LIGHT OF DAY

SEA SMOKE ISLAND

JENNIFER BERNARD

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Also by Jennifer Bernard

About the Author

1

The strange little girl tugged at Heather’s hand. She was saying something urgent and fearful, but her words couldn’t pass through the fog between them. In the dream, somehow Heather knew that, although she didn’t know much else. Like…why were people shouting outside the little house they were in? And why…why was the house moving? It jerked forward—the entire house—and she staggered, but the little girl just held her hand tighter.

She didn’t want to go outside. A howling wind was battering the walls and making the windowpanes shudder. It was dark out there, too, the intense dark of a stormy, new-moon night. Through the window, she saw the light of a hurricane lantern swinging in someone’s hand. The sight struck fear in her heart. Whoever was coming, it didn’t mean anything good.

The girl yanked at her hand again. Heather focused on her, trying to make sense of what she was wearing. Her long-sleeved blue cotton dress closed tightly at the neck and fell past her knees. Over it she wore a pinafore, which had been mended in several places with tidy patches. She was barefoot, but she held a pair of worn leather, lace-up boots in her other hand, as if she was delaying putting them on as long as possible.

The strange girl said something else, but still her words couldn’t penetrate the swirling fog between them.

“Who are you?” Heather called out. “What’s your name?”

But the girl turned her back to Heather and ran for the door, which tilted wildly to one side as the house jerked again. What was happening to this house?

“Telephone,” someone yelled from outside.

Telephone? What did that mean?

Heather glanced around the small house, which was furnished with simple wooden furniture, so rough it looked homemade. There was no telephone, no cell phone, no electric appliances of any kind, not even a refrigerator. The house itself was sturdy enough, even though its boards creaked as it moved forward. It looked lived-in and loved, with pretty trim around the front door, which was now being pushed open by the girl.

She jumped into someone’s arms, a man wearing a conductor’s cap and suspenders. The two of them disappeared into the stormy darkness.

“Where are you going?” Heather yelled after them. “What’s happening?”

She ran to the door, which was about to swing shut. Pushing it open, she peered outside into the chaotic darkness. Was that…a beach? It was so hard to see in this darkness, but now more people with hurricane lanterns were appearing. One of them dashed past her and in the brief illumination she saw a beach made of piles and piles of tiny shells.

She knew that beach. She recognized it. But she didn’t have time to think more about it because this house was heading right across the beach toward the ocean lapping at the sandy edge.

“Stop!” she yelled as she clutched at the doorjamb. “Make it stop!”

“Telephone!” someone yelled again.

Why was that the only word she could understand? “I don’t know what you mean!” She yelled back. “Can someone tell me what’s going on?”

No answer came as the house reached the ocean and a wave of icy water splashed across the threshold and onto her feet.

* * *

Heather McPhee woke up in a cold sweat, shudders traveling through her entire body. That same freaking dream. Whenever she was stressed out, that dream came back, and whenever it did, it could take her hours to shake it off.

She’d even spoken to a therapist about it.

“It’s so vivid it feels like a horror movie, but I don’t even watch those movies. I googled it and didn’t find anything with houses walking into the ocean. And I have no idea who that little girl is. I don’t recognize her.”

Her therapist had suggested the little girl was her, and the ocean was emotion, and maybe she was afraid for her childhood self being drowned in emotion, and that all made a certain amount of sense—except that Heather didn’t believe the girl was her. She didn’t look anything like her, for one thing. The little girl in the dream had olive skin and curly hair bound into two braids. Heather had been a freckle-faced tomboy with a gap between her teeth.

“Do you think the dream is connected to your fear of swimming?”

“Maybe. I always wake up as soon as the water touches my feet. But what about the telephone? That’s always the only word I can understand in the dream.”

“Well, let’s talk about it,” her very patient therapist had said. “What do telephones represent to you?”

“I don’t know. Communication? Maybe stress?”

“Okay. That’s progress. What sort of stress are you experiencing at the moment?”

Heather couldn’t stop laughing at that question, and they’d had to end the session only partway through her lengthy list of things causing her stress.

Speaking of stress—and telephones—Heather reached for the cellphone charging on her nightstand. It was always the first thing she did the instant she woke up, and yes, she realized that was stressful in and of itself. But she didn’t have a choice. As a coordinating producer of the cable news show Boiling Point, she was the first point of contact for any kind of crisis.

She already had over twenty texts to scroll through, even though it was barely six in the morning. A guest for today’s segment on immigration had canceled. Heather was prepared for that—she located her file of backup guests and texted it to the booker.

LMK the second someone says yes

Isn’t it too early to text?

Yes, wait until 7

Her boss had texted too. Meeting at nine. Mandatory.

