that question, which is why I asked you to come in. Look at this.” Justin spun a laptop around.

Examining the screen, Rebecca was drawn to the high-resolution images, a kaleidoscope of colors that represented a lethal dance between two deadly substances. She hovered over Justin’s shoulder, scrutinizing the stark differences between the samples.

“This is the fentanyl from the saltshaker and the saltcellar.” Justin clicked through, showing two different readings. Then he adjusted the screen to show them side by side.

“They match.”

“Exactly. Now look at these two.” Justin opened two more test results. Though the lines were different from the first two, they matched each other. At Rebecca’s nod, Justin opened a third result and stacked them next to each other.

“What am I looking at here?” Rebecca frowned.

“This one,” Justin tapped the far left page, “is the fentanyl you brought us from Colton’s place. I heard the reason Colton gave for having it in his home. So I decided to double-check it. This graph is from twenty-four-year-old Walker Colton’s autopsy results. And the last graph is from a raid we conducted three months ago when his supplier was busted. All three of those match. But none of them match the fentanyl used to kill Hunter McCay or Charles Richter.”

Rebecca’s stomach twisted.

Justin pulled up a side-by-side comparison of all five samples. “Because they’re synthetic, there are always slight variations between cooks or even batches. I don’t think the same guy made these two batches.”

Her stomach twisted even more.

Justin gestured to the slight differences in the graph. “On top of that, I’d be willing to bet they came from different suppliers, too, since we snagged the first guy and all his merch. Anything his runners had left would have been sold and consumed by now. According to his statement, Bob Colton isn’t a user, so he still had it lying around like a morbid memento.”

Rebecca studied the visual, marveling that such minuscule amounts held the power of life and death. It was a silent killer, indiscriminate in its selection of victims. “Dammit.” This meant Bob Colton wasn’t their man.

“Your killer clearly has access to pure fentanyl.” Justin pulled up the two results with only a single line on the graph.

“Access and intentions we need to figure out.” Whoever they were looking for wasn’t a mere street dealer or an opportunistic addict. This was someone with resources, connections, and a plan.

“Exactly.” Justin’s gaze met hers, and a shared understanding passed between them. The situation was worse than they’d imagined. “Just to drive the point home, this is how much it took to kill Charles Richter.” He clicked, and an image popped up.

To Rebecca, it looked like a broken piece of short grain rice, the kind so many places used to keep their salt from seizing up in the humid beach atmosphere.

“That’s what we’re looking for?” She knew the facts, knew the research, but she’d never seen it in picture form before. A minute fleck that could have been a dust mote on the camera lens but was in fact the fastest-growing source of overdoses in the last five years.

“That’s it. Just that.” Justin’s lips spread in a grim line.

A tiny speck barely visible to the naked eye, and someone out there was using it as a murder weapon.

And it wasn’t the guy currently sitting in Rebecca’s jail.

24

The morning sun scattered a kaleidoscope of colors over the water as Rebecca’s SUV headed for the bridge connecting the mainland to the island. “Darby, it’s West.” The Bluetooth connection crackled slightly as she wove through morning traffic. A phone call wasn’t as reliable a connection as the radio while driving, but it left her hands free. “We hit a dead end with Colton. The stuff that killed Richter and McCay doesn’t match what we found at his place.”

“Where does that leave us?” Viviane’s voice emerged from the vehicle speakers, her tone frustrated.

“Mr. Colton’s still on the hook for possession in Coastal Ridge. But he’s not our guy here. Since it appears the salt wasn’t contaminated during delivery, then someone messed with it inside the restaurants.”

“Great. More needles and more haystacks.” Viviane grumbled something Rebecca didn’t quite catch. “That means we keep searching every restaurant on the island?”

Rebecca thought about the image of the fatal fentanyl dose and how tiny it was. “More like a needle in a needle stack.” She was grateful the DEA and Rhonda’s team were helping scour all the establishments that might be affected, both on and off the island. Rebecca and her deputies would never be able to search everywhere on their own. Especially if the person tainting the salt could just come in behind them and recontaminate everything they’d checked once they thought it was safe enough to open again.

“What was that? The phone didn’t quite pick it up.”

“It’s not important. I’m going to call Manfred, then I’ll head to the office. See you in a bit.” Rebecca wasn’t looking forward to telling the cranky man they still hadn’t solved the problem.

Crossing the bridge always gave Rebecca a sense of transition, as though she were stepping into another realm where the pace of life ticked slower. She reached the crest of the bridge and caught sight of the town, quaint and quiet, hiding its secrets behind pastel storefronts and weathered docks.

She tapped the call button again, this time dialing Phil Manfred’s number. The line rang, and she braced for the all-too-familiar snarl of irritation from the ice cream parlor owner.

“Mr. Manfred, it’s Sheriff West. I told you I’d call and keep you updated on the case.”

“Morning, Sheriff.” Manfred’s usual bite had been replaced with fatigue. “Did you catch whoever messed with my supplies?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry to say our initial suspect is not the culprit. We’re still investigating to determine if other shipments were tainted. But as of right now, there’s a strong chance the salt was tampered with after it was set out.”

“After it was set out?”

“Yes, sir. You said that sales were slow this time of year. By any chance, have you noticed anyone lurking around? Or maybe your employees have mentioned having issues with a customer?”

“No. No complaints. I haven’t had any…” There was a short pause. “Sheriff, I think I may have something that could help your investigation. Can you swing by the shop?”

“Of course. I can be there in a few minutes.” She ended the call, her curiosity piqued. Had the man remembered something out of the ordinary? If so, why not just tell her?

And there had been a marked difference in Mr. Manfred’s response. He sounded tired, yet the edge to his voice had softened. It was a small reprieve but a welcome one. The investigation had been grinding them all down, and any improvement in his demeanor, however slight, felt like a victory against the relentless pressure. Maybe addressing everyone’s concerns at the town hall had made a difference.

Rebecca called Viviane back and asked her to meet at the ice cream parlor instead of waiting at the station.

As the cruiser descended the bridge back onto the island, Rebecca caught the reflection of the fleeting dance of golds and blues again. But now there was no time to admire the view. There were answers hidden somewhere within the confines of the island, and she would find them, one way or another.

The late-autumn chill clung to the air, biting at Rebecca’s skin as she stepped out of her SUV. The facade of I Scream You Scream looked lonely with only two other cars in the lot, Viviane’s vehicle and a car she assumed belonged to Manfred. Viviane was leaning against the wall near the entrance, her black hair fluttering slightly in the cold breeze.

“Morning, Boss.” Viviane beamed cheerfully at her.

“Darby.”

As they neared the threshold, the door swung open, and Mr. Manfred appeared, a disheveled shadow of his usual prickly self.

He waited until they were both inside before he turned to face them, his hands pressed tightly against each other, almost as if in prayer. “Sheriff. Deputy.” He nodded to each of them. “I owe you an apology for the last couple of days.”

Rebecca eyed him skeptically, noting the crumpled papers in his hand. Was this what he had asked her to come down to talk about? A face-to-face apology? While she appreciated it, she had more pressing matters to focus on.

“Ah, yeah. I had a really long chat with my therapist.” He glanced down, almost sheepishly. “I brought the notes from my session…thought it might help, you know, clear the air.”

“If you think it will help.” Viviane smiled as a spark of interest lit her eyes.

“Deputy Darby, we have other business to attend to.” Rebecca gave Viviane a short nod. “Mr. Manfred, we do, of course, understand this has been a very trying time for you. Neither the deputy nor I hold anything you’ve said against you.”

Mr. Manfred looked relieved, while Viviane masked her disappointment with a quick pout for Rebecca before her professional mask slid back into place.

“Was that what you asked me down here for?”

“No.” Manfred looked flustered, staring at the papers in his hand. “You said something about the salt being messed with after it was set out?”

“Right, the salt. We believe it was tampered with on-site. Can you please walk us through the timeline? How did you handle the last delivery?” In light of his apology and helpful attitude, Rebecca found herself automatically becoming nicer to him. When possible, she always preferred being nice to people.

“Uh, sure. If you’ll follow me back, I can show you easier than I can explain it.” Leading them behind the counter, Mr. Manfred walked them through the entire process of receiving the last delivery. He didn’t leave the back kitchen until the very end. “And for the last of the dry goods,” he gestured to a cupboard under the counter, “I put those right here. That includes the salt we used to refill the cellar.”

“And who did that?” Rebecca had another idea of how the salt might have been contaminated. She picked up the box of salt, noting how thick the waxed cardboard was. There was no way anyone was going to get a needle into that or open it without leaving a very obvious mark.

“I did. But first,” Manfred picked up a different box of salt and ran his thumb over the paper seal on the spout, “I made sure it was still sealed. I’m sure you were wondering that.”

“I was.” There went her last idea that would link the drugs to the distributor. Maybe it was just a coincidence that the salt here and at Seabreeze had arrived the same day, on the same truck, and been delivered by the same man.

Manfred pointed to the salt she was holding. “What if that particular box of salt had been tampered with? But we break down our cardboard here before we recycle it. And I can assure you, the glue sealing the top and bottom of this one was intact. It was just as annoying as ever to get it to lie flat.”

Not only was Manfred being polite, but he was also being incredibly helpful. Rebecca was starting to wonder if she’d actually woken up that morning, or if this was all some kind of a dream.

“But now you think it happened after the salt was set out?” Manfred was oddly focused on Rebecca. She nodded. “Then I might have something to help you.” He reached up to a shelf and grabbed a large pink bunny with floppy ears. Then he spun it around and proudly held it out to Rebecca. “Here. This is for you.”

Shocked, Rebecca couldn’t think of what to say.

“Oh, look. A cute bunny.” Viviane managed to keep the giggle out of her voice, but Rebecca knew she was struggling.

Manfred thrust the stuffed animal at Rebecca. The plush fur was lightly covered in dust, and it looked like it had been sitting on the shelf for quite some time. “Again, I appreciate the offer, Mr. Manfred, but you don’t have to.”

“It’s not just a stuffed bunny.” Manfred rolled his eyes.

Taking the bunny, she realized it was heavier than expected and had something hard in its pudgy belly.

“It’s a nanny camera.” He gestured to the shelf. “I put it up there to keep an eye on the counter. We get a lot of kids coming in here on their own. Some tourist parents like to take their vacationing a little too seriously and think a small town like ours is the perfect place to let their kids run around without supervision.”

Rebecca turned the bunny around to inspect it. The little plastic eyes seemed normal, no holes for a camera to peek out of. But the hard box she felt was in the stomach and not the head. Upon tilting it up, the glint of a camera lens hiding in the belly button stared back at her.

“I use this to keep an eye on the kids and in case we ever have customer complaints.”

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?” Viviane leaned over to peek at the animal.

“Because you were asking about the back of the store and CCTV. Somehow, I just didn’t think about it. After all, this camera only faces the lobby and the register, not the stockroom. But when you said the drugs might have been added directly to the salt in the canister, that’s when I thought of it.”

Manfred grabbed the bunny by the head and flipped it over, showing a hook-and-loop fastener along its back.

Rebecca opened it, exposing the black plastic of the recording device.

“Push that little tab, and the SD card will pop out.”

Slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves, she retrieved the tiny piece of plastic and metal.

“That has all the footage from the front counter for the last month or so. You’re free to take it and watch it.” Manfred poked the bunny. “Unless you need the whole thing?”

“No, sir. Just the memory card is enough.” Viviane was already writing on an evidence bag. “If you’re okay with it, we’ll get you a receipt for this evidence later.”

Rebecca dropped the card in the bag Viviane held open for her. “You might have just helped us crack the case, Mr. Manfred.”

“Please, call me Phil.” Manfred’s brief smile disappeared into a scowl. “I just wish I’d thought of this sooner. Maybe then no one else would have gotten hurt and life and business could return to normal.”

“We have it now.” Rebecca also wished they’d had it earlier. “But don’t blame yourself for what happened. We didn’t know we were dealing with anything widespread until the second incident happened.”

“I appreciate that.” Manfred scanned the page of notes he still held in his hand. “Also, I just want you both to know that I know you keep coming back here with more questions because you want this resolved as quickly as possible. I want the same thing. Which is why it is in my best interest to cooperate with you as quickly and smoothly as possible.”

He spoke stiffly as he read the words from his therapy notes, but they still seemed heartfelt.

“Thank you, Mr. Manfred.” Rebecca returned his smile. “We’re going to go over that footage immediately. I’ll call to update you as soon as I have something.”

25

“All right, everyone, listen up.” Rebecca swept through the half door that separated the lobby of the Shadow Island Sheriff’s Department from the bullpen with Viviane close behind. She was pleased to find all her deputies present, ready for her briefing.

Trent was in the back, leaning on the coffee counter and holding a steaming cup of coffee, clearly taking a moment to caffeinate after he’d tested the saltshakers in all the closed shops. He’d racked up a few positive fentanyl tests and had been working overtime filling out paperwork.

Jake looked up from whatever he’d been working on. And Hoyt slowly raised his gaze from his screen, his eyes moving as if he was trying to finish reading.

“I’ve got the footage from CCTVs within a block of the Seabreeze Café.” Elliot spun around in his chair at the dispatch counter to trail Rebecca as she walked past him. “It’s already in the case folder on the drive.”

“Good job, Ping. Coffey, Locke, Darby, I want you three to go through that. We’re looking for anyone who stopped at the Seabreeze and any of the other places that had tainted salt.” Rebecca walked down the aisle between the two rows of desks and stopped at the empty one that used to be Abner’s.

She signed into the computer and opened her email as she continued to talk. “I have footage from a nanny cam used at the counter of the I Scream You Scream parlor for the last few weeks. Frost and I are going to search through the last few days of that to see if we can find someone tampering with their salt. We need eyes on every second.”

“Which means we have to watch them in real time?” Hoyt scrubbed his hand over his face.

“So long as there’s a person in the shot, yes. We’re looking for anyone who appears to be either reaching over or going behind the counter to contaminate that saltcellar.” Rebecca uploaded the data from the nanny cam to the case file.

Hoyt snorted. “Better get some eye drops, everyone. These spy cam videos are always so damn grainy.”

Rebecca started the video and was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the recording. It was a crystal-clear view of the counter, the door, and the lobby space in between. “Not these. Full digital, high-def, and they’re even in color.”

“Oh, what an age we live in.” Hoyt started clicking away.

“Remember,” Rebecca fast-forwarded through a section without any people in the frame, “we’re looking for anything out of place. A face, a movement, something that doesn’t fit.”

Hoyt grunted. “By the way, the town hall meeting has calmed people’s nerves. Almost no one is complaining anymore.” He made a face. “Except for Nathan Warner. That guy’s been stirring the pot with his online rants. He’s taken to reposting every news article on you that he can find, except the honest ones.”

“Nathan’s always had a knack for fanning flames.” Trent’s attention was divided between Hoyt’s comment and the video footage flickering on his monitor.

Hoyt turned around to look at Rebecca. “Which is why I was thinking of going to have a little chat with him today.”

“You can talk to him as a citizen of the island, but that’s all.” Rebecca glanced at Hoyt before looking back at the footage. “What he’s doing is legal, whether we like it or not. Free speech and all.”

“Yeah, Boss. I won’t do anything to tarnish the badge.” Hoyt turned back to his work.

After that, the room went quiet but for mouse clicks and keyboard taps, punctuated by the occasional shuffle of feet or cleared throat. For the first time, Rebecca considered how the rumors going around town might be affecting her people.

She worked hard to keep her personal and professional lives separate. That was one of the reasons she used her deputies’ last names on the clock. They shared more than just a profession.

Viviane and Hoyt were her friends. And through them, she’d made even more friends on the island, namely Meg, Angie, and Dale. That made her reflect on the other relationships she’d formed with Deborah Niece, Betty Hiaasen, Pastor Brett, and Kelly Hunt, who she’d met on her first day on the island. Even stubborn old Mr. Pranger and semi-hermit Mrs. Shuping had become friendly acquaintances.

When she thought about the big picture, she wasn’t really all that alone. I might have been wrong about Ryker, but my instincts were right about everyone else.

“Hey, Boss,” Viviane intruded on Rebecca’s wandering thoughts. “I’ve got something.”

Chairs rattled against linoleum as Rebecca and the others converged around Viviane, their shadows pooling over the desks like dark water. Viviane replayed the footage, her finger hovering over the pause button with practiced ease.

“Look. On Friday.” She pointed as the footage showed a man ordering his treat at the counter. After scooping the ice cream onto the cold marble slab, Paulo held up a finger to the customer and stepped into the back, out of view of the camera. The man was now alone in the shop.

The man straightened and jerked his head as he checked the room around him.

“No one else is in the lobby at this point, and he’s making sure of that.” Volet narrated the scene playing out in front of them.

Reaching into his pocket, the man pulled something out, holding it in both hands.

He checked one more time to be sure no one was watching. Then he leaned over the counter and poured what appeared to be a paper packet over the saltcellar, the very one that would become a silent killer. After he’d emptied it, he used a spoon to stir the salt.

“Damn. It was just that easy.” Jake spoke without tearing his eyes from the screen.

Rebecca scanned the stilled image, noting the items in the background. “Okay, based on the height of the ice cream case next to him, I’d say a rough guess puts him around six feet.” She leaned forward to look closely at the video frame. “Anyone else see anything distinguishing about him?”

Jake spoke first. “Thanks to the nanny cam recording in color, the unsub appears to be white or Latino. His hair appears to be dark brown, or maybe light brown and just dirty.”

Trent chimed in. “I realize he’s wearing a coat, but if we look at the way it’s filled out, I’d say he’s got a bit of a gut on him.” After a slight pause, he elbowed Hoyt. “He certainly doesn’t have the lanky frame of Frost.”

“Go ahead and let the video play, Viviane.” Rebecca watched the scene unfold.

Paulo reappeared, and the man nonchalantly put the paper back in his pocket. The clerk completed the order, finishing the cone with a flourish of sea salt from the shaker before handing it to the customer.

Viviane gasped. “Did he just use the contaminated salt on that man’s order?”

“He sure did,” Hoyt muttered.

Paulo rang up the order, and the man paid in cash. As he walked out the door, Rebecca expected him to toss the treat into the trash. Instead, he took several healthy licks, a wide smile on his face.

What the hell?

Her deputies appeared as confused as she did.

“Why would he eat that?” Viviane finally asked.

Rebecca had no idea. She shook her head. Were they wrong about him being the one to add the deadly substance? She didn’t understand.

“I’m as confused as you as to his motives, so let’s focus on the things we can control. We need to talk to Paulo about this guy.” Rebecca reached for her keys. “Good find, Darby. You can come with me while the rest of you⁠—”

“Wait a second.” Trent stepped back to his own monitor. “I saw this guy too. Look at this, Boss.”

Rebecca followed him to his desk, everyone else following.

Trent checked his notes before opening a different video file. “I saw him twice, which is why I made notes. The first time he just came and went, but the second time…well, see for yourself.”

He clicked play, and they all watched as the same man walked out of the Seabreeze Café. After taking a few steps down the sidewalk, he smiled widely and pumped his fist close to his body like he was excited about something but didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

“That’s weird. What’s he doing?” Hoyt scowled over Trent’s shoulder.

“No idea. But he did the same thing two days ago at the Seafood Shack. That’s one of the places tainted salt was found.” Trent opened another video, checked his notes, and scrolled to the time he’d written down. “This was also his second visit there. The first occasion he just walked off like he was in a hurry.”

Rebecca gave Trent a nod of approval for his meticulous work.

“So he spiked the salt at the Seafood Shack?” Jake looked as perplexed as Rebecca felt. “Has forensics gone through it?”

“Yes. All the tables, and just like at Seabreeze, only one tested positive,” Trent confirmed. “But here’s where it gets really weird. I dismissed him as a likely suspect because…here. I’ll show you.” He pushed play.

On the screen, the same man exited the Seafood Shack, carrying a Styrofoam container of food. He sat outside and scanned his own table before glancing around at all the empty ones on the patio area. Getting up, he left his food and went inside before returning with a saltshaker from the restaurant and salting his meal. Heavily. Only after it was thoroughly coated did he begin to eat.

“Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?” Viviane’s voice was incredulous.

“It gets better.” Trent scrolled forward in the video. The man stood, deposited his trash in the can, and slapped his hands together a few times before walking away with a spring in his step and a wide smile plastered across his face.

“He’s eating at the places he left the fentanyl.” Viviane leaned away, glancing at Rebecca. “Why would he do that?”

“Could be he’s got a death wish?” Trent shook his head. “That’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

“But why go through all this trouble? Poisoning the salt and then going back later and getting food from the same place? Why not just put it straight on his own food?” Viviane’s gaze remained glued to the screen. “Or maybe he’s not trying to off himself at all. Maybe he was just…chasing the thrill?”

Rebecca folded her arms, her mind churning like the relentless waves off the coast. “A junkie wouldn’t be this meticulous. And fentanyl is lethal in just small doses. It’s not recreational. It doesn’t add up.”

“Insurance scam?” Jake scratched at his jaw. “Some folks do desperate things for a payout. And his life insurance might not pay out for suicide. The first trip, he poisons the salt. The second trip, he hopes he gets the right one and drops dead in the shop.”

“Then why does he look so happy when he leaves the second time?” Hoyt pointed at the screen.

Rebecca turned to face the team. “Maybe because he didn’t die. But he’s still determined to try, so he keeps going. I’m not going to do a psych eval on the guy, but my unprofessional opinion is that he might not be playing with a full deck. There’s no telling until we catch him and talk to him. Either way, we’re looking at premeditated murder. I want a BOLO with this guy’s description immediately. No need to use the radio, since we’re all here, but make sure the other jurisdictions get it too.”

Viviane lifted a finger before typing, indicating she was getting that set up. “I’m including the approximations of his height and race and adding a description of the different outfits we’ve seen him in. Anything else you want me to include?”

Rebecca shook her head. “No. For now, it’s better if we cast a wider net than adding a detail that inadvertently eliminates our suspect.” She turned to face the assembled crew. “Anyone acting this way was bound to be noticed by someone working. Finish up with the video we have now. Keep an eye out for a car he gets into or any more identifying characteristics, like if he has a scar or tattoo.”

Rebecca paced over to the coffee maker before turning on her heel.

“Locke, review the footage, and see if you can get a good screenshot of his face. Coffey, you and Frost canvass the witnesses. Track down whoever was in each of these places when he came in. That’s diners, workers, anyone.”

Coffey grabbed some keys. “Yes, ma’am.”

She filled her travel mug before continuing. “Find out if he was dumb enough to pay with a card. We can get a name that way. Show his picture and see if anyone knows him, noticed the car he came in, anything.” She went back to the computer she’d been using and printed out the best still they had of the man’s face.

“Right.” Hoyt threw his hat on his head and darted over to the printer. “I’ll take the shops on the south side. I know who was working there and where they live. Coffey can take the north.”

“That’s not fair. There are only a couple on the south side,” Jake called after Hoyt, who was rushing out the door.

“Once I’m done, I’ll start working north.” Hoyt was out the door before anyone else could protest.

“Nathan’s motel is in the south. So he might be a little slow to catch up.” Rebecca strode to the printer, Viviane trailing behind her.

“You really think anyone will remember this guy well enough for us to find him?” Viviane plucked the documents from the printer and handed them to Rebecca.

“I hope so.” Rebecca pushed the door open and turned toward the parking lot. “At least we have a general idea of what he looks like. And we’ve closed all the eateries around here. He might not even be on the island anymore. That’s why the BOLO going to the surrounding jurisdictions was important.”

“What happens if we don’t find him?” Viviane’s russet-brown eyes narrowed, and Rebecca sensed her friend’s determination in tandem with her own.

“Right now, we have no idea if his spree is over. If he’s still on Shadow Island, we have to hope he hasn’t found a different way to spread his poison.”

26

Hoyt pulled his cruiser into the cracked and poorly maintained parking lot of the Sunrise Cove Motel, stirring up a haze of dust and dead leaves. The sky was a dull gray, threatening rain, or maybe snow, as he killed the engine.

Talking to the people on shift when their unnamed suspect visited had been fruitless but fast. There was still a killer out there and more people to talk to, but catching killers wasn’t the only important part of his job. The other part was keeping the peace.

And Nathan Warner had been disturbing that peace entirely too much recently. Hoyt knew Nathan had been on the Yacht Club’s payroll. He didn’t have proof, but he thought he’d seen him depositing his illicit funds at the bank a few months ago. Hoyt’s gut told him chatting with Nathan was the right thing to do.

He thought he’d put this nonsense to bed at the town hall meeting, but Nathan’s poisonous words were spreading like a virus through their small island community. And they were starting to catch hold online as well.

Stepping out of the cruiser, Hoyt removed his work gear, including his uniform shirt. He pulled an old sweatshirt over his head. Rebecca said he was only to speak with Nathan as a citizen of the island, so he stripped anything that connected him to the sheriff’s department off. His pants and shoes were as plain as the day was long, so he left those unchanged.

There were no other sounds, which wasn’t surprising. It was early December, and Nathan had never prioritized the appearance or upkeep of his establishment. The only time the motel was close to full was during peak tourist season.

Hoyt approached the motel office with purpose, leaving behind the affable smile and loose gait that were a regular part of his interactions when he was on the job. He planned to let the motel’s shady owner know he was onto him.

Ripping the door open, he stepped into the lobby.

“Deputy Frost.” Nathan’s voice dripped with disdain from his seat behind the reception desk. “You’re the last person I wanted to see today.”

“Feeling’s mutual. And call me Hoyt. I’m not here on official duty.”

Nathan snorted. “Okay, Hoyt, what unofficial business are you on?”

“I want to talk to you about your recent…commentary.”

As Hoyt approached the desk, Nathan pushed himself upright. “Is this about the comments I made on that neighborhood Facebook group?” His jowls jiggled as he shook his head. He tried to keep a smirk on his lips, but fear was leaking into his small eyes. “I’m only saying what others are too afraid to. Rebecca isn’t the savior everyone thinks she is.”

Hoyt hadn’t even seen the posts on Facebook, so that must have happened since the town hall meeting. “Keep talking, Nathan. It’s clear you don’t know when to stop.”

“Those tabloids? They got it right. That woman has everyone else fooled, but not me.” He spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the entire island. “This is my home. My family’s been here for generations. I won’t sit back while she plays her little games of smoke and mirrors, jumping from one shady deal to another.”

Hoyt’s hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his composure. He knew Nathan’s type, the coward who stirred the pot out of spite, motivated by petty jealousy masked as concern. But the depth of his slanderous conviction was something else entirely.

“Your idea of concern is going to tear this place apart. It wasn’t that long ago you were complaining about the sheriff saving three little girls from a life of slavery.” Hoyt gritted his teeth. The motel owner had come into the station ranting about how the news story about the kidnapped girls had people canceling reservations. He’d blamed Rebecca, despite the fact that it made headlines because Rebecca had thwarted the kidnappers and rescued the girls. “And your personal vendetta against Sheriff West? It ends now.”

“Or what?” Nathan pulled himself a bit taller in a weak attempt to challenge him. “You can’t silence me, Deputy. This is still America, last I checked.”

“You’re right about this being America, a place with laws and folks who uphold them.” Hoyt leaned forward. “See, I know you’re a piece of shit, Nathan. I also know you’re a criminal. Not a very smart one, but a criminal all the same.” He leaned even closer and leveled his gaze at Nathan’s eyes shifting below his ball cap.

Nathan shrank back. His chair squeaked under his weight, nearly tipping over as he tried to put more distance between himself and Hoyt.

“You need to remember that freedom of speech isn’t freedom from consequences.” Hoyt towered over Nathan, his anger smoldering, ready to flare. “And if you push this any further, you’ll find that out the hard way. Unofficially speaking.”

Nathan’s confidence was wavering. “I’m not going to let you bully me, Hoyt. That lady sheriff of yours has made a mess of our island. No one even comes here anymore. I’m barely making ends meet since she showed up.”

“Cut the crap. You’re just pissed at her because the Yacht Club can’t line your pockets anymore. The sheriff shut down their little operation, and you can’t stand it.” Hoyt’s unblinking gaze bored into Nathan.

Nathan feigned offense, but his eyes betrayed panic. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I run a clean business here. Why would I have anything to do with those sorts of people?”

“Clean?” Hoyt threw his head back and laughed. “Is that why I saw you making those hefty cash deposits over the summer when the Yacht Club was paying hired killers to murder our people? When they were selling our children into slavery? In all your research into Rebecca, did you happen to read the articles that actually talked about the men she stopped? The people who were paying you off were linked to more than thirty dead girls because their teeth matched the scars left on their bodies!”

“I was never part of the Yacht Club! How could you think I would work with those people?” Nathan’s innocent schtick pissed Hoyt off even more. “And like you said, it was the summer. I still had customers back then.”

Hoyt jabbed his finger at Nathan. “You walked into Sandpiper Bank with stacks of hundred-dollar bills to deposit. There had to be thousands of dollars there. Where did you make that much money, Nathan?” Hoyt leaned close again, watching sweat trail down Nathan’s jowls. “This place doesn’t take cash. And Sandpiper doesn’t offer business accounts. I checked. Which means you were depositing that money into your personal account. Your story’s got more holes than this motel’s roof.”

“Stay out of my business!” The scent of desperation mixed with the stale air and cheap disinfectant as Nathan’s facade cracked. “It’s not your concern.”

“It is my concern when you’re selling out my friends and coworkers. Did all that money help you sleep better at night? Because I know a baby girl who still cries for her daddy every day. And a grieving widow who sleeps in a cold, lonely bed now.” Hoyt grasped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white. “Mothers who can’t stop crying as they stare at the empty rooms where their daughters used to sleep. Fathers who hate going home because their houses are so quiet without their children. And you profited from that.”

Breathing hard, Hoyt straightened, pulling away before he fully lost it. His fist itched to sink into Nathan’s face.

Nathan stared at him in the sudden silence, a deep crimson flooding his cheeks. Hoyt’s ferocity had sapped the fight from him. He looked like a cornered animal, eyes darting from the door to the deputy, calculating his nonexistent escape routes.

“I don’t ever want to have to come back here, Nathan. Not for this.” Hoyt’s voice was cold, a contrast to the heat still radiating through him. “I tried to play nice, but if you keep spreading lies about Rebecca West, you’re going to find yourself the subject of stakeouts, endless investigations, you name it. I will find a way to make your life a living hell, all nice and official and aboveboard. Folks might want to stay somewhere else if they see police cruisers parked out front.”

“That sounds like a threat, Deputy Frost. You can’t tell me you’re going to investigate me for crimes that haven’t been committed. Maybe I should report you to your holier-than-thou lady boss. See what she thinks of this extracurricular visit.”

“I’m a regular ole citizen right now.” Hoyt spread his arms out. “Go ahead, Nathan. Call the sheriff you’ve been trashing online. I’m sure she’d love to have a word or two with you.”

Hoyt flexed his arms in front of him, cracking his knuckles loudly. The challenge hung heavy in the room, a tension that rendered Nathan mute. Hoyt didn’t wait for a reply. If Nathan said something stupid now, like he often did, Hoyt was going to completely lose his shit. And probably his job.

He turned on his heel. The door of the Sunrise Cove Motel banged shut, the sound like a gunshot, severing the confrontation with a definitive thud. Outside, Hoyt’s breath clouded before him, the wintery air doing little to cool his simmering rage.

As he straightened and smoothed his shirt, Hoyt couldn’t shake the sense of unease that knotted in his stomach. He didn’t know if he had made things better or worse, but one thing was clear. This was far from over.

27

I was sitting on the edge of the bed when a clap like a gunshot sounded from somewhere below. The motel I was staying in wasn’t the nicest, but for what I was doing in town, it had seemed like a safe little place.

Was it possible the man I’d made a deal with was unhappy with my progress? Since he’d been the one to book and pay for my stay in this run-down place, he knew where I was. And the guy at the desk must have been in on it. I’d given him the name of my contact, and he’d handed me the key without even asking a single question.

My pulse hammered in my throat as I moved to the window slowly, cautiously. The worn carpet barely whispered beneath my feet as I slowly peeked through the threadbare curtains.

Peering down, I witnessed a scene that gripped me with icy fingers. A tall man I recognized stepped into the parking lot, clearly having just left the motel office and slammed the door behind him. Something about the way he moved screamed danger louder than any siren. He stalked out of the building, his movements rigid with purpose. He went straight to a sheriff’s office cruiser and began changing clothes for reasons I didn’t understand.

I pulled back from the window, fearing he might come for me at any moment. A squall of wind hustled through the parking lot, sending a plastic bag skittering across the asphalt like a tumbleweed in a ghost town.

But the deputy didn’t turn toward the stairs that led to my floor. Instead, he climbed into his car and peeled away, leaving only dust and my relief behind.

“Must’ve been nothing.” I watched him go. But the fear still gnawed at me, the paranoia that the police would pick up my scent and track me down. “Or that office manager got rid of him. I wonder if he’s going to try to shake me down for protection money after getting rid of the cop.”

The man who’d handed me the key seemed like that kind of guy. Well, if he tried, I could just blow a little sample of what I’d brought with me in his face.

“Huh, hadn’t thought about that trick. That would make it pretty much fifty-fifty chances of me getting caught in it. Unless there was a breeze. Hmm.”

I flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as bleak reality settled in my chest like a weight.

Outside, the world was oblivious, but in here, it was just me and the ticking countdown I’d been given. I had to do something, and soon. But I needed to improve my success rate.

“Only a few days left to unleash chaos.” I contemplated the grimy ceiling as if it held some secret map to victory. I’d wasted a lot of my supply at the various eateries on this stupid island, and then the cops had shut everything down. My heart pounded out a rhythm, joining with the tick of time in my head.

I knew I was running out of options. How was I supposed to unleash a hornet’s nest with most of the public places closed?

I pulled out my crumpled little notebook and opened it again. My mind raced through various possibilities. I didn’t own a gun and doubted I could obtain one without bothering my benefactor. Or maybe the sketchy guy behind the motel desk could get me one. I ran a finger down the page, the paper rasping like a whisper from the grave.

“Maybe I should have put it in every shaker at that diner. Or that seafood place.” An entire restaurant keeling over would have satisfied my boss. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda doesn’t do me any good now.”

Only two people had kicked the bucket so far. That wasn’t enough to create the chaos I was sent to unleash. As I’d strolled through town, the conversations I’d overheard didn’t even seem to indicate most people were very concerned. The prevailing sentiment held that the sheriff had nipped the threat in the bud by shutting everything down.

Through the scanner I’d learned those two kids had survived, and that had gotten me thinking. Were folks jaded enough these days to not care about their fellow man? Maybe.

“But what if kids were involved? If I can get this island to freak out over the safety of its children…” I’d read something online about all the kids who had been in danger here over the summer, and the teenagers who had just recently died. “Everyone seems to think that’s behind them. Shattering that false sense of security might just be what I need to do.”

My words bounced around the empty room, the only thing keeping me company. Talking to myself was a bad habit I’d picked up from too many years of being alone. I knew all about habits.

Gambling. My ever-present demon, my seductive tormentor. Or as my ex-wife called it before she left me, my abusive mistress. It had stripped away everything I’d ever had. My home, my job, my wife, my dignity. Even my friends had ditched me.

Each roll of the dice, every flip of a card, promised redemption, a lie I greedily swallowed time and again. Which had led to me owing everyone.

The worst of them was my bookie. I’d had to find a new one after my last one wouldn’t front me any more credit. And the latest one had high interest rates, something he hadn’t told me until I’d offered to pay him with the only thing I’d been able to win all week. A baggie of pure fentanyl. His response had been so terrifying, I still remembered it, word for word.

“I don’t deal in drugs. I deal in money. And I know damn well your kidneys, liver, and lungs will pay your tab. So if you don’t have my money by the end of the month, I’ll take those instead.”

By then, I owed him so much money that even if I sold everything I had, including the organs I could spare, it still wouldn’t be enough to settle my debt.

And pure fentanyl wouldn’t bring in the kind of money I needed.

Then my benefactor showed up. Mr. Big Shot with his big voice. He’d caught up with me when I was trying to talk my way into a low-stakes poker game and offered me a deal. The kind you’d expect Satan to hand you while standing at the crossroads.

All I had to do was create chaos on Shadow Island. Lots of it. He hadn’t explained why, only that it had to be here. In exchange, he’d promised to wipe the slate clean with my bookie. All my debts would vanish like smoke. On top of that, he’d give me a cool million more to start a new life.

The offer was ludicrous, insane, and exactly what I needed.

I sat up and reached for the bottle on the nightstand, its contents burning down my throat as I tried to forget what came after.

My bookie’s knee-buster had found me. He’d also told me to take the deal. Somehow, he’d known. Most likely, my wannabe benefactor had contacted him. If the man running this show could do that, he had to be legit. And that was when I knew there was no other way. His reach was pervasive, and I was out of options.