Crap, that couldn’t be good. More budget cuts? Heather sighed as she swung her legs over the edge of her bed. So much for a raise, or a real vacation. At this rate, the only time off she could afford would be spent visiting her mother on Sea Smoke Island, and the good Lord knew that was no vacation.

No texts from Tim. Fuck. Might as well block him. At least that way she could cling to the fantasy that he wanted her back and was frantically trying to get in touch with her.

Her friend Gabby had texted too, several times. She thumbed through those texts quickly.

Still on Sea Smoke. Crazy AF. You coming?

Gabby had been on Sea Smoke Island, where Heather had grown up, for a couple of weeks now. She’d wanted Heather to come with her—some mysterious lead she was following—but Heather hadn’t been able to swing it.

Correction. She hadn’t wanted to. Going back to Sea Smoke was an emotional minefield for her. She loved the island—the wind, the foghorns, the wild roses—and yet as soon as she stepped onto the weathered planks of that dock, she was a Messy McPhee again.

As she brushed her teeth, blinking blearily at her reflection in the bathroom mirror—hazel eyes slightly bloodshot, light brown hair, a mess—her phone rang. Gabby.

Brushing teeth, she texted.

Don’t care. Pick up.

“Dude,” Heather said as she put her phone on speaker. She spat into the bathroom sink. “Boundaries?”

“Sorry, but we’re past that right now. You have got to get out here. There’s some shady shit going on.”

“I mean, it’s Sea Smoke Island. There’s always something shady happening. Why do you think I left? You even said it made your skin crawl.”

Gabby had gone with Heather on her last visit to Sea Smoke, in March. As soon as they’d stepped off the ferry, she’d looked around uncomfortably. “Where are all the Black people?” she’d whispered. “Am I seriously the only one?”

“That was different,” Gabby said now. “Or maybe not. This story…listen, I can’t talk about it over the phone. How soon can you get here?”

“Gabby!” Heather spluttered through a mouthful of toothpaste foam. “I can’t just leave, I have a job.”

“Remember when you wanted to be a journalist? This is our chance to break through with the podcast. It ought to be you on this story, it’s your island. Everyone’s giving me those little side-eyes all the time. Just…trust me, okay? You don’t want to miss this. Hang on.” Something distracted her for a moment, giving Heather a chance to swish the toothpaste out of her mouth.

She and Gabby had become friends while completing the journalism program at Boston University, and had both pursued careers that couldn’t quite be called “journalism.” Gabby ran a celebrity gossip blog, while Heather worked on a show that specialized in finding the most hot-button issues of the day and booking people to yell at each other about them. They both fantasized about doing in-depth reporting, but those jobs were in short supply.

That was why they’d recently started a podcast together, which they were calling Dirty Rotten Bastards. The idea was to expose misdeeds of all sorts—lies, misinformation, corruption. Ambitious? Yes. Doable? Maybe. So far, Gabby had been doing most of the work.

“Sorry, I’m back,” said Gabby, sounding a little out of breath. “This is big, Heather. Really big. I need you out here.”

She rinsed out her mouth and set her toothbrush back in its holder. “You mean there’s a ‘dirty rotten bastard’ on Sea Smoke? What a shocker.”

“No jokes. Just…call in sick, Heather. Whatever it takes. Text me when you’re on the ferry and I’ll meet you at the dock. See you soon.”

“But—”

Too late. The call ended.

As Heather rushed around her studio apartment getting ready for work, she considered what it would take for her to drive to Maine right now. It was Friday, so she could theoretically go up for the weekend. Obviously she would keep her phone on. If any crises arose during that time, she could handle them remotely.

Since she and Tim had broken up two weeks ago, her weekends loomed empty and lonely before her. To fill the void, she planned to have Sunday brunch with a couple of friends from college, but that was easily canceled. It was just a stopgap, a way to feel like she still had some kind of social life after the breakup.

Then she remembered that she couldn’t possibly go anywhere this weekend. The show’s budget proposal was due next week, and Mindy, her boss, had tasked her with putting the first draft together. She wanted it by Monday so she could make adjustments before the Wednesday deadline.

Sorry, Heather texted Gabby.

Oddly, she got no response. Gabby was always on her phone. Maybe she was too pissed off to answer.

Since Heather hated driving in Boston, she usually took public transportation to work—it was only four stops on the Red Line. As always, while the train jerked and screeched along its tracks, she scanned through today’s Boston Globe—the physical version. She loved thinking about how the page had been laid out, the decisions that had gone into the headlines and subheads.

Every time a job opened up at the newspaper, she applied—along with hundreds of other people, no doubt. So far, she’d never even been called in for an interview. How was she supposed to compete against all the brilliant Ivy League graduates out there? She was just a kid from Maine, the first in her family to go to college, the first to leave Sea Smoke Island.