I hadn’t even heard of Shadow Island until then. I sure as hell wasn’t a killer. But I still told him yes, betting that I could figure things out when I got there. He’d even taken care of the details, setting me up with a place to stay, a full tank of gas, and enough cash to last two weeks.

My first day here, I’d wandered around, not sure where to start or what to do. Learning the lay of the land seemed like a good idea, so I’d done some research on the place and the people who lived here. Then I wandered into that ice cream parlor, and everything became clear. I didn’t have to outright murder people. I just had to make them play the same game I was.

I wasn’t a killer. But I could let fate decide. The randomness of who might overdose, how many might be stricken, and where it would all unfold…those factors all played into the chaos I was letting loose here.

The weight of the imposed countdown compelled me up off the bed. I needed a new plan, something fast with a greater impact. “Fear. I need to make people terrified.” I paced the room, my words heavy with a mix of dread and anticipation.

Time was slipping through my fingers like sand, and I was determined not to let it bury me. Not when I still had days left.

“I won’t fold the hand I’ve been dealt,” I told my reflection in the cracked mirror. “The jackpot is one million dollars and life itself. Lose, and death is a certainty. Blind draw.” I was taking the same risk as everyone else. Hell, I was taking a greater risk, subjecting myself to the same deadly threat over and over. The two deaths so far had been quick and clean, unlike the one awaiting me if I failed.

That was when it hit me.

I didn’t have to wait. All the restaurants and places with food were closed. But that didn’t mean I had to give up.

“It’s only December second, so school is still in session before the holiday break.” Perhaps that was how I could create a spectacle. The chatter on the scanner hadn’t indicated the school’s cafeteria had been closed. I could use the rest of my supply there.

Hell, I could practically count the money already as I embarked on my new life, free of my obligations and with enough cash for a fresh start.

I was resourceful, able to pivot when the players around me didn’t play their hands the way they should. The ability to adapt to the game was the trademark of the most successful gamblers.

Tainted saltshakers weren’t the only play I could make. “Got to be creative, man. Shadow Island’s my table, and I’ve still got a short stack of chips left to bet.”

A good gambler knew when to push their stack all in. But was now that time?

I reached the bed again in my pacing and grabbed the bottle on the nightstand. The alcohol would help me unwind and supply the courage I needed to finish out this hand.

Like a bolt of lightning, a new idea popped into my head. “Oh, that could work. That could actually work. And I’ll be right there, so I’ll know immediately.” I started running the numbers, and I liked my odds.

Spinning around, I reached for the six-pack I’d set next to the boxy TV. If I played my cards right, I could sweep the winnings in front of me in a day or less. Hefting my liquid courage under my arm, I felt alive.

28

Rebecca was glad she wasn’t required to wear the sheriff’s hat as part of her uniform. She’d never have won the fight against the wind gusts today as she and Viviane climbed the three rickety steps to the front door of a modest ranch-style home that belonged to Paulo’s parents. The paint on the stucco, despite the onslaught of the relentless island sun, was still a cheerful blue.

Viviane gave the brass knocker three firm raps, the sound echoing slightly in the crisp air. Seconds ticked away until the door swung open, revealing a woman with skin the same olive shade as Paulo’s. Estimating her to be in her mid-forties, Rebecca guessed she was Paulo’s mother.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m sorry to disturb you.” Rebecca kept her tone even despite wanting to ignore the niceties and hurry the investigation. “We’re looking for Paulo.”

“I’m his mother, Leila. Is he in trouble for something?” Her voice trailed off as if she were afraid to finish the sentence.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Viviane responded quickly, her tone warm enough to soothe any troubled mother. “He’s not in trouble. In fact, we think he can help us with something. I’m sure you heard what happened at the ice cream parlor. We just need to talk to him.”

A shadow lifted from Leila’s face, and she nodded, stepping aside to wave them in. “Oh, that was awful. Yes, of course. Of course. Paulo!” she called over her shoulder before turning back to them with a polite, if somewhat strained, smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t allow shoes in my house.”

“Sheriff West, Deputy Darby. Mom, I’m sure they don’t want to come in for a visit.” Paulo appeared at the door, his brow furrowed with curiosity. He carried himself with a casual ease that contrasted sharply with how Rebecca had last seen him. “I’m sorry about my mother. What can I do for you?”

Rebecca fished the photo from her coat pocket and presented it to Paulo. She’d cropped the image and blown it up so the unsub’s face was easy to see. The moment Paulo caught sight of the man captured on the paper, his eyes widened with a spark of recognition. Leila peered at the paper as well.

“Ah, him.” Paulo leaned closer, as if proximity could jog his memory. “Yeah, him. He came in earlier this week. I’d never seen him before that. He was weird, ya know. Kinda gave me the creeps.” The realization seemed to strike Paulo, and his voice held a note of disbelief. “Wait. Do you mean…is he the…”

“We’re just following up on some leads.” Rebecca chose not to tell Paulo about the nanny cam. Phil had been a pain in the ass to start with, but he’d made up for it with the video footage. And he’d said it was to protect his staff, which she believed, considering it wasn’t focused on the till but on the customer side of things. “Is there any chance you got his name?”

“Sorry, no.” Paulo shook his head. “Guy paid in cash both times. Then he went outside to eat. He was excited as any kid getting a cone, but this dude was at least mid-thirties. Maybe older. He was just some off-season tourist reliving his childhood, I figured. You’d be surprised how many of that type we get.”

“Did you see what kind of car he drove? Is there anything else you remember about him? Any physical traits or unique mannerisms? A scar, a lisp or stutter, a facial tic, an accent? Every detail is useful.” Rebecca pressed gently, hoping something would spark for Paulo.

“Sorry, no. From what I remember, he walked up from a different direction both times he came in. Shop’s been really slow, so any activity on the sidewalk catches my attention. I remember he ordered sea salt caramel both times. He said it was his lucky flavor.” Paulo shrugged. “Wish I had more for you.”

“Thank you, Paulo. That’s very helpful.” Rebecca offered a nod of gratitude.

“Of course.” Paulo nudged his mother, and she stepped back, smiling up at Rebecca before she closed the door.

As Rebecca and Viviane turned to leave, the deputy spoke up. “Who has a lucky ice cream flavor?”

“Who knows? We still don’t know why he’s doing any of this. Maybe he’s just really bad at small talk.” Rebecca unlocked the doors as they approached the still-warm SUV. “Maybe Betty can offer something we can use to narrow our search.”

29

Stepping into the cozy confines of Seabreeze, Rebecca stopped suddenly. Viviane bumped into her from behind and squeaked a protest before she followed Rebecca’s shocked gaze.

There in one of the booths, lounging with the casual air of a lazy tourist, was Betty. Dressed in sweatpants and a World’s Best Grandma t-shirt, she cradled a steaming mug of hot cocoa between her hands. The scent of peppermint and chocolate mingled with a caustic hint of cleaning products in the air.

Betty waved at them. “Oh, close the door and stop making such a fuss. You’re letting the cold in.”

“Sorry. I’m just…” Rebecca stepped in with Viviane on her heels. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you sitting down.”

“At least not in the diner.” Viviane stepped around Rebecca to get inside.

“That’s because I usually take my breaks in back where it’s quiet. Today, it’s quiet everywhere. So…” She swung her arm to indicate the empty dining area. “I couldn’t talk to you while I was deep cleaning the freezer, so I came out here to wait for you and relax a bit. When you own a business, you always have work, even when the cops close you down.”

As Rebecca got closer, she noticed there were two white Styrofoam cups steaming on the table, one topped high with whipped cream and the other with marshmallows.

“Now, before you get onto me about this, I can assure you these aren’t tainted.” Betty gestured to the cups filled with the dark liquid. “I brought my mix from my own kitchen. Nothing like a homemade touch, right? Just don’t let word get out, or people’ll think I’m trying to bribe the sheriff into letting me open early.” Her smile was easy, a hint of mischief in her tone.

“Thanks, Betty.” Rebecca slid into the booth opposite her. She cast a skeptical glance at the cups but couldn’t hide the flicker of gratitude. Viviane had no such reservations and immediately reached for the cup nearly overflowing with whipped cream.

Rebecca retrieved the photo of their suspect from her coat pocket and placed it on the table. “Betty, please take a look at this picture.” She had never had Betty’s homemade hot chocolate, but it smelled like fudge, it was so rich. And from the line on Viviane’s upper lip, Rebecca could tell it was thick and creamy too. “Any chance you recognize him?”

It was a silly question, because Betty remembered everyone’s face. She’d even recognized Rebecca when she’d returned to the island after decades away.

Betty leaned forward, picking the picture up to get a better look. “Yeah. He came in a few times this past week. I can’t remember the first time. But I’ve seen him a few times.”

“How many times was a few times?” Rebecca asked. Trent had only clocked two visits, but then again, he hadn’t finished watching the footage.

“Three or four?” Betty tapped her fingers against the table rhythmically. “Thought he was just another off-season tourist. They trickle in sometimes, looking for peace or running from something.”

“Anything out of the ordinary about his visits?” Viviane took over the line of questions, nudging Rebecca with her elbow and nodding to the still-untouched cup in front of her.

“Hard to say.” Betty shook her head, her brow furrowed. “This time of year, anyone who isn’t local is automatically out of the ordinary.”

Rebecca leaned forward, her elbows resting on the weathered laminate of the booth table. “Did anything about the way he acted once he was inside strike you as odd? Maybe he had an odd request or was especially quiet or chatty? Anything at all that made him distinctive?” It was important they didn’t ask any leading questions, but they still needed to get answers.

The Seabreeze Café rang with Betty’s laughter, a sound that seemed to brush away the seriousness of their inquiry. “Odd? I guess you could say he had a thing for salt. Each time he was in here, he poured it on everything. And I mean everything. Figured he had some kind of health condition. Or was trying to get one.”

Rebecca and Viviane shared a look.

Betty grimaced. “Come to think of it, he used the sea salt, not the normal table salt. Weird flavor combination with the apple pie he had, but he isn’t the first person to salt a fruit pie. And he seemed to enjoy it. Even weirder if you’re suggesting he’s the guy who sabotaged the salt. He sat at the same table each time and would have gotten the poisoned stuff if I left it on the tables overnight.”

Viviane raised an eyebrow but remained silent, leaving Rebecca to steer the conversation.

“What did he order?”

“Meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, which I assure you is properly salted, green beans, and the slice of apple pie I told you about. Same order every time. I suppose the way he really savored every mouthful was a bit odd. It isn’t as busy this time of year, so it was easy to see him.” Betty’s eyes briefly lost focus, as if she were replaying the repeated scenes in her head.

“Did you happen to get his name? Maybe he paid with a card.” Rebecca hoped for something more concrete.

“Nope. Paid in cash, no chitchat or names exchanged, but he did leave nice tips.” Betty smiled apologetically. “Sorry, dear. But the last time he came in, he parked in the parking lot. That was different, since he walked up the other times and came through the front door.”

That broke the pattern. Paulo had said he walked up to the ice cream parlor on both visits, and the CCTV footage indicated he’d also walked up to the Seafood Shack.

“You want to see the video from the outside cameras?” Betty offered.

Rebecca felt a thrill of hope. “You have outside cameras that cover the parking lot?” If the man had parked in the lot behind the café, that would explain why Trent had only seen him entering twice. Coming from the back would have led him to the side patio door, so he wouldn’t have been on the sidewalk at all.

“Of course, honey. It keeps my insurance coverage lower. And I need to do whatever I can to lower my premiums after Hurricane Boris. I had them installed after the pipe bombs.” Betty picked up a tablet from beside her in the booth. “I was using this to listen to music while I was cleaning, so give me a minute to pull up the footage.”

Peggy Lee’s sultry voice crooned the chorus to “Fever” for a few seconds until Betty tapped on the screen. She swiped through different tabs before handing the device to Rebecca.

This time, they saw the same man exit the café, his laughter echoing silently through the footage. It was unsettling, the way joy could be so grotesquely misplaced. And just like before, he pumped his fist in an excited but subdued manner, as if he couldn’t contain his happiness but didn’t want others to see it. Then he walked to an older model sedan and climbed in.

The design of the plate was familiar from Rebecca’s time in D.C., but she ignored that for the moment and paused the video. “Got a plate number.” She jotted it down in her notepad, then resumed the video and noted which way the car turned out of the lot.

Had he turned left, it could have taken him across the bridge and off the island. But he turned right, giving Rebecca hope their suspect was sticking around for some reason.

“Thank you, Betty. This is a big help.”

“Of course, honey.” Betty patted Rebecca’s hand. “Always happy to help the police.”

As Rebecca stood to leave, she glanced at the heavy cleaning bucket that had been left in the booth behind Betty. It looked like she was just as bad at taking vacations as Rebecca was.

Viviane gulped down the last of her cocoa, blowing out a hot breath at the end and fanning her mouth. “It burns, but it was worth it.”

“Hun, they’re Styrofoam cups. You could have taken it with you.” Betty pointed to a stack of plastic lids, still in their sleeve, resting on the bar. “Help yourself, Rebecca.”

With greedy intent, Viviane eyed Rebecca’s marshmallow-loaded cup.

Rebecca snatched it up and took a sip. It was like heaven. No wonder Betty was unsurprised by a customer doing a happy jig. Everything the woman made was amazing. If the hot chocolate was that good, Rebecca would have to try Betty’s chocolate silk pie as soon as the store reopened. She grabbed a lid for her cup and then headed for the door, jealously guarding her drink from Viviane’s envious gaze.

The clouds overhead threatened to open up, and the wind came in gusts that buffeted Rebecca’s coat as she shut the door of the cruiser behind her.

Viviane jumped in as Rebecca pulled the onboard computer over.

“Here goes nothing.” She entered the license plate number they’d just acquired as Viviane leaned in. The machine hummed while it processed the request, the sound somehow both reassuring and tense.

“Got something.” Rebecca turned the screen so Viviane could read it easier. She summarized aloud. “Vehicle is registered to a Joshua Rodolfo, residing in a suburb of the District of Columbia.”

“Washington, D.C.? You thought we didn’t have enough criminals and decided to import some from your old stomping grounds, Boss?” Viviane laughed.

Rebecca ignored the joke even as a shiver ran down her spine. “Update the previous BOLO. Attach the name Joshua Rodolfo to the description and add in the details for his vehicle. Make sure the others know about our lead too.” Throwing the cruiser in gear, she pulled onto the road as Viviane started typing.

Rebecca wasn’t going to wait. It was time they hunted this guy down and got some answers.

“Let’s see if Mr. Rodolfo enjoys the spotlight.” Viviane’s tone was sunny.

Rebecca looked over and saw the pride in her deputy’s eyes. They’d gotten a big lead. And that was a good thing. But it wasn’t a slam dunk. Not yet.

“I just hope he hasn’t vanished into thin air now that we’ve closed all the shops. Once you’re done updating that, call the D.C. police and let them know we’re looking for one of their residents.”

30

Milo Hartley ducked his head against the heavy winds as he trudged toward the Shoreline Tavern, his steel-toed boots clacking against the frost-kissed pavement. They were old friends, those boots, the steel peeking through like a badge of honor from countless hours on the job. His heavy flannel shirt, a mosaic of reds and blues, offered little reprieve from the cold, but it was a small price to pay for the promise of a cheap beer—or four.

“Empty?” His eyebrows knit together in confusion as he surveyed the barren parking lot. “On a Wednesday?”

Wednesdays at the tavern were a sacred ritual, a quiet time when the beer flowed cheaper than water and the barflies buzzed low and slow. It was a deal that sang sweetly to Milo’s thrifty soul, fueling his midweek respite. He quickened his pace, the anticipation building in his chest with each step closer to his liquid oasis.

But as he reached out, ready to step into the familiar warmth, his hand met the unyielding resistance of a locked door. “What the hell?” He jiggled the handle several times more, each attempt as fruitless as the last. “This can’t be right.”

The clock tower across the street struck three, its chimes mocking him. He squinted through the tavern’s grimy window, finding only shadows and stillness within.

“‘Closed until further notice?’” The words on a hastily scrawled sign danced before his eyes. No food or drinks allowed to be served on the island, by order of the sheriff’s office. Sorry for the inconvenience.

“Sorry my ass.” His voice was a low growl as he read the message again, searching for a loophole, a mistake, anything. But there was no denying the stark truth. The bar would not be welcoming him this afternoon.

A surge of frustration coursed through him, sparking an internal debate. Should’ve known something was up. Not a car in sight. His wife’s disdain for his drinking habit flashed in his mind, her words about the stench of beer a constant echo. Well, what now, Milo? Home ain’t an option unless you’re itching for a fight.

And he wasn’t. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the door, the world outside blurring into obscurity. All day, he’d looked forward to coming here, but what was he left with? A locked door and a dry throat.

There’s gotta be another place to get a drink.

Milo’s anger bubbled just beneath the surface, a low simmer threatening to overflow. He could almost taste the cold relief of his usual brew, feel its comforting chill slide over his tongue. Instead, he was met with the sour aftertaste of disappointment.

“Dammit.” The locked door’s stubborn refusal to budge amplified his irritation.

“Rough day?” The question sliced through his internal ranting, and Milo swiveled around to find the source.

A man with dark hair was leaning against the corner of the building, holding an empty beer bottle in one hand.

Milo’s mouth watered despite himself, and he glanced around, wondering where the man had gotten the beer from. “That’s a hell of an understatement. I came here to forget about life for a while, but apparently, they’re closed.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one. I came over here thinking I’d find some peace, but maybe company is better.” The man’s voice was a little high-pitched, and Milo wondered if he was on something. Or maybe he was just a happy drunk and this wasn’t his first bottle. “You’re welcome to join me if you want.”

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Suspicion tugged at Milo’s senses, but the primal need for a drink gnawed at him, stronger than caution.

“Nah, don’t think we’ve met. I’m just a man with some beers who’s willing to share.” The stranger shrugged. “But I understand if you’d rather be left alone. I just thought a working man deserved a nice cold one.”

“Can’t argue with that.” The words were out before Milo could stop them. This guy was speaking his language. Beer was good, but it was always better when you weren’t drinking alone. People would think he was an alcoholic if he did that too often. He followed the stranger, trailing behind him as they rounded the corner of the building.

The wraparound porch came into view, an expanse of weathered wood clinging to the side of the dunes, the rhythmic crash of waves a constant undercurrent.

“Here ya go.” The man tilted his head toward the rickety table that held his makeshift bar, a six-pack minus the bottle in his hand. “Since we can’t get to the pool tables or dartboards, how about we play a little game of our own? A little bet, if you will.”