In the station, a man slouched against the tiled wall, a cardboard sign propped against his knees. Homeless. Please and Thank You, it said. Appreciating his politeness, Heather dug in her pocket for cash, which she basically carried for this purpose only. She dropped a five into his nearly empty coffee can and smiled at him. Sure, he’d probably use it for liquor. But the man could have been her father.

Literally.

She hadn’t seen her father in so long she probably wouldn’t recognize him. He too would probably spend all his money on alcohol. Her friends teased her about it, but she was incapable of ignoring anyone on the street begging for money. Her heart always overruled her head. It could be my dad. The one time she’d walked on by, it had haunted her so much that she’d run out of a meeting to correct her error.

By the time Heather reached the downtown high-rise where Boiling Point was produced, Gabby still hadn’t answered her last text. This was a serious cold shoulder.

Okay, I’ll think about it. Sheesh, she texted.

Gabby didn’t answer.

Her boss waved at her from the door of the conference room. Beyond its glass walls, the entire team had gathered around a platter of pastries, like gazelles at an oasis in the desert.

Pastries. Never a good sign. Mindy ordered fruit plates and brownies for celebrations, bagels for regular morning meetings, and pastries for delivering bad news. The budget situation must be even more dire than she’d feared.

She checked her phone one last time before she slipped into the conference room. Still no response from Gabby.

Maybe she’d have to go to Sea Smoke Island just to find out why Gabby wanted her there so badly.

2

The news hit like a bombshell. Canceled. The last episode of Boiling Point would air tonight. The staff would all be paid for another three months, as required by their contracts. Mindy promised to write everyone a glowing recommendation. And that was it. Take a pastry on your way out. You’re welcome to leave as soon as you’ve finished whatever you have pending. Please and thank you.

That echo of the homeless man’s cardboard sign didn’t do anything to improve Heather’s mood. Maybe she’d be the one begging in the subway station soon. Her rent was nearly two thousand dollars a month—a crazy indulgence just so she didn’t have to share an apartment.

Panicked thoughts chased each other through her brain—get a roommate? Break her lease? Beg Tim to come back and split the rent with her? Follow up on the “help wanted” sign at the 7-Eleven down the street?

A hand on her arm made her startle. Mindy gestured for Heather to stay back instead of leaving with the others. “I’m sorry, Heather. I really am. On the bright side, you don’t have to spend your weekend working on the budget.”

Heather made some kind of grimace that—she hoped—vaguely resembled a smile. “I feel like we’re giving up too soon. Can’t we shop the show somewhere else? Netflix? Didn’t they pick up Sesame Street?”

Mindy wore her usual uniform of a tailored blazer over a silk tee, along with jeans and spiked heels. “The show’s dead, sweetie.” Although her lips formed a smile, it didn’t reach anywhere else on her face. “I know you’re a scrapper, that’s why I hired you. You fight ’til you drop. But Boiling Point is done. There’s a lawsuit, a very litigious billionaire, and…I’m sorry, but it’s over.”

Heather slumped into a chair and slowly bonked her forehead on the table. Her dream felt like an omen now. “Here goes the house into the ocean,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I’m…processing.”

“Here’s another bright side.” Mindy spun Heather’s chair so they faced each other. “This is an opportunity for you. I have some contacts in New York I can call on. And by New York, I mean,” she mouthed the words, “The New Yorker.” Everyone knew Heather revered that publication beyond all others. “I know you’ve always wanted to do more ‘serious’ journalism.”

Heather could hear those silent scare quotes perfectly well. “I loved this job.”

“No, you didn’t. Why would you? It’s textbook toxic work environment. So much yelling, on and off the air.” She pulled her vape from her blazer pocket and took a quick inhale. “It’s hell on the cortisol levels. Come on, let’s get out of here. They want us all out of the building by close of business today.”

“That’s cold!”

Mindy shrugged and offered her hand and tugged Heather to her feet. A flash of her dream came back—the girl tugging at her hand.

Heather followed Mindy numbly out of the conference room. All she wanted was to curl up under her desk and cry for a bit, then call Gabby to rant about the fucked-up-ness of the world.

“Let’s be honest, no one’s going to miss this show,” Mindy was saying. “I won’t. I booked myself into a meditation retreat so I can detox. Luckily, my contract gives me a year. Sorry, I tried to get that for all of us, but you know management.”

“What am I going to do?” Heather said, more to herself than to Mindy. “I haven’t stopped working since I was thirteen. I’ve never not had a job.”

Did the podcast count? Not until it paid her bills, it didn’t.