He pulled a beer from the five remaining and used a bottle opener to pop the top. Then he repeated the action with a second bottle.

Milo raised an eyebrow. He was getting weird vibes from this guy. “What kind of bet?”

“Simple. You pick a beer. Choose right, you get twenty bucks. Choose wrong, well…you still get your beer.” The man’s smile was wide, inviting.

“I get the beer either way?” Milo tried to shake off the oddity of the proposition. “They’re all the same, aren’t they?”

“Well, I’m not going to let you see the one I pick. But I’ll mark one.” He turned his back so Milo couldn’t see which bottle he was marking. “All you have to do is pick the one that’s not marked and take a drink.”

“All right then,” Milo muttered, mostly to himself.

The dude turned back around and held up both bottles. “Okay, pick one.”

Milo reached for the nearest bottle, its glass cold to the touch, keeping his eyes on the weird guy as he did so. “This one.”

“Aw, man. You won!” The weirdo turned his bottle around, showing a scratch mark on the label. Pulling his wallet out, he laughed. “It’s a weird game, I know. But I’m bored and easily amused. Here’s your twenty.”

Milo took the twenty, though he didn’t pull out his wallet in case that was what the man was waiting for.

“Cheers.” The man clinked his own bottle against Milo’s, his grin never wavering.

Milo took a hefty swig, the hoppy bitterness melding with the salty tang of the ocean air. He leaned his backside against the railing, the wood sturdy yet yielding to his weight. As he contemplated the endless expanse of water, a sense of calm seeped through his veins. It wasn’t just the alcohol. It was the whole damn view, the serenity. He had almost forgotten what peace felt like.

“Good stuff, eh?” The man’s voice was a distant murmur, fading into the background noise of the lapping waves.

“Damn good.” Milo took another generous swig. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sun warm his face.

He didn’t notice the exact moment when the warmth spread deeper, tingling through his muscles, coaxing them into relaxation far beyond the norm. A laugh escaped him, unbidden, a sound so carefree, he hardly recognized it as his own.

“Feels great, doesn’t it?” The voice came from far away now, but Milo couldn’t muster the energy to open his eyes.

“Never better,” he slurred, the words thick and slow on his tongue. His legs turned rubbery, his balance precarious. The railing wasn’t just something to lean on anymore. It became his lifeline, keeping him upright. If he hadn’t felt so good, he would have been worried. But damn, this was a good beer. Milo tried to take another drink, but his arm was heavy.

“Maybe take a seat, buddy.” The suggestion seemed to come from a great distance, and Milo was already sinking to the wooden planks, the world tilting around him.

“Sit…yeah…” Milo’s thoughts grew fuzzy, disjointed. He eased himself down, the rough wood pressing into his back. As he lounged there, he saw, through half-lidded eyes, the man standing over him, an expression of satisfaction painted on his face.

“Sorry about that. It looks like you chose wrong after all.” He bent over and plucked the twenty-dollar bill from Milo’s slack hand.

“Naw. This is the best beer…I ever…had…” Milo tried to joke, but the words dissolved as his consciousness ebbed away with the tide.

31

The guy at my feet looked peaceful, wrapped in a well-worn flannel like he’d just decided to take a nap on the cold wooden planks. Bad luck for him, running into me and all. I had only planned on throwing back the six beers before heading out on my primary mission.

Something to dull the damn voice in my head telling me to just forget the whole thing. I was in too deep to do that.

I stood there, savoring the final swigs of my beer. It was an amber victory, bubbling with the aftertaste of adrenaline. Another fifty thousand in my pocket for another life taken. The bottle made a satisfying clink as it joined its empty brethren in the cardboard cradle.

The paper packet I’d hidden in my palm fell silently between the bottles. Long ago I’d taught myself how to palm cards in order to win more card games. Hiding the packet of fentanyl while opening the bottles was a bit trickier, but not too hard. Poor guy hadn’t even noticed.

“Sorry, buddy.” I addressed the empty words to his still-warm body. But I wasn’t. Not really. With time running out in my own game, sacrifices had to be made. This stranger’s death probably wouldn’t escalate the chaos, but his corpse might just serve as the distraction I needed.

I plucked the bottle from his limp grasp and emptied what was left onto the ground. No need to leave evidence lying around for someone to find later. Turning back to the table, I tucked the empty in neatly with the others. Nothing to see here.

The chill in the air couldn’t touch the heat of the thrill coursing through me. I’d left my destiny in the hands of fate, giving myself a flip-of-the-coin chance of keeling over right in front of him. I might have fudged the mark on the label to distract him from the real difference between the two bottles, but I still let him make the choice after I’d dosed one of the bottles I’d opened.

By continuing to allow fate to decide who lived and who died, I shifted the responsibility of the outcome from my shoulders. I was as much at risk as they were.

But I was on a winning streak, and nothing could stop me.

Whistling a happy tune, I wandered back to my car with my six-pack of empties.

I’d thought my luck had gone dark after winning the fentanyl, but it had turned out to be my good luck charm. I patted the bag in my pocket that contained a few carefully folded pieces of waxed paper. Each one held more than enough to kill a full-grown man in a matter of minutes, but not many remained, and I needed to make them count.

Opening the trunk, I tossed in the spent six pack. As I climbed into the car to escape the wintry air, my police radio crackled to life on the seat beside me, cutting through my high with static sharpness. “All units, be on the lookout for Joshua Rodolfo. He’s driving a black 1998 Toyota Camry sedan with Washington, D.C. plates, license plate number⁠—”

My name. My car. They were onto me.

A laugh bubbled up, unbidden. I’d just been bumped up to the high-stakes table. This was what I lived for. The rush, the risk, the sweet sip of survival even when the odds said I should be dead. I’d just beaten fifty-fifty odds! The chances of them finding me were infinitesimal in comparison.

“Rodolfo, you son of a bitch,” I whispered to myself, a grin splitting my face. “You’re on the win streak of the century.”

The radio squawked again. I barely heard it over the drum of my heartbeat in my ears, but I recognized that it was a description of me.

Time to disappear, blend back into the shadows. The havoc I was unleashing wasn’t planned, really. I was winging it, trusting fate and my winning streak. But I was good at thinking on my feet, so I paused to figure out my next steps now that the cops knew my identity.

The parking lot lay barren before me, a sea of empty spaces with one lone island, a cherry-red sedan that wasn’t mine. The unlucky bastard’s car. He didn’t need it anymore. My Camry was a tell. The dead guy’s keys would be the sleight of hand I needed to level the playing field.

I moved my car around to the side of the building and hopped out, grabbing my trusty radio scanner. There was still no one nearby as I walked back to the wraparound porch where I’d left my drinking buddy. I peered around the corner, scanning for any movement.

Nothing. Perfect.

I retraced my steps, a predator returning to his kill, the crunch of sand underfoot punctuating my approach. It felt like the march of fate itself.

Kneeling by the corpse, I patted him down with clinical detachment and plucked the car keys from his front pocket.

“Sorry, buddy,” I apologized again without a hint of sincerity. “But you’re not going to miss your wheels.”

I rose and strutted to the sedan, slipping into the driver’s seat as if it were made for me. No, better than that. As if it were waiting for me. The scanner went back into the seat next to me, ready to warn me if the cops figured out my ruse.

The engine purred to life, and I allowed myself a smirk at how easy this was. “Live and learn. It’s time to go make some coin.” My debt erased, and a million dollars spending money in the bank. “Speaking of which.”

I pulled out the burner phone I’d been given and thumbed out a message, fingers steady despite the adrenaline cocktail coursing through my veins. They’ve caught my scent, but I have a new plan.

Seconds ticked by, each one an eternity in this game of life and death. Then the screen lit up with a reply, cold and unyielding as the grave. You better hurry. It’s far too quiet there. Finish the game.

I know the terms. No worries. I dropped the phone in my lap. He wanted chaos? I’d give him that and so much more. Then my benefactor would declare me the winner of this little game.

Under my hand, the car glided out of the parking lot, a ghost ship setting sail on a crimson tide. The first body had created a stir, but not much more than that. It wasn’t until those kids took ill at the diner with their dad that the frenzy began. “But it’s too quiet now. It’s because those kids pulled through. Everyone feels safe again.”

I merged into the nearly nonexistent flow of afternoon traffic. The sun was still up, which made it harder to hide. It had truly been a stroke of genius to swap cars. Mine wouldn’t be easily seen where I’d left it, and this one wasn’t wanted by anyone. I was cruising like a local, hiding in plain sight.

Only until they found the body, of course. But I’d stay one step ahead of them, winning a game they didn’t know they were playing.

“School’s out by this time of day, so messing with the cafeteria’s salt supply isn’t an option. Not if I want to be done with this.” My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, causing it to creak under my grip.

The phone buzzed, and I picked it up. My benefactor wasn’t talkative, so I knew the message must be important.

Once you turn the island upside down, I’ll know, because I’m watching you. I’ll get you out of town and on your way. Even if the sheriff catches you. But if you fail, you’re on your own.

I typed my reply as I waited at a stoplight.

I plan on finishing the game tonight and walking away a winner.

Around me, the little town was laid bare, indifferent to the madness cradled in its coastal arms. The car idled as I impatiently waited for the light to turn. My heart thrummed against my ribs, a caged animal desperate for freedom.

At the high-stakes table, the gamblers expected everyone to make bold plays. And that was what I needed to do to win the biggest pot of my lifetime.

I glanced in the rearview mirror, half expecting to see a cruiser following me. Nothing. My luck was holding out.

The plan I’d come up with in the motel room was still my best option. I’d intended to summon the courage to execute it by drinking six cold beers, but I’d only had five of them. Hopefully that was enough to get me through this.

“There’s no question this will create the chaos I need.”

This game was reaching its final hand, and it was time to push all my chips into the center. Time to make a bold move. There was no turning back now. It was do or die—literally. I glanced around the front seat of the stranger’s car as if I was surrounded by fellow poker players.

“I’m all in.”

32

The early December sun was sinking toward the horizon, casting elongated shadows from the spindly trees that lined the quiet island roads. As her SUV crept along the asphalt with a predatory slowness, Rebecca kept her gaze vigilant for any sign of Josh Rodolfo or his black Camry.

Beside her, Viviane’s fingers danced across the laptop keyboard, delving into the life of the man who had brought terror to their small community.

“Anything helpful?” Rebecca was glad she had someone with her to dig deeper into their suspect while she drove.

“Three arrests in five years.” Viviane’s tone was tinged with disbelief. “They’re all gambling related. One of them for running an illegal gambling operation. It looks like he was setting up back-alley poker games and got caught. The notes say it was all high stakes. Seems like he might have a gambling addiction.”

“Gambling…” Rebecca tried to figure out how that fit with the murders. They’d brainstormed about why he’d done what he had, eating at the same places where he’d left lethal doses of fentanyl, but hadn’t considered a gambling angle.

“His wife left him two years back.” Viviane continued scrolling through the digital records, her face illuminated by the computer screen as her dark eyes scanned the information. “According to the court documents, it was an uncontested divorce. She filed, left him, and changed her name back to her maiden name.”

“Can’t say I blame her.” Rebecca slowed the SUV even further as a group of older teenagers crossed in front of them, their laughter piercing the tension that filled the cruiser. One of the boys was tossing a basketball and paused to wave at her.

Recognizing Jake Jones, Rebecca smiled and waved back. That was something she’d seen more and more recently. She wasn’t sure if it was because kids were no longer hanging out at the beach, but it wasn’t all that unusual to see small groups of teenagers walking through town, shopping, hanging out, or playing sports in the small parks scattered throughout the island.

“Bankrupt three months ago.” Viviane’s focus remained on the screen, not paying attention to what was happening around her. “You’re not going to believe it. He doesn’t have a social media footprint at all. Not one account that matches him.”

Rebecca wondered if that was intentional. If he worked gig jobs or side hustles, he could hide any assets from a divorce attorney. He could also stay off the grid to avoid a loan shark hired by a bookie. There were lots of reasons to drop off social media, so Rebecca tried to consider all the possibilities and not get tunnel vision.

“Seems like a lot of dead ends.” Viviane closed the laptop with a soft click. She turned to Rebecca, her expression a mix of frustration and resolve. “I don’t get it. What’s his endgame here?”

“Maybe this is his ultimate gamble.” That was the only possible reason Rebecca could imagine for what Rodolfo was doing. The thought chilled her blood despite the car heater’s warm breath. “What if he’s playing the most dangerous game of all? Instead of a bullet, he’s using poison in a weird game of Russian roulette. That would explain why he celebrates every time he walks away alive and why he seems to savor every bite he takes.”

Viviane stuck her tongue out between her teeth in disgust. “That’s really twisted. And it doesn’t explain why. What’s he stand to gain?”

“You mean the prize? Survival, possibly? The thrill of facing death and coming out ahead time after time. The victims are just collateral damage in his sick game.”

Rebecca blinked as a piece slid into place. She had nothing to prove her theory was true. Still, it felt right. And it explained his odd behavior.

“What?”

“Many gamblers are addicts. They need the rush of the game, knowing they might lose. At the same time, they’re convinced if they do things just right, they’re bound to win. It’s their superstition.” The words hung heavy between them, suffocating in their implications. “There’s also a bit of narcissism in some gamblers. They’re always certain they’re smarter than whoever they’re playing against.”

Viviane frowned. “A life hanging by a thread is one hell of a bet to place.”

“Especially when it’s not just your own.” Rebecca knew she was heading down the right path, even though that path didn’t make much sense. “But turning murder into a game…” She trailed off, shaking her head, her expression a portrait of revulsion and disbelief.

“But why here?” Viviane waved a hand, indicating the town around them. “D.C. has a lot more people. Why come all the way down here to play?”

“Maybe it’s got too many people. Or too many cops. There’s a lot of crime in D.C., but also a lot of cameras. Many big cases are solved pretty damn quick. Especially ones like this where anyone could be a target. They don’t like the idea of politicians or their cronies getting caught up in senseless murders.”

“Still, it’s a hell of a leap from back-alley poker games to murdering people at the dinner table.” Viviane leaned back in her seat, her posture shifting as she started watching the people they were passing.

“Maybe he got run out of town. Or he’s running from people he owes money to? Could someone be pushing him?” Rebecca’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of a dark car before it turned out of sight. Wrong model, so she dismissed it.

“Someone could be pulling his strings. Though that could just be my paranoia talking. I did grow up here, where everything bad seems to have been linked to the Yacht Club’s machinations.” Viviane sighed heavily. “But that still doesn’t answer why he came down to Shadow Island. There are plenty of towns between here and D.C.”

The radio crackled to life, slicing through the dull hum of the SUV’s engine. “Dispatch to Sheriff. You got your ears on?”

Rebecca reached for the handset, her pulse quickening. “Sheriff here. Go ahead.”

“Report of a possible body spotted on the back porch at Shoreline Tavern. The guy who called it in saw it from the beach below and said he was laid out and not responding to shouts. You’re closest to the scene. Medical is already on the way.”

“Copy that, Dispatch. We’re en route.” Rebecca flipped on the lights and siren as she sped toward Shoreline Tavern. Hopefully this would turn out to simply be a drunk passed out. But she wasn’t much of a gambler, especially when it came to betting with someone else’s life.

33

The chill nipped at Rebecca’s cheeks as she yanked a bag containing Narcan from the door pocket of her cruiser, the sharp click of her boots on the pavement echoing through the nearly empty parking lot of the Shoreline Tavern. The weak sun had started its descent behind a gray wash of clouds, casting an early twilight over the island.

She’d turned off the siren when she parked, but the lights were still spinning to warn people this was an active scene.

“Over here!” A jittery man beckoned from beside the building where the wooden slats of the wraparound porch started. His voice carried a tremor of urgency that matched his restless bouncing. “He’s back there.”

“Sir, stay here. We’ll check it out.” Rebecca ran past him.

With practiced synchrony, Rebecca and Viviane placed their hands on their weapons, advancing toward the side balcony where the ocean gnashed its teeth against the shore below. The railing, chipped, worn, and sun-bleached, guided them around the back of the building. On the other side of the porch, tables and benches that had been rubbed smooth with use were stacked neatly against the exterior of the tavern.

The porch was built above the dunes, and the constant wind didn’t seem to affect the man laid out face up between the abandoned tables and rail. The pallor of death was creeping onto his skin, the blue hue around his lips whispering tales of his last breaths. If his chest was moving, Rebecca couldn’t tell.

“Clear?” Viviane scanned the surroundings with a rookie’s zealous precision.

“Not yet.” The last section of the wraparound still needed to be cleared. “Check him. He might still be alive.” Rebecca tossed Viviane the Narcan before moving off quickly and as quietly as possible.

“Dammit.” Viviane dropped to her knees, two fingers pressing against the man’s neck in search of life’s subtle rhythm. “He’s not breathing,” she called after Rebecca.

“Check his pupils.”

A second later, Viviane shouted, “Pinpoint.”

“Administer the Narcan and note the time.”

Once the area had been cleared, Rebecca returned to where Viviane was performing chest compressions on the man, the empty Narcan package beside her. She knelt and prepared to take turns with her deputy in performing CPR while they waited for the ambulance. The frothy substance at the corner of the man’s mouth didn’t bode well for his chances.

Rebecca grabbed her radio. “Dispatch, tell the ambulance to hurry. The patient is not breathing. We’ve administered Narcan and started CPR.”

“Copy that, Sheriff. ETA is two minutes.”

“Keep going. Just keep going.” Viviane interlocked her fingers and whispered a song as she kept a fast rhythm of chest compressions. The chorus to the Bee Gees’s “Staying Alive” was the perfect rhythm for the task at hand. She glanced at her watch. “Two minutes.”

Rebecca administered another dose up the man’s nose before taking over. Viviane leaned back on her heels and caught her breath. They continued swapping every few minutes so neither one would get fatigued. Empty packages of Narcan lay around them.

“Where the hell is the ambulance? It’s been more than two minutes.” Rebecca huffed as she caught her breath.

“Boss?”

Rebecca spun around while Viviane continued CPR.

Hoyt and Jake were making their way past the tables tied up along the walls for the winter, heading for them.

“Jake, take over for me.”

Wasting no time, the deputy slid up opposite Viviane, unbuttoning the cuffs of his jacket in preparation. After a few more compressions from Viviane, Jake took over, grunting to the same disco tune.

Waiting for when her two deputies would switch chest compressions, Rebecca withdrew a weathered wallet from the man’s chest pocket, making sure not to interfere with the lifesaving measures. The dimming light flickered over the ID card. Milo Hartley smiled from a photograph that captured a livelier moment, one far removed from this grim tableau on a deck overlooking the sea.

“He’s a local. Lives over on Westerly Point. That’s halfway across the island.”

“Come on, come on.”

Viviane’s pleas were in vain, however. No gasp of air broke through. No cough spluttered from the man’s lips. Each press of Viviane’s palms shook his body but did not bring Hartley back.

“Got one…last Narcan…in my…pocket.” Viviane spoke in time with her compressions.

Rebecca dropped the wallet and felt around in Viviane’s coat until she found the medicine. Working around the two deputies, she ripped open the package of the nasal spray and shot it up Hartley’s nose. Then she pulled her coat sleeve back and checked the time.

“Can you two keep at it until the paramedics get here?” Rebecca noted the man’s bluish face. It seemed less blue now, but that might have been her imagination. More than seven minutes had elapsed since they’d gotten the call. Who knew how long it was before he’d even been spotted?

Viviane and Jake grunted their acknowledgments, not breaking the rhythm that was Hartley’s best chance for survival.

Rebecca picked up the wallet she’d dropped and passed it to Hoyt. “Look him up. Picture matches. Milo Hartley. He’s a local. We need to know how and when he got here. Any chance you know him?”

“He looks familiar, but I don’t know him. Just seen him around here and there. I’ll get right on this.” Hoyt took the wallet from her and turned away, heading back to his cruiser.

The wail of sirens reached a crescendo before medics burst onto the scene. Rebecca turned toward the sound as she made room for them. Their gurney rumbled across the wooden deck as they raced over. Rebecca was glad it was the same team from the ice cream shop.

“We have reason to believe this is a fentanyl overdose and have administered three doses of Narcan. Upon arrival seven minutes ago, then every two minutes.” Rebecca gestured toward the empty vials discarded near the body. “CPR has been continuous. No response. Medical history unknown.”

“Got it. We’ll take it from here.” Steve Abramek knelt by Viviane’s side, checking Hartley’s vitals with seasoned hands that knew too well the dance between life and death.

“Another one? It’s an epidemic out here.” Donna Bianchi sidled up next to Jake. As she leaned forward, Viviane and Jake leaned back to get out of their way, letting the EMT take over compressions while the paramedic established an airway.

“Feels like we’re fighting shadows.” Rebecca acknowledged the frustration in Bianchi’s voice. “Every time we think we’re gaining ground…”

“Another one slips through…” Bianchi finished her thought with a shake of his head.

“Coffey, stay with them. I’m going to see who we’re dealing with here.” Rebecca reached down to help Viviane to her feet.

For a moment, Viviane stared down at the body as the medics continued to work on him. Then she took Rebecca’s hand and got to her feet, and they headed to the parking lot.

“Boss, you got your ears on?” Hoyt’s voice came through three different shoulder radios at once.

Rebecca pulled her mic to her mouth. “I’m here, Frost. What do you have?”

“Milo Hartley is married. I’m at his house now. Looks like his wife is here. I’ll update you shortly.”

“Roger that, Frost.” They hit the parking lot, and Rebecca looked around, wondering if she’d missed something in her haste when they got there. But the parking lot was empty. The island wasn’t big, but most people wouldn’t walk the two miles in this chilly weather just to go to a bar.

Wait. Where’s Hartley’s car?

“Darby,” Rebecca called, her voice slicing through the biting air, “check the system for Hartley’s car, will you?”

“Already on it.” Viviane’s thumbs danced over her phone.

Despite the chill, Rebecca kept her hands out of her pockets as she started walking the surrounding area, searching for any signs of Josh Rodolfo. The tavern’s side lights cast long shadows that seemed to mock her efforts.

“Hartley drives a red 2001 Kia Forte.” Viviane looked up from the screen and scanned the empty lot. “His car isn’t here.”

“I doubt he walked here. His flannel wasn’t thick enough for him to try something like that,” Rebecca mused. “Someone brought him, or…” Her sentence trailed off as a new thought took root. “We haven’t checked the side lot.” She pointed to the small parking lot tucked along the other side of the building where the staff usually parked.

They moved swiftly, guns holstered but hands ready. There, parked in the shadows, was another vehicle they had been looking for—a black Toyota Camry with D.C. plates.

“Gotcha,” Viviane said as they approached the car.

Hartley’s car was missing, but this one was here. That wasn’t a coincidence. “Nobody’s inside,” Rebecca confirmed after a quick sweep of the interior with her flashlight.

“Boss.” Hoyt’s voice crackled through her radio, bringing her back.

“Go ahead, Frost.” She pressed the device closer to her ear.

“Talked to Hartley’s wife,” Hoyt reported. “She says he came home from work, changed, and went out for his usual drink around three.”

“Did he drive his Kia Forte?”

There was a pause. “She says yes.”

If Hoyt was having to relay her questions to Hartley’s wife, that meant he’d turned the volume down on his radio and she could speak freely.

“Right. Rodolfo took his car after poisoning him. Dispatch, put out a new BOLO for a red 2001 Kia Forte. And send a tow truck to Shoreline Tavern. We’ve got the suspect’s car here.”

“On it, Sheriff. And I’ll alert Coastal Ridge as well.” Elliot was efficient as always. Rebecca marveled at how quickly he’d adapted to the role. His work was vital to their mission.

“Thanks, Dispatch. Appreciate it. Remind them that everyone needs to wear masks and gloves since we’re dealing with fentanyl.” She clicked off her mic, her expression grim. “Dammit.”

Rebecca breathed out, her thoughts swirling with frustration. Rodolfo knew enough to switch cars. How?

He might be listening in on police frequencies.

If he was, he’d have heard what she just said too.

Slow rattling came from the other side of the building. Rebecca led Viviane around the tavern to the other side as the medics raced the gurney to the waiting ambulance. Jake looked up as they approached and shook his head. Although they were rushing the man to the hospital, Jake’s face told the whole story. He wasn’t going to make it. In fact, he was already dead. A physician would call it soon enough.

Soon after that, they’d transport Hartley’s body to the morgue where Bailey Flynn would add him to the other fentanyl victims. Right now, her hands were full with the ones already there.

Rebecca pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed Hoyt.

“Hey, Boss. Did you forget how to use the radios again? Kids these days are so dependent on new tech. I swear.” Hoyt’s teasing was usually a silver lining in bleak circumstances, but this time, Rebecca couldn’t muster up the energy to laugh.

“No. I’m worried Rodolfo is listening to our radio traffic. Let Mrs. Hartley know the ambulance is taking her husband to the hospital now.” She lowered her voice. “Don’t give her hope. They’ll likely call it there.”

“Well, shit. All right. I’ll let her know.” There was no humor in his voice now.

“Darby and I are going to head out and look for Rodolfo. He’s driving Hartley’s car now. Come pick up Coffey when you can. And let’s stop using the radio until we catch this guy.” Rebecca hung up the phone and gestured for Viviane to follow her. Together they ran the short distance to her SUV.

The killer was out there, somewhere, and time was not their ally.

34

“Shit.” It had only been an hour, and already the sheriff had caught on to what I was doing. Driving around in the car was no longer an option. I started looking for public parking where I could ditch my new ride.

They knew the car I was driving, and the noose was tightening. My heart thumped against my ribs, a drumbeat urging me on. I had a plan, but the clock was ticking louder than the static over the police radios. The island was small. Too damn small. How was I supposed to hide in a closet?

Dusk was settling over the island, and that was going to complicate my plan. How would I find any children out playing after school once it was fully dark outside?

First, I needed to ditch this red car. It was like a matador’s cape, enraging the oncoming bull. Up ahead, I spotted a small cluster of trees in the middle of rows of buildings. That looked promising. If nothing else, I could hide the car in the shadows and slip away. With luck, I’d kill two birds with one stone. Preferably, I’d kill a whole damn flock.

The trees got closer and showed me what I was looking for. A small parking lot that protected cars from the ocean breeze and beating sun in the summer. Flipping on my turn signal, I pulled in.

A park loomed ahead, innocent laughter piercing the stillness. I really was on a winning streak. It was full of kids running around, their backpacks dropped along the edge of an imaginary line. Four kids of varying ages faced off against four more kids, a red rubber ball between them.

“Ask and ye shall receive.” I’d never been much for religion, but Lady Luck sure was listening.

Putting the car in park, I watched the children. I couldn’t tell if they were playing kickball, soccer, or some strange combination of the two. They were kids, running around and enjoying life without worrying about details like what the rules of the game were. They were just having fun.

Had I ever been like that?

“No. I always played by the rules back then. Because I thought following the rules was the only way to win.” Now I knew rules were made to be broken.

The park was a patch of normal in a world about to go haywire. Laughing children would soon be replaced by sirens as a fleet of ambulances descended on this spot. The encroaching darkness would light up with the red-and-blue lights signaling that chaos had won.

“This will do nicely.” I tasted the desperation as I spoke.

Eight kids played in the park without a care in the world. Their small bodies darted about with an energy that felt alien to me. The primary goal was bedlam, but eight kids would net me another four hundred thousand. That, plus my take from the other three added up to another five hundred fifty thousand to the one-million-dollar kitty.

Yeah, I could do this.

Lifting my gaze to the rearview mirror of a dead man’s car, I stared at myself. “As long as it’s fair,” I tried to convince the haunted eyes of my reflection. “If I gamble with my own life, too, that makes it fair.”

I stepped out of the red car. The cold air slapping me sharply across the face didn’t deter me from what I was about to do.

My boots carried me with purpose toward the corner store. A bell clanged dully as I opened the door. The kid at the register might even have greeted me, but I was on autopilot and didn’t respond.

Walking to the candy aisle, I looked for the biggest bag they had. The fluorescent lights cast everything in stark relief, the rows of snacks like soldiers waiting for their orders.

Sour gummy worms. Perfect. Sugar-coated treats that would be irresistible to the children running around in the park.

I walked to the register, purchased two bags of the gummy worms, and walked out again.

My head was buzzing as I got closer to starting this new game of chance. I ripped both bags open and pulled the baggie of fentanyl out of my pocket. One after the other, I poured each remaining paper packet into one of the bags.

This was it. I was certain this would create the level of chaos necessary to sweep all the chips into my own stack.

I’d pushed my chips into the center. One bag for fate, and one for me.

“Jesus, Josh, what are you doing?” The words were a whisper, but they echoed in the emptiness of my skull. Was I really going to do this? Could I kill eight children?

The park bench was cold against my legs as I sat down at a metal picnic table under the trees. My body heat seeped through my jeans as I set both bags on the table in front of me. Kids’ voices rang out, oblivious to the precipice upon which we all teetered.

My fingers worked mechanically, shuffling the packets back and forth. The weight shifted from palm to palm, the crinkle of the plastic a devil’s chorus to the drumming of my heart. Round and round they went, a carousel ride to hell.

“Hey, there, kids!” My voice was too loud, too eager, betraying nerves I wished I didn’t feel. “Looks like I’ve got a bit too much candy here. Any takers?”

At first, they all froze, staring at me. I couldn’t be sure how old they were. My best guess was around ten. If they were much younger than that, they wouldn’t have been out here unsupervised.

The thought gave me pause, and I scanned the tree line to make sure there were no parents lurking in the shadows who’d come to collect their little rug rats for dinner. There was no one. Just me and eight unsuspecting children.

I had no doubt they’d all been warned not to take candy from strangers. Moving as if on instinct, they started forming a small group, a little herd to protect themselves from the strange man.

If they were smart, they’d ignore me or run away. Or at least, that was the excuse I told myself.

A little boy with messy brown hair took the first step toward me, away from the pack of wary children. “Why are you giving away candy?” Behind him, the children grouped up even tighter, hiding behind the kid who had appointed himself their leader.

Ah, so he wasn’t going to just take it. Smart kid. That was okay. I could outsmart a child.

“Well, I bought two because they were buy one get one free. But I accidentally opened both of them at the same time. I can’t eat both bags, and I don’t want to spill them in my car. So I thought I’d let you kids share one of the bags if you wanted. I’ve heard it’s not a good idea to let seagulls eat candy. But maybe I’m wrong about that?”

I raised an eyebrow, pointing to the two identical open bags on the table in front of me.

“No, you’re not supposed to feed seagulls. My dad says they’re the rats of the sky, and if you feed them, they’ll just keep coming back.” A little girl with a blond ponytail answered this time.

“That makes sense. So do you kids want one of these? Or should I toss them in the trash?” Right then and there, I decided I would do whatever the kids wanted. If they said to toss one, I would. And I would eat the other one. That was the rule I’d put in place for myself. Fate was the dealer, and I’d play the cards I was dealt.

“But remember, you have to share. This is a lot of candy. Too much for just one kid to eat. You don’t want to spoil your dinners or get a stomachache.”

“He really did just walk out of the store with them. I saw him,” whispered one of the taller girls.

“Which means he just opened them. Like he said.” One of the boys glanced around at the other kids. “It’s not like it’s Halloween. We don’t have to wait for our parents to check it.”

Reaching out, I gave the two bags a little nudge, pushing them farther away from me. Letting them see the candy was safe to take. “I’ll let you decide. You can either toss one of the bags or share it. I just remembered I left something in my car. I’ll be right back.”

I got up and walked to the red car. Behind me, I could hear more whispering as the children who were gathered around the picnic table weighed their options. But I didn’t look back. Opening the car door, I picked up the scanner and turned it off. Then I closed the door and walked back to my table.

Only one bag was sitting there now.

“Thanks, mister!” The girl with the ponytail called out to me, her joy a dagger twisting in my gut as I gummy worm flapped between her teeth. She bit it in half, chewing happily. The brown-haired boy was holding the bag while the others took turns reaching into it for their share of the loot.

“Enjoy.” The word was ash on my tongue.

As they scampered off, a bubble of laughter in the dying light, I trudged back to my table. I still had my end of the bargain to uphold. Pulling the single bag back to me, I looked inside. The sugar-coated candies gleamed like jewels. Or were they Judas’s silver?

I was either holding pocket aces or garbage cards. Picking out a green one, my favorite as a child, I looked back toward the kids. The world narrowed to this point, this singular moment.

“Game on.” I popped it into my mouth. The taste exploded, sour, then sweet, then sour again. It was a mimicry of my life.

Closing my eyes, I waited for the rest of my hand to be dealt. No matter what happened, I had truly gone all in, and there was no turning back.

35

Long shadows stretched across streets filling with traffic as people commuted home after work. The orange hue from the setting sun had faded an hour earlier, and the darkened sky offered an ominous backdrop as Rebecca rolled her SUV to a halt at a stop sign.

Her attention was drawn to the lone vehicle parked with a brazenness that bordered on mockery. Milo Hartley’s shiny red sedan was in the middle of an empty parking lot next to a small park on the outskirts of a residential area.

With every second that passed, it felt like they were walking straight into Shadow’s doom.

“Shit. He’s at a park.” Viviane spoke from the passenger seat, her voice tinged with dread.

Rebecca tried to scan the area to see if anyone was there, but the darkness and row of trees bordering the park made it impossible. She grabbed the radio but remembered her earlier fear that he was using a scanner. Picking up her phone, she called Hoyt.

“Yeah, Boss? We still using radio silence to shield our communications from Rodolfo?”

“Yes. We spotted Hartley’s car near Westridge Park. How soon can you and Coffey get here? I have a bad feeling about this.”

“The park? Dammit. You don’t think…four minutes. I’ll get Coffey to call Elliot and loop him in. Go get our bad guy.”

“Copy that.”

As she hung up, Rebecca’s gut tightened with anticipation. She nodded to Viviane. The two of them were already wearing masks over their mouths and noses. It wasn’t guaranteed protection against powder being blown in their faces, since it could still get into their eyes. But it was all they had right now. And Rebecca had no intention of getting that close to the man until he was on the ground, one way or the other.

Parking on the side of the street, they exited the SUV.

“Let’s not keep Rodolfo waiting.” Viviane stepped up beside her, keeping her head down to slip under the barren tree branches.

Rebecca scanned the area, every sense heightened, until her gaze landed on a solitary figure that embodied a quiet menace. “There.” She pointed, her voice low but firm.

Josh Rodolfo sat hunched over a park bench. He reached into a cellophane bag, removed something, and popped it in his mouth. He slowly chewed the morsel, seemingly savoring it, before repeating the process.

It was impossible to sneak up. Their shoes crunched on dead leaves that announced their arrival. Rodolfo didn’t look around, too focused on eating. Or he didn’t care about their approach. Rebecca leaned close to whisper in Viviane’s ear. “The most dangerous criminals are the ones who don’t care if they live or die.”

By her side, Viviane nodded her acknowledgment.

At the other end of the park, about fifty feet away, children raced back and forth, shining flashlights at each other while an abandoned ball sat off to one side. Rebecca wanted to make this takedown as quiet and nonviolent as possible.

Viviane followed Rebecca’s determined stride, her hand resting near her holster out of habit more than intent.

“About time you showed up.” Rodolfo spoke without looking up, a mirthless laugh escaping him as they approached. His confidence was infuriating, yet it told Rebecca more than any confession ever could.

He’d been waiting for them. But why?

The crisp December air did little to cool the heat of apprehension radiating from Rebecca’s skin as she circled wide around the table to face him. Viviane slowed, moving behind the man while Rebecca positioned herself between the table and the group of playing children as she squared up before Rodolfo.

“Joshua Rodolfo,” Rebecca announced with a formality that cloaked her unease, “you are under arrest.” Her hand rested on her Taser. The wind was blowing in her face. Which meant if he pulled out the powder he’d been using, it would fly directly at her.

His laughter, airy and untroubled, grated against the gravity of her words. “But I wonder for how long, Sheriff West.” Rodolfo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes as they locked onto hers with a challenge.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She kept talking as Viviane moved closer behind him.

The wind had blown the area clear of leaves, so the deputy was able to move silently. Even if she had made a noise, it would have been overwhelmed by the happy squeals from the children as a handful of them declared their victory.

With efficient movements, Viviane closed the distance, her dark eyes hardened with purpose. She held her handcuffs tightly in one hand to prevent their clinking.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to fight you.” Just like that, Rodolfo raised both hands over his head. “Would you like me to put them behind my head? Fingers interlocked? I can do that too.”

Matching actions to words, Rodolfo surrendered. Viviane darted a glance at Rebecca. The breeze picked up, slightly lifting the bag he’d been eating from and sliding it along the table until it was balanced precariously on the edge.

Uneasy about his actions, Rebecca gave the nod for Viviane to continue.

The click of handcuffs punctuated his laughter—a staccato beat in the quiet of the gathering night. “I know you think you’ve won, but you haven’t. I’m on a winning streak that tops them all.”