“You’re smart, you work hard. You’ll be fine. Whatever you do, keep in touch. But not until after the first ten days of my retreat. Can you believe they make you give up your phone for that long?”

Heather doubted Mindy would last more than an hour. But that was not the most important thing on her suddenly scrambled to-do list. Job search…apartment…shit, what about health insurance? What about cleaning out her office?

Hovering in the doorway, she looked around at the space that had been hers for the past three years. It was like a beloved second home, with its precious view of a tiny slice of the Charles River. So much stuff had accumulated in that time—how? Why had she saved so many random magazines and indie newspapers and flyers? The hunt for story ideas was never-ending. She’d been grinding so hard, ever since she left Sea Smoke, and long before.

Now it was over, all except for the packing.

Feeling a sob take over, she glanced down at her phone. Nothing yet from Gabby.

And suddenly, the need to talk to her best friend shot to the top of her to-do list.

* * *

Sea Smoke Island, named for the winter fog that rose from the ocean’s surface on especially cold days, was one of the outer islands of Lightkeeper Bay. It had its own ferry line, separate from the other islands. That was partly because it was so large—really, it was two islands in one, with a built-up sandbar linking the eastern and western sections. At especially high tides, the gravel road on that sandbar flooded. The road was controversial because it had to be repaired after every winter season. Some islanders thought it was too expensive and not worth the trouble.

But the only person whose opinion really mattered on Sea Smoke Island was John Carmichael III, owner of the Lightkeeper Inn—the other reason for a dedicated ferry line. The sprawling Queen Anne-style resort dominated the eastern part of the island, where high cliffs offered spectacular panoramic views of both the inner Lightkeeper Bay islands and the open ocean. A number of old-money East Coast families had been spending their summers at the Lightkeeper Inn for generations.

People of that social class demanded a certain level of service. That was where the western end of the island came in. The chambermaids and the waitstaff and the kitchen staff lived mostly on the more affordable, hardscrabble fishing-community area of the island. They needed a road to reach the hotel, and so therefore, a road there would be.

Other staffers lived on the mainland, which was why the ferry line’s schedule was built around the needs of the Lightkeeper Inn. The first ferry left Harbortown at five-thirty in the morning for those working the seven-to-three shift.

Heather had grown up on the western end, of course. She’d only been to the hotel side a few times, not counting the long wait on the ferry while hotel guests got on and off. The only time she’d been inside the hotel itself was the summer after her first year in college. She’d planned to work as a waitress, bringing drinks to the guests on the second-floor balcony terrace. She’d lasted exactly one hour and thirty-two minutes, and wound up working as a deckhand for her cousin Dale instead.

As the ferry rounded Eagle Point, the last piece of land before the long ride across North Sound to Sea Smoke Island, the first gust of open ocean air touched her cheeks. She zipped her faux chinchilla jacket all the way to her chin and tucked her hands into her pockets. Even at the peak of summer, this part of the trip could chill you down—and it was late May now. The tourist season had barely started.

The sight of Sea Smoke Island, with its high cliffs to the east, and low-lying forests to the west, always made Heather’s heart lurch. How could a place that was so stunning hold such barbed memories? Although it was sometimes shrouded in fog—or sea smoke in the winter, when very cold air moved over warmer water—today a gentle east wind had cleared away the clouds. The sun made the water sparkle like mermaid glitter.

She nodded to Annie McGillicuddy, the only other passenger choosing the open upper deck on this brisk day. Several sturdy canvas tote bags sat next to her on the bench—her day of errands complete. Annie was her mother’s age, and they had history. Apparently they’d both liked Heather’s dad back when he was just a young fisherman with a motorcycle he used to ride around the island. Sally had won that competition, but since they’d never married and he’d disappeared a few years later, the prize was being a single mother.

Yet another “Messy McPhee,” as the islanders called them.

“Out to see your mother?” Annie called over the vibrating rumble of the ferry’s engine. “She could use the company.”

Heather’s stomach tightened. Was her mother drinking again? She’d been sober for four years now, but Heather was always braced for the crash anyway.

When in doubt, go for the classic Maine response. “A-yup.”

Then it occurred to her that Annie might be a good source of information. At one time, she’d been the island’s postmistress, and was still an excellent purveyor of gossip. Heather still hadn’t heard anything from Gabby and was getting seriously worried. She kept thinking about her friend’s “shady shit” comment. Maybe Annie knew what that meant.

“Anything I should catch up on before I see Mom? Controversies, emergencies, newcomers trying to shake things up, that sort of thing?”