“Explain,” Rebecca demanded, the two syllables sharp as flint.

“Simple.” Rodolfo’s voice was as smooth as the swish of playing cards across a felt tabletop. “I made a bet. Played a little game of chance, you could say.”

Rebecca’s pulse quickened. Now that Viviane had twisted his arms behind his back and cuffed him, she moved closer. “What kind of bet? With who?” She kept her tone steady even as her gut twisted with foreboding.

A gambling addict was always looking for the next risk. Was that what this had all been about?

“Well, when I got to the park, I had two bags of candy.” His nonchalance belied the gravity of his words. He didn’t even flinch as Rebecca patted him down. “One bag of candy was harmless. The other one, not so much. I didn’t even pick. I let them decide which one I would eat.”

Rebecca’s world tilted slightly, reality warping at the edges. She felt a bulge in his back pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Inside were several crumpled paper packets. “Who ate the other bag?” Her voice was a whisper stolen by the wind.

Rodolfo’s smile curled like smoke, dark and insidious. His gaze drifted lazily, almost lovingly, toward the grassy area behind Rebecca, where children’s laughter still rang out as they played flashlight tag in the waning light.

The wind gusted, and the teetering bag fell off the table. Several gummy worms bounced onto the ground, and a white substance sprinkled down around them. Could Rodolfo’s bag be tainted with the drug? Would the sugar-coated candy repel the fentanyl, sprinkling the air and ground with lethal specks? Or was that simply the sour powder that gave the candy its tangy flavor? Meaning the fentanyl…

Rodolfo wasn’t fighting because he didn’t need to. He’d already put in motion whatever game he’d been playing.

“Who ate the other bag, Rodolfo?” Rebecca’s voice rose, demanding an answer she feared she already knew.

With a tilt of his head, an almost imperceptible shrug, Rodolfo nodded toward the children. “It was fate, you understand. Not me.”

The kids started picking up their backpacks, still yelling back and forth. Their flashlight beams bobbed in the distance as they prepared to leave.

“Kids?” Viviane jerked Rodolfo around. “You poisoned candy and gave it to kids!”

“I had to. You closed the restaurants, and the only time anyone seemed to panic was when those two kids overdosed.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to him at all. His gaze was locked on the children. “Ticktock, Sheriff.” The corners of his mouth twitched upward into his first genuine smile. “Time is of the essence, don’t you think?”

Rebecca’s heart pounded a frantic rhythm, each beat screaming urgency. She tore her gaze away from Rodolfo, scanning the park. The children were oblivious to the poison that might already be coursing through them, blissfully ignorant of the predator’s game that had ensnared them. “Which kid?”

“All of them. I encouraged them to share. That’s the polite thing to do.”

“Frost, Coffey, we need you here now,” Rebecca barked into the radio. “We have a potential mass poisoning situation. Dispatch, we need all available EMS. Call the emergency line at the clinic as well. We’ve got minutes before kids start dropping dead. I need every available person who can perform CPR. That includes you, Dispatch, once you’re clear.”

She had a split second to decide. Which did she need most? More helping hands? Or more Narcan? How far away was the pharmacy? Dammit! “Darby and I used our last doses of Narcan on Hartley at the tavern. We’ve got eight kids here. Trent, bring everything you can grab. Frost, stop at the pharmacy and grab all the Narcan you can get your hands on. Then get here yesterday.”

Rebecca’s hands shook as she snapped a second set of cuffs onto Rodolfo, securing him to the cold metal of the park bench. She quickly read him his Miranda rights. “Viviane, we have to get the kids to sit down so the fentanyl doesn’t rush through their systems any faster.”

Getting scared sped up your heart, but it also made your stomach churn. That would only hasten the digestion of the fentanyl this monster had fed to the innocent children. Right? Rebecca pulled her phone from her pocket and called the one doctor she was certain would pick up at this time of the evening.

The gravity of the situation yanked her stomach into a tight knot. She could feel the seconds slipping away, each moment a precious commodity they couldn’t afford to lose. Forcing herself to walk with a calmness she didn’t feel, she approached the group of kids as the phone rang on the other end. Yelling for the kids might make them run, and that could make things worse.

“Sheriff West, good to hear⁠—”

“Bailey, does adrenaline or a faster heart rate affect the speed fentanyl takes effect? Or the severity of the symptoms?”

The mother of five’s voice broke. “Talk to me.”

“I’ve got eight dosed children approximately eight to ten years old in front of me who aren’t showing symptoms yet. They’ve been running around playing in a park. I’m waiting on Narcan because Darby and I used the last of it earlier today. I need answers. Now.”

“Yes. To both. Get them seated and try to keep them calm. Once you get the Narcan, start with the smallest child. Or the first one showing symptoms.” Bailey’s voice was clipped and professional. “Do not induce vomiting. Keep them awake. If they’re sitting down, they won’t fall over and injure themselves. Are ambulances on the way?”

“Everyone is on their way. I’m approaching them now and trying to make sure they don’t overhear me and get scared. So far, they seem fine.” She was about fifteen feet away now. They all had healthy color in their cheeks. None of their lips were blue.

How long ago had they eaten the candy? How long would it take to affect them?

“Good. You’ve got some Narcan on the way.” It was a statement. Bailey was making sure nothing fell through the cracks.

Rebecca smiled at the kids who were starting to notice her and Viviane approaching them. “And people too.”

“Are you sure they’re all dosed?”

“No. It was either them or the crazy man.” She held her hand up and waved for the kids to come closer. She was already sorting them according to their sizes.

God, they’re all so little.

“Shit. We’re basing this on a crazy man?”

Rebecca realized she didn’t need to take a crazy man’s word for it if she could test the bag of candy the kids had eaten from, but looking around, she didn’t see it anywhere.

“Do you need me to drive over? I can be there in twenty.” From the change in Bailey’s voice, Rebecca could tell she’d gotten up and started running around.

“Yes. Please come. I gotta go.” The kids were close enough now that they could hear her talking. Rebecca dropped the phone in her pocket.

“Hey, kids, can I get you to hold on? I need you to stay put for a minute.”

“Sheriff West?” A small voice piped up. It was a little brown-haired boy, his innocent eyes wide with confusion under the dimming sky. “Did we do something wrong?”

“Are we in trouble?” Another child stared at her.

“No, no, not at all.” Rebecca ripped the mask off her face, tucking it in her pocket. Having it on was probably scaring the kids. “I just need to ask you a few questions. And I might need a few of you to take some medicine. Did any of you eat the candy that man gave you?”

All the kids nodded, sharing guilty looks.

“Okay, then I’m sorry, but when my friends get here, I’m going to have to give each of you some medicine. You might have seen me talking to the man who gave you the candy. He said the candy might not have been safe, but it’s okay, because we’re getting you some medicine to fix that.”

Viviane stepped up beside her. “While we wait for the medicine, let’s all sit down on the grass.” She dropped down and immediately made a show of trying to sit cross-legged. She rolled onto her back with her legs in the air as if the task was impossible, sending the children into a round of giggles.

“You’re silly.” The smallest child, a dark-haired girl with loose curls plopped down next to Viviane.

Another girl who looked about eight clung to the arm of a blond girl with a ponytail. They sat on the other side of Viviane, and then the others all started to form a circle on the ground, tittering with laughter as they effortlessly crossed their legs.

“Showoffs,” Viviane teased. “Okay, my friends will be here with the medicine soon. Until then, let’s chat.”

Rebecca sat on the ground, and the kids roared with laughter at her failed attempt to cross her legs. Sadly, she wasn’t pretending the task was impossible. With her many injuries, it was.

The brown-haired boy smiled at Rebecca. “You’re a hero. You saved my big brother’s puppy.”

Rebecca racked her brain for the boy’s name. She’d saved two puppies on this island, but of course he couldn’t be talking about Humphrey.

“Nugget? Is that your brother’s dog?”

The boy nodded. Talking to the kids seemed to put them at ease. But how much longer before they started having symptoms? And how much longer before either Trent or Hoyt arrived with the Narcan?

“Well, if that’s true, your name must be…” She dragged it out, making him grin in anticipation. “Roy!”

“That’s right!” Roy squealed. “You know my name.”

“Do you know my name?” Another boy with dark hair timidly pointed at himself.

“I do!” Viviane held her hand up and waved it around as if waiting for a teacher to call on her. The kids giggled. “Your name is Mikkel, and that’s your little sister Tilde.” She pointed at the girl seated next to him.

Tilde bobbed her head happily.

Rebecca tried to focus on the positive. These kids were showing no signs of poison. Perhaps the coating had prevented the fentanyl from sticking to the candy and these kids had been spared. Or perhaps the crazy man was wrong about the kids consuming the drug at all.

“We’re sorry.” Roy sucked in his bottom lip, staring at Rebecca with sad eyes. “We took candy from a stranger.”

“Taking candy from strangers isn’t a good idea,” Rebecca hedged, unwilling to incite hysteria. “Does anyone feel funny? Maybe a little dizzy or sleepy?”

The children exchanged glances, their eyebrows knitting in uncertainty. They fidgeted on the cool ground, some hugging themselves against the cold or perhaps against a fear they couldn’t quite grasp.

“Like how I feel after spinning around a lot?” One girl ventured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Sort of, yes. But without having to spin around first. Or maybe your chest feels funny, like it’s hard to catch your breath.” Rebecca scanned their reactions closely. Children were prone to lying about being sick, weren’t they?

She didn’t know. And the only parent on the team had been sent into town to get the medicine they needed.

Hurry up, Hoyt. I can’t just sit here and watch these kids die one by one.

36

“Where’s this luck been hiding my whole life?” I muttered, half expecting Lady Luck to take a bow right there on the grass.

No more shuffling through the wreckage of a life that used to hold a wife and a home. No foreclosure hanging over my head like a guillotine. Soon, I’d be lounging on some exotic beach instead of playing Russian roulette with candy and kids.

“Patience, Josh,” I whispered, that familiar itch for the high life prickling beneath my skin. “Just gotta wait it out.”

The sheriff and her deputy were herding the children like cattle. Not a single one had keeled over yet. Any second now, I kept thinking. Any damn second…

“Come on, come on.” My gaze darted around to each youthful face.

A buzz started in my veins. It crawled up my spine, a fuzzy sensation I couldn’t shake. For a hot minute, I thought it was the rush of victory, the sweet taste of winning the high-stakes game.

“Ha!” A laugh escaped me, brittle and too loud. “I did it!”

Then, as if my insides had turned traitor, it dawned on me. My legs felt like they were wading through wet cement, my thoughts smearing together like watercolors caught in the rain.

Shit.

The weight of my own body became a foreign concept, like I was drifting away from the earth. Every sense heightened to a razor’s edge. The realization hit me with the force of a freight train. The kids hadn’t eaten the poisoned candy.

I had. Me. I was the one who ate the fentanyl.

I watched as the sheriff chatted with the perfectly healthy little kids, some of them even laughing about something. It was too much effort to get enough breath in me.

Shit. Shit. Double shit.

While the cops huddled with the kids I’d failed to kill, I was going to choke to death, chained to a picnic table.

My pocket aces were nothing against a royal flush.

Luck really was a fickle bitch.

“Shit.” The word was a gasp, the first conscious thought I could muster. Narcan—that was the bitter taste in my mouth, the alien rush that had brought me back from the brink. My body was on fire with it, every nerve ending screaming as though dipped in acid.

Wait. No. That was vomit in my mouth. And something else. It tasted like dirt. Why did everything taste so bad? And everything hurt. Was this hell?

“Should’ve let me die,” I spat, trying to squirm away from them. I needed to move. Do something. Get away. That was it. I needed to get away.

But my stupid body was acting like it didn’t know how to function. My arms were behind me in iron grips, and my legs jerked wildly as I lay on the ground.

That was right. The lady sheriff had read me my rights when she’d cuffed me earlier, but now she was repeating them.

“Joshua Rodolfo, you have the right to remain silent.” The voice was clinical, detached.

Blinking hard, I finally managed to get my eyes to start working properly. A woman with a blond ponytail was leaning over me. Was it the little girl I’d given the candy to? She was all grown up now. Her eyes were no longer innocent. They were two pits of fury.

My brain wasn’t working right. I tried to wipe my mouth, but hands grabbed me, and I was suddenly on my stomach, my face in the dirt. Had this happened before? I could smell vomit, but my mouth felt gritty and dry.

Finally, two brain cells managed to connect, and things started to make sense again.

The drug hadn’t killed me. Or it had, and these damn cops had revived me. Only to arrest me.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“Sheriff, come on…” My plea fell flat, my tongue clumsy and thick.

“Right to an attorney…” she continued relentlessly.

I tuned her out, because the words were just noise, the death knell of my freedom. “Dammit, didn’t you hear me? Just let me die!” I yelled as they yanked me to my feet.

“Well, you shouldn’t have tried to kill yourself using gummy candies that were coated with a powder that repels contaminants. Most of your fentanyl fell to the bottom of your bag and spilled onto the ground.” A woman with short, dark hair glared at me.

Her jacket read Coastal Ridge Medical Examiner. “I’m so glad I made it here in time to save your sorry ass so you can spend the rest of your life in prison. And this way, I won’t have to deal with you on my table, or any of those kids either. You sick fucker.”

“Bailey, thank you. We’ve got him now. We’ll make sure he gets what he deserves.” The younger woman, the deputy, gave me a flat look I’d seen so many times on so many faces. It meant my luck had run out and I’d lost.

The short, angry woman spun away, leaving me to join the rest of the gathering—a group of paramedics and first responders who were all giving me disgusted looks.

I remembered eating the candies, the crystalline covering on each piece. But the fentanyl I’d used had been powdered. Had I simply given myself a small enough dose to knock me out but not kill me?

After a moment, it hit me that I’d lost more than just the bet against those kids. The short lady had said the kids were fine, so I’d failed to create the chaos I’d been sent to unleash on Shadow Island. There’d be no one coming to bail me out and pay me off.

“Figures.” Bitterness coiled in my gut like a live wire. My luck had run out, blown on a last desperate bet that had left me gasping on the grass instead of cold in the morgue. I’d lost twice in a single hand. How was that even possible?

“Should’ve known better. Always pushing the stakes too high, always doubling down one time too many. Why couldn’t you just let me die?”

Suddenly I was spun around. Angry brown eyes stared at me, and hard hands clutched at my shirt, holding me in place. The blond sheriff was spitting mad. “Because you don’t deserve the peace of the grave. You’re going to stay alive and pay for what you’ve done.”

And I knew I would. I’d used up all my luck. Now I was going to spend the rest of my life in prison, paying off my debt.

37

“Take him.” Rebecca shoved Rodolfo at Hoyt, unable to stand looking at him after what he’d tried to do. “Make sure he gets looked over at the Coastal Ridge Hospital. I want him healthy when he stands trial.”

As Rodolfo stumbled away, a phone fell from his pocket. Rebecca caught it before it hit the ground.

She flipped it open and started searching through the contents. There was nothing there. No apps, not even the basic ones like messenger or maps. Rebecca’s pulse quickened.

It was definitely a burner phone.

If he was working on his own, why would he need a burner phone? Who would he be contacting?

Only one text exchange? She thumbed through the phone’s limited functionality.

“Boss?” She hardly registered Viviane’s voice behind her. Rebecca’s entire being was locked on the screen, fingers already moving to dial the number attached to the lone message thread before anyone could stop her.

“Darby, give me a second here.” She held up a finger without turning to face her deputy.

Rebecca pulled her pen and clicked the top, starting the recording. The rings cut short, and an impatient voice crackled from the other end. “I told you not to fucking call me. I’d very much like it if you would follow those very simple rules. Texts only. Is it done?”

Rebecca had a moment of déjà vu, as if she’d heard the voice on the other end before. “I’m sorry. I found this phone and was looking for the owner. Who is this?” She used a higher pitch then her normal voice, praying for something to go on.

But the line went dead as soon as she spoke.

Her grip on the phone tightened momentarily before she forced herself to let it go. It was evidence now. Every action had to be measured, every decision made with the courtroom in the back of her mind.

Rebecca’s thoughts raced as she replayed the brief conversation in her head. The gruff abrasiveness of it, the impatience. It was a voice that commanded attention. A voice that was eerily familiar.

And those words. She could swear she’d heard that voice saying those words before. I’d very much like…

Then it hit her.

That voice sounded a lot like Senator William Morley’s.

38

“Boss, we can go in now.”

Rebecca looked up at Hoyt from her chair outside Rodolfo’s hospital room. A Coastal Ridge police officer sat on the other side of the doorway. After their prisoner had been taken to the hospital, Rebecca had busied herself with the case paperwork.

She was making sure to cross every t and dot every i. If this case was related to Morley, she damn sure wasn’t going to let the man skate on a technicality. “Want to join me?”

Hoyt’s jaw clenched. “With the asshole who wanted to kill eight kids? Yeah, I want a piece of him.”

“You’re a better man than me, Frost.” Jake was leaning against the wall. “I spent the whole ride over here thinking about how many ways he might accidentally trip or, ya know, suddenly have kidney failure mixed with strange bruising. Are rubber hoses still a thing?”

Hoyt looked back and forth between Jake and Rebecca. “I was never one for roughing up the bad guys, so I’m not sure how those are supposed to work, but I’m a quick study.”

Rebecca rose from her stiff plastic chair and twisted her torso to stretch her back. “We’re going to do this strictly by the book, gents. There’s more to what happened in the last week than we understand. And something tells me we need to know what’s really going on.”

“You know something you’re not telling us?” Jake arched an eyebrow.

Rebecca shook her head, pulling out her pad and pen. “I don’t know anything for certain yet. But I have some theories. It’s time to go see if there’s anything to them.”

Hoyt followed her into the hospital room, where Rodolfo was cuffed to a bed, looking thoroughly defeated.

Rebecca maneuvered a chair toward him. Hoyt slammed his own chair onto the linoleum floor, making Rodolfo jump.

It was a simple ploy, but a good one. Rodolfo glanced at Hoyt nervously. Rebecca slapped her notepad against the bedrail, startling him again. He jumped once more when Hoyt moved to the opposite side of his bed.

Rebecca noticed the pallor of Rodolfo’s skin, the remnants of the Narcan’s lifesaving intrusion still evident. When he tried to adjust his position, he looked as if everything hurt. CPR did tend to break a few ribs. Rebecca hoped they healed slow and crooked.

Still, he’d been given the all clear by a doctor, so Rebecca wasted no time.

“Do you remember having your Miranda rights read to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you understand your rights as they were explained to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect. This interview is being recorded. Please state and spell your name.”