“Everyone’s complaining about property taxes. Assessor came out and all of a sudden our taxes just about doubled. The O’Bannons say they gotta sell their place now, and it’ll go to some summer folk from Connecticut, most-like.” She made the word Connecticut sound like a curse word. “Us fishing folk can’t hardly survive out here anymore. It’s all tourists and AirBnB’s.”

Another new curse word, apparently.

“My mom was talking about turning our work shed into an AirBnB. If you can’t beat ’em, join them, right?”

Annie didn’t need to say what she thought of that idea; her expression said it all. Sally McPhee talked about a lot of things that were never going to happen.

“They bring trouble. The hotel is one thing, ’cause all those folks stay on that side of the island. They only come west if they want ice cream at Sea Scoops. They used to trek out to Shell Beach before it got put off limits.”

Shell Beach.

The bright red railing of the ferry boat, Annie on her bench with her tote bags, the white-capped waves all disappeared, and Heather was back in her dream, gazing down at the shell beach from the threshold of a moving house. Heather and her friends had played at that beach when she was little. She used to love plunging her hands into the shiny piles of shells left behind by oysters, mussels, snails, all broken into tiny bits by the pounding of the ocean. When a wave came through, you could hear a quiet hiss as the water drained through the shells. Heather used to pretend it was the ocean telling her a story. Sometimes she’d lie on her side, one ear to the beach, close her eyes and let her imagination try to interpret the wet, sibilant swishing sounds.

But that was so long ago. When she was six or so, “No Trespassing” signs had been posted and no one ever went there anymore.

The pilot’s voice on the intercom jerked her back to the present moment. “West Dock is our first stop. We’ll be disembarking from the lower deck. Please make sure to collect all your belongings.”

Heather blinked at Annie, who was peering at her curiously. “You okay there?”

“Fine.” She checked her phone one last time. Still nothing from Gabby. It was Sunday now, which made it two days without a peep from her. If only she’d gotten out of town in time for the last boat on Saturday, but she hadn’t quite managed that.

Just got to the dock. Where the f are you?

She stood up and grabbed the handle of her carry-on-sized wheeled suitcase. The dock lay ahead, only a few dozen yards away. The usual collection of islanders were reeling in their lines or chatting under the shelter of the freight shed. Later in the summer, kids in swimming suits would mill around, waiting for the ferry to depart so they could jump into the churning wake. But right now the water was still too cold for that.

No Gabby.

“Annie, did you by chance see my friend here the last few days? She was here with me the last time I came. We ran into you at the grocery store.”

Annie was busy gathering up her tote bags. “You mean that Black girl with the braids?”

Heather nodded, with a mental apology to Gabby for the reductive description.

“Yeah, she was here. I heard she got some folks upset with all her questions.”

“What folks?”

The ferry bumped against the tarred wooden posts of the pier. A deckhand flung the looped end of a thick yellow rope across the gap between the boat and the pier, where it settled around a cleat.

“That’s not my business.” Annie signaled to her husband, waiting on the dock with a gorilla cart for her groceries. “You should talk to Luke Carmichael.”

“Luke Carmichael? Why would I do that?” Luke Carmichael was the second-to-youngest son of John Carmichael III, though still a little older than Heather. She knew him mostly by reputation as the black sheep of the family. Certainly that was a point in his favor, considering what snobs the Carmichaels were. But still, in general, Carmichaels and McPhees had very little to do with each other.

“He’s the constable now. Didn’t you know?”

3

Any job that could be done while fishing off the dock behind the office was a good one, if you asked Luke Carmichael. He had his phone on him, and a note on the office door directed drop-ins to come around back. The lockup was empty at the moment, and his desk mostly empty of paperwork. A light northeast breeze was blowing off the sound, the bees were humming in the lilac bushes.

Perfect moment to catch a few mackerel off the dock.

Until your phone rang while you were in the midst of reeling in a feisty one.

“We have a missing guest at the hotel,” said Judy Griffin, once he’d dropped the mackerel onto the dock and fished out his phone.

In the three years since he’d taken on the job of constable of Sea Smoke Island, Luke had dealt mostly with petty crime, noise complaints, and the occasional turf war among lobstermen. Domestic violence incidents came across the scanner on a regular basis, fueled by Sea Smoke Island’s biggest troublemaker, alcohol.

A missing guest—that was a first.

“How long have they been missing?” he asked Judy. She’d been the supervising manager of the Lightkeeper Inn for the past twenty years. He used to be terrified of her because she had a sixth sense for when he and his friends were sneaking into empty rooms to smoke weed.

“She. Since Friday. She was supposed to check out today, but when the chambermaids went to clean the room, all her things were still there. But there was no sign of her. I asked around if anyone had seen her, but no one had after about noon on Friday.”