Her teeth ground as he did so, each letter like nails dragging down a chalkboard.

“Tell me why you did it.” She held her pen poised over the paper, ready to write things down. Even though her pen camera in her pocket was recording everything, the tactile comfort of pen moving across paper kept her grounded. “We have video of you pouring a white powder into the salt at the I Scream You Scream ice cream parlor.”

Rodolfo blinked stupidly at her.

“We’re still going through the footage from the rest of the places where you put the fentanyl. Just so you know, you’ll be charged with each of those too.” She pointed her pen at him. “On top of the murder charges, the attempted murder charges, grand theft auto, and I’m sure a laundry list of things I haven’t added yet. That’s going to be a few life sentences.”

He flinched at that idea. Virginia had abolished the death penalty, and she was going to use that fact to turn the screws. She didn’t care how much he wanted to die. Death was off the table…unless his fellow inmates disliked his disposition. Or the fact that he’d tried to kill eight little kids.

“And of course, the guys in prison already know about you trying to kill all those children. And the two little ones you already put in the hospital. Oh, and how you targeted places that are family oriented because your real targets were kids. The younger, the better.”

He grunted something closer to what a sailor would say. She ignored it.

She bared her teeth in what could have been described as a smile, if you missed the look in her eyes. “At least, that’s the message they’ll hear. No one likes guys who target kids. There are a lot of dads in prison, you know.”

Rodolfo’s frown creased his brow deeply, as if the weight of his sins had etched permanent lines upon his face. He sat a little straighter, but the handcuffs kept him from moving much, and he gave up.

“So why’d you do it, Mr. Rodolfo?”

“I…I thought I could win big.” He mumbled the words, his voice thin and shaky after so many threats. His entire being was a testament of defeat and resignation.

“Win big?” Rebecca leaned forward. She studies his face, looking for the flicker of truth in the depths of his despair. “You’ve got to give me more than that, Rodolfo.”

“I’m a gambler.” He sighed, a ghost of a man recounting his failures. “It’s always been my downfall. I needed to create chaos in order to win. So I went all in.” He looked away.

Rebecca absorbed his words. A gambler’s desperation. But what stakes were high enough to drive a man to murder children? What kind of game was he playing? And with who?

Senator Morley.

“All in.” She spoke softer, coaxing him further into the light of confession. “What was the prize, Josh? What could possibly be worth what you’ve done?”

He hesitated, a tremble in his lip betraying the gravity of his gamble. “Keeping all my organs in my body. My bookie was going to take my organs and sell them on the black market if I didn’t pay him off. And he was going to make sure I suffered. I was desperate. I had to take the deal.”

Rebecca dropped her head to look at her notes, hoping he didn’t see the excitement in her eyes. Now she was getting somewhere. “What deal?” She made a note to investigate his bookie to see if he was the kind of guy who might orchestrate something like this.

Rodolfo tensed. He tried to pull his hands back against the handcuffs. But when Hoyt shifted his weight across the bed from Rebecca, their prisoner recoiled as much as the restraints allowed.

“A guy approached me back in D.C. He said he represented someone else. Dude gave me a ton of cash.” His voice grew distant. “He knew about my debts. Said if I turned this island upside down and had everyone scared to death, my slate would be wiped clean. On top of that, he’d give me a million bucks. And he also offered a bounty if there were any deaths. Fifty grand per corpse.”

Rebecca nearly snapped her pen in half. A bounty. “Who was he? The man who gave you this…opportunity.”

Rodolfo shrugged, his shoulders sinking into the pillows propping him up on the bed. “All I cared about was the clean slate and the fresh start the bag of cash could give me. Nothing else mattered. Plus, he didn’t seem like the kind of guy you’d want to ask about. That tends to end up with people being dead.”

“You’re saying you agreed to do the bidding of a stranger and didn’t bother to ask who he was?” Rebecca’s eyebrow arched with incredulity. “Why did you choose Shadow Island?”

“I didn’t. The guy told me where to go. I didn’t even know this place existed until I talked to him. I had to look it up.” Rodolfo turned his head, and Rebecca noticed a vein throbbing in his temple. “He was offering me a way out. One last shot at…something big, something better.”

“He told you where to kill. Did he tell you how?”

“No.” He shook his head. “He said he didn’t care. If I could have achieved chaos without murder, I’m sure that would have been acceptable. I just needed to leave your little island in total chaos, and I had ten days to do it. If I succeeded, he’d wipe my slate clean, and I’d have a solid payoff to start over with.” His eyes glimmered for the first time since Rebecca had started questioning him. “They’d even let me back in Vegas with that kind of bankroll.”

A payoff? He’d tried to murder eight kids and sent two to the ER, and he’d managed to kill three men. But he was more focused on his lost winnings.

She circled back to the mysterious benefactor. “Can you describe the man who approached you? Anything distinctive?” Her pen hovered over the notepad, ready to capture any sliver of detail. It sounded like a deal with the devil, so she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d described the man as having a pointed tail and horns.

“A guy who can throw around a million bucks on something like this…he’s not going to meet a guy like me face-to-face. I only spoke to him by phone.” Rodolfo squinted, as if that could help him recall the man’s voice. “Older guy. Sounded educated.”

“How did he pay you if he didn’t meet you?” Rebecca prodded.

“He set up a safe deposit box. Or more like a safe deposit locker. It was a really big bag of money. Black duffel bag with navy stitching on the straps. Looked new. It was jammed inside the safe deposit box.”

Clearly, he’d focused more on the bag of money than he had on the man. That figured. “And he gave you the phone too?”

“Yeah. He told me to update him using texts. And then he said he’d get me out of town and I could go start my life over.”

Rebecca observed their prisoner, his eyes darting from side to side, his body language screaming that he would say or do anything he could to get away from them. “And you have no idea who the boss was?”

He shook his head. “I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer.”

And just like that, the interview had to end. With a resigned sigh, Rebecca closed her notepad. “Okay, Mr. Rodolfo. We’ll have someone put you in touch with one.”

39

With the minuscule bit of information they’d gotten from Rodolfo, Rebecca and Hoyt left the hospital room. After advising the CRPD officer of the prisoner’s request for a lawyer, they headed back to the station.

Rebecca assembled Jake, Viviane, and Hoyt in the bullpen. Even Trent, who normally wouldn’t be in at this hour, had come to help brainstorm. She recounted everything Rodolfo had said. All they could do now was pick apart the scant evidence from Rodolfo’s burner phone.

Leaning against the counter, Rebecca sipped her coffee, waiting to hear what the others would come up with. She didn’t want to voice her suspicions, not until they’d already brainstormed without her views tainting their ideas.

Jake was reading over the printout of texts they’d gotten from the forensic techs. “But it’s just a couple of texts sent back and forth, with Rodolfo updating his boss on what he accomplished. ‘Arrived. Started. Minimal chaos.’ This will help put him in jail, because some of these line up with when people died, but that’s about it.”

“It’s a dead end when it comes to pointing at anyone else.” Viviane thumbed through the texts again. A stubborn lock of black hair had escaped her ponytail to brush against her cheek. “Whoever this is, they rarely even responded. Most of the time he just got the letter K.”

“And why are they targeting our town for this shit? They don’t think we’ve gone through enough already?” Trent was leaning against his desk, chin in hand as he reviewed the few lines of text. “Why are they stirring the pot?”

“Stirring? Looks more like they’re trying to boil us alive.” Jake shook the papers he was holding.

“Could this be related to the Yacht Club?” Hoyt glanced over at Rebecca and frowned when she shrugged.

Before he had a chance to comment, Viviane spoke up again. “No. No way. We hunted down and verified the names of all the owners of the yachts at the Seaview Marina. Even that stooge who bought Rebecca’s old place was on the list. And like the others, he was on the boat that blew up.”

“And we verified they were all dead. Right?” Trent directed the question at Rebecca, and she nodded. “Then it’s not a member, but it might have been someone they had dealings with, someone who…what? Is angry about them getting taken down?”

Hoyt shifted in his chair. “That doesn’t make sense. Removing them would have given their associates more opportunities, not fewer. That’s how it works with organized crime.”

“I don’t know a lot about organized crime, but that makes sense to me,” Viviane confessed. “According to the briefs Lettinger’s office has been putting out, other gangs and mobs are starting to poke around, trying to fill the void. They’re all making more money now.”

“And if they’re making money because of what we did, they wouldn’t want to put themselves in our crosshairs by doing something this stupid.” Hoyt recrossed his arms, turning to look at Rebecca as he spoke. “They sure as hell wouldn’t be fronting a million-plus dollars just to cause some chaos on our island while risking conspiracy charges. My question is, why don’t we just call this number and find out who answers? Or track down the number. Boss?”

“You’ve been awfully quiet this whole time, Sheriff.” Jake turned his body to face her squarely as well. “I might be the newest one here, but even I know that’s unusual. What’s up?”

Rebecca set down her coffee cup. “I wanted to hear your theories first. Before I said my piece.”

“Because you didn’t want to bias us with what you suspect.” Hoyt didn’t ask. It was a statement.

Rebecca nodded. “Can any of you think of any other reason someone might pay a man to come down here and create chaos with a time limit attached?”

“Real estate fraud!” Viviane pointed a finger at Rebecca, thrilled she’d come up with a new idea. “All those mansions are empty now and need to be sold off. Someone is trying to lower the price of real estate on the island to save millions buying a new house.”

“Nope.” Jake shot her down immediately. “Thanks to the RICO case that was already set up by the old sheriff, all the property owned by Yacht Club members was seized by the state and feebs. Asset forfeiture was literally made for situations like this. Everything they owned is now property of the government and will be sold at auction after all the criminal cases are finished.”

Viviane tossed her hands up. “I’m out of ideas, then. Let’s just call the number and see who answers.”

Hoyt hadn’t stopped watching Rebecca and now slowly raised an eyebrow. Trent kept looking back and forth between the senior deputy and sheriff. He’d caught on that something was up and seemed willing to wait until Rebecca caved.

Rebecca steepled her fingers. “I already did.”

Viviane’s jaw dropped, and her eyebrows jerked down. Jake simply continued to wait for her to explain, but Hoyt was nodding as if he had expected her words. Trent tilted his head to the side, a thoughtful look on his face.

Rebecca signed into a computer and pulled up the recording she’d taken of the phone call. “I thought I recognized the voice, which is why I didn’t say anything.”

Once again, Viviane opened her mouth in surprise, but Hoyt stopped her before she could say anything by holding up a finger in a wait gesture.

“Who was it, Boss?”

Rebecca slowly closed her eyes. She’d wanted the others to come up with something, anything, that would prove she was wrong. But they hadn’t. Now she had to tell them the truth. Not just about what she’d heard, but about what had brought her to the island in the first place.

“I’m not positive. It was too short of a conversation. But I think it was ex-senator William Morley. I’ve filed for a warrant to get a location on the number that was texting Rodolfo.”

Everyone had a different reaction to her words.

Hoyt stiffened slightly.

Viviane jolted like someone had tased her.

Trent’s face twisted with confusion.

Jake whistled. “That’s a hell of a name drop. Why do you think it was Morley? And why would he want to mess with our island?”

“Because it’s my home. And William Morley has a grudge against me.” This was it. It was time to come clean.

Trent scratched his temple. “Why would a senator⁠—”

“I’m the reason he was arrested and is no longer a U.S. senator.” Rebecca needed to get this off her chest. “I’m the one who caught him. And that’s why I had to leave the FBI.”

“That’s why?” Viviane indignantly shook her head, pulling herself up straight, as if she could defend Rebecca against the past. “That’s some bullshit.”

“It is. But it also isn’t.” Rebecca met Viviane’s eyes and held them. “And it’s one of the reasons I keep telling you to follow the evidence and not your gut. Even when your gut’s right. You can never let your emotions dictate your actions in this job.”

“One of the charges against Morley was conspiracy to murder a federal agent.” Jake’s calm words cut through them like a sword. “That agent was never named. They said it was to protect their identity.”

Rebecca popped the top two buttons of her blouse and pulled her shirt to the side, showing the nest of scars between her collarbone and shoulder. “He set me up. Laid a trap. Let me hear what I wanted to hear. And then he looked me in the eye, even greeted me, before his men tried to kill me.”

None of her men had seen her scars before. Viviane had when she’d treated some nasty bug bites. And Angie had when she’d sat with Rebecca in the hospital. But clearly, neither had spoken a word about them to Hoyt, given the pained look in his eyes.

“The parking garage.” Hoyt’s voice was gravelly as he spoke. He was one of the few people who knew about that, and only because he’d been with her when they’d been ambushed in a parking garage in Coastal Ridge. She’d held it together until the danger had passed. Afterward, he’d helped her while she threw up all over the place, dealing with a PTSD flashback.

“Yep.” Rebecca straightened her clothes.

“What case were you working on that led you to Morley?” Trent carefully kept his eyes to the side while she adjusted her shirt. It was oddly sweet, if unnecessary, since she wasn’t exposing anything and was wearing another shirt under her uniform top.

“My own.” Rebecca cleared her throat. “It wasn’t an official case. But I wouldn’t let it go. Because it was…” She took a shaky breath. “It was my parents’ murders. Most of you know parts of what happened to my parents. They were murdered in their home. Dad was still in bed, probably asleep. Mom was making coffee. And someone walked in with a silenced pistol and killed them.”

Viviane gasped. She started to reach out to Rebecca but stopped.

“The locals claimed there were no leads. No prints. No reason. It was just a home invasion gone wrong. Except I knew that was bullshit.” Rebecca’s voice was failing as old emotions swirled. She picked up her coffee and buried her face in the cup for a moment. This was her first time talking about this to anyone but her therapist. She’d never even told Ryker.

“Home invasion gone wrong, yet the robber was calm enough not to leave any evidence?” Jake shook his head.

“That was my thought too. To make it even clearer, nothing was missing, except some documents from my dad’s office.” On the day her parents died, Rebecca had raced over and forced her way inside. SAC David Scott, her supervisor, had gotten to the scene first and tried to stop her. But she’d bulldozed her way in. Well, maybe more like thrown a right jab to his jaw.

And she’d been replaying the scene in her nightmares ever since.

Blood on the cupboards.

Blood on the pillow.

Rebecca clenched her fingers around her coffee cup, dragging herself out of the flashback and into the present reality.

“It was three days before they allowed me to go through the house to look for missing things. They didn’t even ask me to do it. I insisted. That was when I knew their line about a home invasion was bullshit.”

“Because the first thing you do is look for what’s missing and then search for it.” Trent’s dark eyes were troubled.

“And they didn’t. They didn’t follow protocol for a home invasion at all, and they wouldn’t tell me why. They wouldn’t even update me on the case. Just kept making excuses. So I put together my own case. I didn’t trust those assigned.”

She shrugged, feeling the scars in her shoulder slide against her shirt, more aware of them now than she had been in a long time.

“That was the nail in the coffin for my career at the FBI. I presented a case of conspiracy to my supervisor, hoping to get any answers at all. To give my SAC credit, he did submit it. But it was rejected. They said I was taking things personally and needed to learn to deal with my loss.”

“Then you went over their heads,” Viviane predicted, knowing Rebecca well enough to recognize she wouldn’t have backed down.

“I presented my case to the deputy director of the FBI. And they scheduled an agent conduct meeting where they made the Bureau’s position clear. Drop it or lose everything.” She still remembered the rush of anger and betrayal she’d felt back then.

“I didn’t drop it. I dug deeper. And I kept digging. When I wasn’t working the damn petty cases they tossed at me to try to teach me a lesson, I was looking for the person who killed my parents…and why.”

No one spoke. A drop of coffee sloshed out of her cup and dribbled onto the floor. She set the cup down on the counter behind her and tucked her shaking hand into her pocket. At some point, she hadn’t noticed when, Elliot had rolled over in his chair to join the conversation.

“Six months later, I got a package delivered to my apartment where I lived with my ex. It had no return information, just the basic stamps for postage, so anyone could have sent it. Inside was a copy of my father’s proposal for a water-fueled jet engine. He’d already built the prototype when he worked for Overhill Reed Solutions.”

Viviane and Elliot gasped at the same time.

“An engine that ran on water? Your dad actually made it work?” Hoyt sounded impressed, and Rebecca felt a bubble of pride for her father.

“He did.”

“Why haven’t we heard anything about it, then? That’s world-changing…” Viviane tapered off as understanding bloomed in her eyes.

“Exactly. World-changing. And there are a lot of people who don’t want the world to change, even if it’s for the better. Because they make money on how the world works now.” Rebecca thought back to the long nights she’d spent digging up information after that. How her relationship had fallen apart, how her fellow agents had shunned her, as if her bad reputation within the Bureau would paint them with the same brush.

“And I started getting proof. Real, solid evidence. By the end of the summer, I had names of all the people and companies who were trying to silence my dad and phone recordings between a military industrial group and lobbyists who were willing to spend anything to keep his work from seeing the light of day. I’d even managed to get my hands on the schematics for the prototype.”

“What did you do?” Elliot was on the edge of his seat, leaning forward.

“The only thing I could do when the legal system had been closed to me.” She realized then how much she sounded like Wallace.

She and the late sheriff of Shadow Island had a lot in common, it turned out.

“I took it to the press. It was big news for about a week. And then they posted a follow-up about how my dad was a crackpot who’d faked it all to pay off his gambling debts.” She chewed her lips to keep them from trembling. “They even added in some lies about prostitutes and disparaged my mother at the same time.”

“Why?” Trent jerked forward, causing the desk he’d been sitting on to squeal in protest against the floor. “Surely you scoped out the journalist you took it to first, vetted them, made sure they’d do a good job of things.”

Rebecca nodded. “I did. And after he ran the article, he ‘committed suicide’ so strenuously, his body was covered in bruises.” She used air quotes to make it clear how she felt about that cause of death. “Right after that, I noticed I was being followed. My home was broken into. So was my car.”

“And the cops did nothing?” Jake crossed his arms.

“They called the FBI and said I was giving them problems. After hearing that, I knew I had no one to watch my back.”

“What about Benji?” Hoyt interjected. “He seemed like a stand-up guy. And he was your partner, you said. You still have a good relationship with him, so he didn’t just ditch you or stab you in the back.”

“He didn’t ditch me, but I knew he wouldn’t follow me into the trenches either. Benji has always been a rule follower. The brass said to let it go, and he agreed.” She lifted one shoulder and dropped it. “Besides, by then I’d been working on my own while he was off working bigger cases. I ended up taking a leave of absence to stay in my dad’s old cabin. That was when I got the second package. It had the same handwriting as the first one. It told me about a meeting that was about to go down in D.C.”