It was Sunday now. He didn’t have regular hours; he was more or less always on call. Occasionally his assistant would fill in for him when he needed a break. But Marigold was newly engaged and he hated to interrupt her giddy wedding planning.

“What do you know about her? How long had she been staying at the hotel? What was she doing out here? Also, I’m going to need a list of everyone who interacted with her, as far as you know.”

With a sigh, he picked up his flopping mackerel and tossed him back in the ocean. He wouldn’t have time to clean it now that an actual case had come his way. Fishing rod over his shoulder, bucket in hand, he headed back to the office so he could jot down some notes. The constable occupied one end of a mid-century gray-shingled warehouse structure that also housed a diesel mechanic and a pottery studio.

“Gabrielle Ramon is her name. She booked a room for a whole week, which…well, you know that’s pretty expensive. I was surprised that someone her age could afford it. But these days, you never know. There’s a fellow, no more’n twenty-five, who wants to buy the resort, can you imagine? I thought he must be from money, but it turns out he’s something called an influencer.”

Luke tried to imagine his autocratic, old-school father selling his legacy to an “influencer,” and let out a brief laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Judy answered with a sniff. “Indeed. At any rate, your father wants this cleared up as soon as possible. The last thing we need at the start of the summer season is a missing guest. Especially…”

His eyebrows rose at the way she hesitated. “Especially what?”

“Well, the young lady in question is African-American. Not our typical kind of guest.”

True enough. So many of the guests were from “legacy” New England families who’d been coming for generations. It made for a very monochromatic clientele. It might make his job easier; maybe more people would remember her. “I’ll have to poke around the hotel, question the staff and so forth.”

“That’s fine. I’ve already cleared that with your father.”

“Good.” Everyone knew it was better if he and his father stayed far away from each other.

Luke would have moved off the island years ago if it weren’t for Carrie, his ex, and Izzy, their six-year-old daughter. As long as they were on Sea Smoke, he planned to cling to it like a barnacle. “Do you know why she was here so early in the season?”

“From what I can gather, she was working on some kind of project. The girls said she would bike all over the place, then at night she’d sit at the bar and tap away on her iPad.”

“The girls?”

“You know, cleaners, waitresses.”

Judy really was old-school, which was probably why she and his father got along so well.

Now inside his office, he scribbled a few notes on his pad. An investigation—this would be a change of pace for him. Usually there was no real mystery in any of his “cases”—although tracking down the perpetrator who had cut the lines on half of Billy Vane’s lobster pots had taken a couple of days.

“All right, I’ll see what I can find out. If I don’t get anywhere in the next couple of days, I might have to call on Harbortown.”

Luke took the “keeping the peace” part of his job seriously, and to him, that meant resolving conflicts without resorting to referring culprits to the Harbortown Police Department for charges. His biggest challenge so far had been convincing his father not to file charges against Petey Barnstable, who had broken into the hotel’s wine cellar.

“Please don’t do that,” said Judy. “I’m under strict instructions to keep this out of the news at all costs.”

Luke’s jaw muscles tightened the way they always did when his father tried to control everything, especially him. “I get it. But if she’s in danger, I’ll need help in the search.”

She could be lost in the woods, although the untouched forested area of the island was only about four square miles. She could have climbed down on the rocks somewhere and slipped, or gotten stuck. The island had miles of coastline, much of it inaccessible except by boat.

He’d take his boat out this afternoon and do a circuit. Maybe Marigold could help, if he could tear her away from dress designs.

After he ended the call, he opened the front door so he could take off the “come around back” sign. A gust of lilac-scented air danced into the office. Two lush lilac bushes grew on either side of the entrance. They were desperately in need of pruning, but Sammy Barnes, who took care of the mowing and so forth, had his hands full this time of year. Besides, Luke didn’t mind the lilacs. They were better than room fresheners when it came to purifying the air in the lockup. That cot had seen too many drunk folks to ever smell right again.

He tilted his head back and inhaled the enchanting fragrance of the lush blooms. Sunshine on his face, salt in the breeze, plans to take Izzy out for ice cream later…a guy couldn’t complain, even though Judy’s call had brought him right back to his painful long-running conflict with his father. Fighting with a granite cliff would be easier.

The jingle of a bell made him snap back to attention. A banana-seat bicycle—vintage cruiser style, but not in the cute retro way, just the rusty way—lurched to a stop before him. It looked like it belonged to a ten-year-old, but the rider was a full-grown woman. Did she look vaguely familiar? Maybe, but he searched his mind and couldn’t place her. Her eyes were a bright hazel, her hair in a ponytail under a flamingo-pink helmet, her flushed face nearly matching it.

“Constable Carmichael?” she asked, sounding quite formal.

He stood at attention and gave a salute, then swept into a deep bow. Hell, he had to keep this job interesting one way or the other. “That’s me, here to protect and serve.”

Her eyebrows lifted and laughter flashed in her eyes. “I feel safer already.”

“Glad that’s settled, because I’m on my way out, actually. Got a big case to investigate.”

He knew her. Somehow he did. She wore cutoff shorts and a hoodie unzipped over a red shirt that barely reached her waistband. A sliver of flesh was visible between shirt and shorts, though he tried not to notice it.

“This is urgent.” The merriment disappeared from her face. “My friend is missing. We were texting just like normal, and then she just stopped answering and that’s very much not normal for her.”

A lead. Just like that. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll take your statement.”

Now he was the one sounding formal and professional. This was starting to feel like a real case, maybe that was why. The missing girl’s friend wouldn’t have come all the way out here if she didn’t believe something was wrong.

She propped her bike under the lilac bush, against the wall of the station.

“Kickstand’s broken,” she explained as he opened the door for her.

“Probably just needs some—”

“WD-40, I know. I just got back and I didn’t want to take the time.”

So she was from here. Of course she was. Who else except an islander would be riding a rusty bike around?

He slipped behind his desk and plucked his pad from the top drawer. “Let’s start with your name.”

“Heather McPhee.”

His head jerked up. “Sally McPhee’s daughter?”

“Yes.” She held his gaze levelly, though he observed tension in her jaw and a slight challenge in her eyes. I dare you to say anything.

He did not. Before she got sober, Sally had been a frequent visitor to the lockup. In fact, his predecessor kept a special blanket just for her, because she was allergic to cotton. But he wasn’t here to judge.

He racked his brain for what he knew about Heather. She was smart, right? She’d gotten a college scholarship and left the island. Someone who tended to stir up trouble and get people talking. Friend of his ex, Carrie, and that whole crew of island girls. Wasn’t she living in Boston? Luke hadn’t listened too closely to the local gossip about her, though now he wished he had.

He took down her address and phone number and other pertinent information, which she delivered in an increasingly impatient tone. “What does any of this have to do with Gabby? I’m really worried about her.”

“Tell me more about Gabby. When’s the last time you talked to her?”

She rattled off the exact time and content of their conversation. Halfway through, she stopped. “You already know she’s missing.”

He tilted his head in a “yes.”

“Then what are we doing here? Are you stonewalling? Wasting my time? God, this island. Nothing ever changes.” She bolted to her feet. “Never mind, I’ll find her myself.”

“Heather.” He reached across the desk and grabbed her arm. For some reason, his pride was stung that she would think he wouldn’t do a thorough job investigating her friend’s disappearance. “I’m not stonewalling. Gabby was staying at the hotel, and Judy Griffin just reported her missing this morning, right before you got here. Whatever you can tell me about her will be helpful.”

Narrowing her eyes, she sat back down. “Is Gabby the big case you mentioned?”

“Yes. I was about to go question the staff at the hotel. After that, I plan to take my boat out and see if she’s stranded on the rocks somewhere.”

“Sorry,” she murmured. She brushed her hair—tangled from its time under her helmet—away from her face. He noticed a slight puffiness under her eyes. Had she been crying because of Gabby, or something else?

“No worries. Listen,” he said impulsively. “Why don’t you come with me? Since you know her, you could be helpful.”

“Really?” Her face brightened with a big grin. There was something very vivid and alive about Heather. “Is that allowed?”

“Anywhere else, probably not. But who’s going to stop me out here?”

“Good point. Is that because you’re the constable, or because you’re a Carmichael?”

Ouch. But she too had a good point. Being the son of the island’s largest landowner was a double-edged sword. It had taken a long time for the locals to trust him.

“Little of both,” he admitted. “Come on, let’s take my truck. I can throw your bike in the back.”

Now there was a dose of childhood nostalgia. Tired legs pumping as he rode back across the sandbar, a hotel worker kind enough to offer him a ride—except his bikes had always been top-of-the-line and never had pink plastic streamers dangling from the handlebars.

Heather hesitated before answering. “Let me make a quick call first. I still haven’t even seen my mom.”

She stepped aside and dialed a number. When she didn’t get an answer, she shrugged and went to get her bike from under the lilac bush.

“Families, am I right?” she murmured as she handed her bike over to him so he could nestle it into the bed of his truck, between coils of rope and a lobster pot that needed mending.

“Amen to that.”

4

Heather was pretty sure that Luke’s family problems were nothing like her own, but she appreciated the expression of solidarity. Despite her texts and requests for a pickup, her mother hadn’t shown up at the dock. She’d walked the mile to her house, only to find it empty, and more dilapidated than ever. A broken gutter dripped water onto the overgrown rhododendrons out front. The formerly white trim was a mostly peeling greenish-grayish color, some combination of mold and algae.