“The trap where you got shot.” Jake pointed at her shoulder.

“Exactly.” Looking back now, Rebecca was amazed at her naivete. “Keep in mind, I’d barely slept in weeks. I’d been moving from hotel to hotel, trying to work to pay my bills, but I also had to stay out of reach of whoever was hunting me. I didn’t want to be another ‘suicide’ statistic, after all. But I was reaching the end of my rope. I wanted it over with.”

“So you went to the meeting.” This time Viviane moved closer to rest her hand on Rebecca’s arm.

The warmth of Viviane’s gesture gave Rebecca a boost. “I went to the meeting. And met Willian Morley. At first, I thought he was on my side. That he was trying to help me. His name had come up a few times while I’d been learning about dad’s project. Each time, it seemed he was trying to help my dad. From what I knew, they were even friends. I believed that all the way until the first gunshot.”

“He set you up.” The bitterness in Trent’s voice rang through clear as a bell. He knew as much about experiencing betrayal as she did. At least it hadn’t been her own lifelong friends who’d had turned on her.

“From the beginning. He fed me just enough information to discredit me in the Bureau and then set me up to be killed. That way, it could look like a rogue agent went looking for trouble on a personal matter and died because of it.” In hindsight, it was so obvious. But while living it, she’d been too wrapped up in the pain of her parents’ death to notice any red flags.

“But someone saved you. Who was it?” Hoyt leaned forward.

“My boss, David.”

Hoyt let out a sigh and settled back in his chair.

“There might have been others, but by then, I’d been shot and was passing out. I woke up in the hospital. Once I was cleared to leave, I went back to the Agency, turned in my notice, and left.”

“Then you came here for a vacation after having to deal with that for so long.” Hoyt finished putting the pieces together for her.

“And Morley went to a detention center,” she confirmed, “though only for a few days. But at least he lost the power he wielded when he was a senator. And he could still end up in prison once his case moves forward, though I’d bet money he’s bribing officials left and right to delay proceedings. It would be just like him to find a way to skate out of everything.”

“Sounds like a clean end,” Hoyt mused, though the skepticism in his tone suggested otherwise.

“Except ends are rarely clean in our business,” Rebecca countered. “That’s why I left D.C. and came here.”

“Rich folks always find a loophole,” Jake added, shrugging. “They think money can bury any secret.”

“So Morley could be behind this,” Hoyt declared with a scowl. “If he is, we’ll make him wish he’d stayed in D.C. where he holds some sway.”

Trent looked hard at Rebecca. “If you think you heard Morley on that phone call to the burner, then you heard Morley. And we need to do our best to prove it.”

Viviane stood up, her eyes earnest and unwavering. “I believe in you. We’ll follow your lead on this.”

The sincerity in Viviane’s voice was a balm. Rebecca looked down at the floor, blinking away the heat that gathered at the corners of her eyes. As Viviane wrapped her in a supportive embrace, Rebecca allowed herself a moment to lean into the comfort.

It was nice not to feel alone.

40

Rebecca’s fingers paused over her keyboard. The quiet hum of the aging air conditioner was a subtle reminder of the stillness in the sheriff’s office—a stillness abruptly broken by the tinkle of the small brass bell at the dispatch desk. It was an unexpected sound for a late Saturday morning.

Elliot was out on an early lunch break, and Viviane and Hoyt were working a small accident. No one else was in the office. Picking up her trusty travel mug, Rebecca left her office in the back of the station and walked out to see who had come in.

“Can I help you?” Rebecca spotted a man leaning on the dispatch counter that doubled as a reception desk.

He was jittery, his eyes darting around the room. When he spoke, his voice was urgent and hushed. “Rebecca West, right? Bruce West’s daughter? I…I’ve been looking for you.” He extended a pale hand tentatively. “Simon Lankford.”

Rebecca’s heart clenched at the mention of her father. The pain was a dull blade, always there, hidden beneath the veneer of her badge. But now the wound had been reopened. Fighting through the sudden pain, she shook the man’s hand. It was cold and trembled slightly. “And why have you been looking for me, Mr. Lankford?”

“Because of your father, obviously. I tried before, after that article was published about your father’s work and his death. But you disappeared. Then I recently saw new stories online about you.” Simon’s eyes locked onto hers with a certain intensity. “I needed to find you, but it wasn’t until those came out that I could.”

Rebecca’s skepticism held fast, like an anchor in turbulent seas. She had learned the hard way that trust was not something to be doled out freely, especially not to strangers with anxious eyes and desperate tones. “You’ll understand if I don’t immediately consider you a friend, Mr. Lankford. We live in a world of skeptics for a reason.”

“Of course.” Simon fidgeted with his hands. “I’m not here to cause trouble. All that crap they’re saying, I don’t believe a word of it. It’s most likely a smear campaign perpetrated against you due to the subject of your father’s work.”

“What exactly brings you to my station?” Rebecca’s inquiry was sharp, pointed. Her innate curiosity wrapped in the protective shell of her job and duty.

“About fifteen years ago, I worked at Coastal Technologies. I’m an engineer. Or I was. Before my breakthrough.” Simon glanced away before returning his gaze to Rebecca. “I had developed this engine that was powered by water. It could’ve changed everything.”

Rebecca’s interest was piqued, despite herself. So her father wasn’t the first to invent a water-fueled engine? She knew from her own research that rumors of such engines dated all the way back to 1935. But that one, and all the claims of water-powered engines following it, had been debunked.

“And?” she prompted, folding her arms across her chest.

“And before I could properly build a prototype and patent it, I was approached by a man. He had a lot of money and a very serious threat to stop my work. That was enough for me.” Lankford’s voice broke slightly, and he looked down, ashamed. “I took it. Partly out of fear, partly out of greed. And just like that, it all died quietly.”

The admission hung between them, charged with regret and unsaid implications. Rebecca’s mind raced, connecting invisible dots that seemed to point to her past, her own loss. Her father’s vision had been snuffed out too.

“Mr. Lankford,” Rebecca softened her tone, understanding the pain of being haunted by decisions past, “what exactly do you want from me? No offense, but if you sold out years ago, what does that have to do with me or my father?”

“Everything. Nothing. Maybe.” Shuffling, he turned to look out the front windows. They were one-way reflective, showing the outside to anyone in the station but not the inside to anyone on the streets. Except there was no one on the street. “I never got to enjoy my money. I quit my job and hid myself away.”

That much Rebecca believed. Simon Lankford was thin to the point of emaciation, except for a tiny little pot belly. He was also pale as a ghost, and his thin gray hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed for at least a week. Everything about him screamed of poor living conditions and little time outside.

She moved so that she stood next to him at the windows. “Go on.”

“Well, with nothing else to do, I taught myself a new skill. Hacking. And keeping an eye on the engineering world. I kept hoping someone braver than me would pick up the mantle I’d discarded so easily.” He turned to her. “Someone did. Your father. I was so thrilled to see that. You don’t even know.”

The grin that had slowly been growing on Lankford’s face melted away.

“And?” The word was like a knife coming from Rebecca’s dry throat.

“And then he was killed. So was his wife. And I knew they’d gotten to him because he didn’t take the money. I felt even guiltier after that. That was when I started gathering evidence. And I learned the same man was involved in your father’s work and mine. His name is William Morley.”

Rebecca’s stomach clenched. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say. This whole ordeal so recently after the case with Josh Rodolfo had her rethinking everything.

“While I was still working, I thought he was trying to help me get my work established. After what I’ve learned, I no longer believe that. I think he was the man behind threatening me and killing your parents. I know he was arrested on other charges, but men like him always find a way out, and it looks like that’s what he’s doing now. He needs to be stopped before he does this to anyone else.”

She swallowed hard. “Why are you telling me this?”

Simon’s hand shook as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a USB drive. “This information…it’s a death sentence if I go public. I’m no hero, and I don’t want to be a martyr to science. You’re in law enforcement, and according to the news, you’ve fought giants before. You should have this…for your father.”

Taking the drive felt like grasping a live wire, potential energy crackling between her fingertips.

“Did you know my parents?” It was a question born from a daughter’s enduring ache, the need to connect threads in a tapestry torn by tragedy.

“Only through my research. Sadly, we never met.” Simon’s shoulders slumped under the weight of his guilt. “He didn’t take the bribe. He stood strong. And it cost him everything. Your father was a better man than me.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca whispered, the words barely audible. She clutched the USB drive, feeling the heat of Simon’s confession and the chill of her own resolve. If this man hadn’t taken the bribe years ago, the world might be running on cleaner engines. And she never would have lost her parents.

“I’ve said too much already. I need to get out of here.” His hand shook as it brushed his unkempt hair back from his forehead. “Someone’s always watching me, Sheriff West. I think I shook them off this time, but they’ll find me again soon enough.”

“Mr. Lankford, please.”

“Don’t you get it?” He backed up a step. His tone was laced with the kind of paranoia that came from years spent looking over one’s shoulder. “They’re everywhere. I just want this nightmare to end.”

Rebecca tried to think of something to say, some way to reassure him. But she couldn’t lie to him like that. She had no way of knowing if she could keep him safe, not when she didn’t even know if he was telling the truth.

Before she could stop him, he was already turning, his body language tense with readiness to flee. With a final look around the station—one that held a mixture of regret and terror—he pushed open the door and disappeared into the deceptive tranquility of the island.

Rebecca stood rooted to the spot, furiously reviewing what had just transpired. She turned the USB over in her palm, contemplating the enormity of what it represented. A gift or a curse? Either way, it was a strong link to her past and her father’s legacy.

Bruce West’s unyielding integrity had cost him everything. Pursuing justice through the data on this drive could demand a similar price from her. She had already paid enough and rebuilt herself since then. But she shivered as she imagined going down the same rabbit hole all over again. Without knowing if she could right the wrongs done not just to her father and mother but to other people like them, she wasn’t sure it was worth it.

41

Rebecca sat huddled on the couch in the quiet of her home. In a rare moment, she had a Saturday afternoon to herself. She’d wrapped up her work at the station and was enjoying a few moments of true relaxation. Humphrey was curled up next to her, a warm and calming presence.

Wondering if this was what Pandora felt when she opened the box from the gods, Rebecca slipped the USB drive into her laptop and clicked to open the file.

She blinked rapidly at the long list of folders within it. Not giving herself time to think or worry, she opened the top one.

Within minutes, diagrams, emails, and confidential reports cascaded down her screen, a digital waterfall of evidence that could very well engulf Morley in its tide. The web of corruption was intricate, denser than she had anticipated, but there it was, laid bare in bits and bytes before her.

She clicked through another folder, rapidly scanning lines of text. The discoveries flowed in a torrent, each file a piece of ammunition in her arsenal.

This was her chance, her opportunity to bring down Morley and his empire of lies. Enough evidence that even his high-powered lawyers wouldn’t be able to save him.

But as she delved deeper, her thrill gave way to a creeping paranoia. She couldn’t forget Lankford’s fear and insistence that someone was always watching him. If Lankford had been followed, if Morley knew they’d spoken…

Her shoulder cramped, a sudden reminder of what happened the last time she followed a trail of evidence to Morley.

She’d been shot, helpless on the ground in a parking garage, surrounded by men trying to kill her.

She could almost feel Morley’s breath on her neck, sense the crosshairs settling between her shoulder blades. Going public with this information would be like signing her own death certificate.

Rebecca stared into the abyss of data that promised both salvation and ruin. Data scrolled endlessly as she combed through the files. Someone had put all this information together.

Her phone rang. She jumped, toppling the laptop onto the couch next to her. In a frenzy of barking, Humphrey bolted off the couch.

“It’s okay, Humphrey. I’m sorry for scaring you like that.” Rebecca tried to soothe her dog while digging around the couch to find her phone. Finally, she extracted it from between the cushions and pressed the answer button.

Humphrey continued to bark, pacing around the coffee table in agitation.

“Humphrey, honey, it’s okay. Good boy. C’mere.”

“Sheriff West, you there?” The voice of the after-hours dispatcher was rough, frayed with urgency.

“Sorry, Melody. I’m here.” Humphrey finally calmed enough to let her soothe him with her hands. “What’s happening?”

“Sorry to get you at home again. But this is a bad one.”

Shit. Rebecca was getting tired of hearing that.

“What is it?”

“A man called in hysterical, says his pregnant wife…it’s so bad, Sheriff. He found her bleeding on the floor. The blood is coming from her abdomen, and EMS is in Coastal Ridge.”

Goose bumps spread across her skin as the implications hit her. “Is she…?”

“Alive, yes, but he says the baby’s been taken out of her.” The dispatcher’s voice wavered. “Cut. He said the baby was cut out of her.”

The End

To Be Continued…

WHAT’S NEXT?

FREE BOOK OFFER

How did it all start for Rebecca West?

I hope you enjoyed Shadow’s Doom. I have a very special and exclusive free book offer for you! Some people might quietly mourn the loss of their beloved parents, but Special Agent Rebecca West doesn’t have time for that. She knows something sinister is at play, something powerful people are willing to cover up, and she’s willing to risk her career and life to get to the bottom of it. What does Rebecca do? Find out in this very special and exclusive free book offer of Shadow’s Edge: Bonus Story.

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You’ll also be the first to know when each book in the Shadow Island series is available.

If you enjoyed the Shadow Island Series, I’d love to introduce you to my Sky Stryker Series.

Fatal Secrets (Sky Stryker Series: Book 1)

Sky Stryker arrives in New York armed with a pen and an eye for true crime. When she's pulled into the world of elite modeling by her gorgeous cousin, she expects to be writing about fun and glamor...not human trafficking and murder. When her cousin disappears, Sky finds herself working the case with the help of a handsome fashion COO, a sharp supermodel, a private investigator, and a retired FBI agent. As Sky delves into the secrets, scandal, and seediness of the modeling world, she doesn't realize the killer has a new target: Sky Stryker.

SERIES READING ORDER

Shadow’s Edge (Shadow Island Series: Bonus Story)

Shadow’s Secret (Shadow Island Series: Book One)

Shadow’s Captive (Shadow Island Series: Book Two)

Shadow’s Deadline (Shadow Island Series: Book Three)

Shadow’s Force (Shadow Island Series: Book Four)

Shadow’s Watch (Shadow Island Series: Book Five)

Shadow’s Hostage (Shadow Island Series: Book Six)

Shadow’s Ritual (Shadow Island Series: Book Seven)

Shadow’s Conspiracy (Shadow Island Series: Book Eight)

Shadow’s Mystery (Shadow Island Series: Book Nine)

Shadow’s Darkness (Shadow Island Series: Book Ten)

Shadow’s Flame (Shadow Island Series: Book Eleven)

Shadow’s Hoax (Shadow Island Series: Book Twelve)

Shadow’s Escape (Shadow Island Series: Book Thirteen)

Shadow’s Loss (Shadow Island Series: Book Fourteen)

Shadow’s Siege (Shadow Island Series: Book Fifteen)

Shadow’s Fate (Shadow Island Series: Book Sixteen)

Shadow’s Doom (Shadow Island Series: Book Seventeen)

Coming Soon

Shadow's Sacrifice

HAVE YOU READ MY OTHER SERIES?

Latest Series:

Journey Russo Series

Sky Stryker Series

More Series:

Emma Last Series

A Villain's Story Series

Winter Black Series

Amelia Storm Series

Ellie Kline Series

Stella Knox Series

Kylie Hatfield Series

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

How does one adequately express gratitude to all those who have transformed a shared dream into a stunning reality? Let us attempt to do just that.

First and foremost, our families deserve our deepest thanks. Their unwavering support and encouragement have been our bedrock, allowing us the time and energy to translate our collective imagination into the words that fill these pages. Their belief in our vision has been a constant source of strength and inspiration.

As coauthors, our journey has been uniquely collaborative and rewarding. Now, with Mary also embracing the additional role of publisher, our adventure has taken on an exciting new dimension. This transition from solely writing to also publishing has been both a challenge and a joy, opening doors to share our work more directly with you, our readers.

We are immensely grateful to the entire team at Mary Stone Publishing — a group who believed in our potential from the very beginning. Their commitment extends beyond editing our words; it encompasses the tireless efforts of designers, marketers, and support staff, all dedicated to bringing our stories to life. Their expertise, creativity, and passion have been vital in capturing the essence of our tales and sharing them with the world.

However, our greatest appreciation is reserved for you, our beloved readers. You took a chance on our book, generously sharing your most precious asset—your time. It is our fervent hope that the pages of this book have rewarded that generosity, offering you a journey worth taking and memories that linger.

With all our love and heartfelt appreciation,

Mary & Lori

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nestled in the serene Blue Ridge Mountains of East Tennessee, Mary Stone crafts her stories surrounded by the natural beauty that inspires her. What was once a home filled with the lively energy of her sons has now become a peaceful writer's retreat, shared with cherished pets and the vivid characters of her imagination.

As her sons grew and welcomed wonderful daughters-in-law into the family, Mary's life entered a quieter phase, rich with opportunities for deep creative focus. In this tranquil environment, she weaves tales of courage, resilience, and intrigue, each story a testament to her evolving journey as a writer.

From childhood fears of shadowy figures under the bed to a profound understanding of humanity's real-life villains, Mary's style has been shaped by the realization that the most complex antagonists often hide in plain sight. Her writing is characterized by strong, multifaceted heroines who defy traditional roles, standing as equals among their peers in a world of suspense and danger.

Mary's career has blossomed from being a solitary author to establishing her own publishing house—a significant milestone that marks her growth in the literary world. This expansion is not just a personal achievement but a reflection of her commitment to bring thrilling and thought-provoking stories to a wider audience. As an author and publisher, Mary continues to challenge the conventions of the thriller genre, inviting readers into gripping tales filled with serial killers, astute FBI agents, and intrepid heroines who confront peril with unflinching bravery.

Each new story from Mary's pen—or her publishing house—is a pledge to captivate, thrill, and inspire, continuing the legacy of the imaginative little girl who once found wonder and mystery in the shadows.

Discover more about Mary Stone on her website.

www.authormarystone.com

Lori Rhodes

As a tiny girl, from the moment Lori Rhodes first dipped her toe into the surf on a barrier island of Virginia, she was in love. When she grew up and learned all the deep, dark secrets and horrible acts people could commit against each other, she couldn’t stop the stories from coming out of the other end of her pen. Somehow, her magical island and the darkness got mixed together and ended up in her first novel. Now, she spends her days making sure the guests at her beach rental cottages are happy, and her nights dreaming up the characters who love her island as much as she does.

Connect with Mary online