The sight of such neglect made her stomach tighten with fear. Was it a sign her mother was drinking again? During her last few phone conversations, she hadn’t noticed any signs of it. Sally McPhee had talked mostly about how busy she was.

Inside, she’d found a sink full of dirty dishes, a cast iron frying pan balanced on the edge of the counter, and a toaster with the cord yanked out. Her mother must have left in a hurry. Maybe she was just busy.

Heather had dumped her bag in the upstairs bedroom, with its steep eaves and wallpaper with a pattern of ladies’ parasols, for no apparent reason. This had been her room growing up, although her mother had packed most of her things away since then. A distant cousin had come to live with her for a time, until they’d had a massive blowup. Maybe fighting with Sally McPhee went with the room, who knew?

In the garden shed, she’d dug out her old bike and decided she might as well track down Luke Carmichael. On her way, she’d conjured up all the memories she had of him, which wasn’t many. He’d dated her old friend Carrie Prevost and then married her when she got pregnant, which had shocked everyone. Izzy must be…six now? Hadn’t he had a massive blowout with his father too?

In the passenger seat of his truck, a newish-model Nissan Frontier, nice but nothing fancy, she surreptitiously scrutinized him. He drove with the relaxed ease of someone completely comfortable in their body. He’d been an athlete in high school, she remembered now. All six of the Carmichael kids had gone to private school, of course, and they were all athletic. She remembered hearing that he’d won a hockey trophy. He had that air about him, very physical and alert. Dark hair, blue eyes—all the Carmichaels had that coloring. The Carmichael gene was strong, holding up through all of John Griffin Carmichael III’s marriages.

“So what can you tell me about Gabby?” Luke broke the silence, making her start. She’d been taking in the pine trees and blackberry thickets along the side of the road, watching for glimpses of the ocean where the woods thinned out.

“Gabby and I met in journalism school. She has a master’s degree in journalism, graduated from Simmons in Boston. She’s very smart and an excellent writer. She runs a blog that has half a million followers.”

“Is she from Boston?”

“No, she’s actually from South Portland. That was how we bonded initially. We were the only two students in our program from Maine. We hit it off and now I would say she’s one of my best friends. You know how it is with some people, you meet them and you already feel like you know each other?”

“Like us?” Luke grinned down at her, and she thought, danger. Luke Carmichael was far too attractive for comfort. That grin could cause a girl to abandon everything sensible.

“We do know each other, so no, not exactly.”

“Do we?” He made the question sound like a tease, but she refused to take him up on anything flirtatious.

“We know enough.”

“Do we?” he repeated. But he must have picked up on her resistance, because his tone shifted. “Do you have a photo of Gabby?”

“Yes.” She’d already prepared for this by making a Gabby album on her phone. Pulling up the most straightforward photo, she held up the phone so he could see it. “This was just last week.”

His glance was brief but comprehensive. “Can you email that photo to me?”

“Sure. But it’s not like it will be hard to spot one of the very few non-white people on this island,” she said dryly. “She wouldn’t exactly blend in.”

“Things are changing around here, you might be surprised.”

“Hmm…” She cocked her head at him. “Let me guess, the hotel has run out of islanders to hire.”

He laughed wryly. “Uh-huh. I hear much of the hotel kitchen staff are Somali. It’s working out great for everyone.”

“Wait…you hear? You’re a Carmichael. Don’t you know?”

“Strictly speaking, I’m banned from the premises. But when I’m on official business, my father doesn’t have much of a choice. Most of my information about the hotel comes through the grapevine.”

Wow. Maybe she really didn’t know much about Luke. “Is that hard for you?”

He glanced at her, surprised, as if he didn’t get that question a lot. “Sometimes, yeah. It hurt a lot at first. But I hope it’s not forever. I don’t mind being cut out of my father’s will, but I’d like my daughter to know her grandfather someday.”

They reached the road that connected the eastern and western lobes of the island. The tide was high enough that it almost felt as if they were driving on the surface of the ocean. Water to the right, water to the left…just a narrow band of paved road ahead and behind.

She’d only been on this road a few times in her life, and it always made her nervous. It felt as if the ocean was closing in, seeking its chance to devour the sandbar, the pavement, and any humans who might be on it.

A sickening thought flashed into her mind. What if Gabby had drowned?

The rocks along the shoreline were so slippery at low tide, covered in seaweed and algae. Heather had slipped many times. She even had a barnacle scar on her right knee to prove it.

As they drove off the sandbar and onto the eastern part of the island, she firmly shoved the thought from her mind. Why would Gabby be climbing on the rocks? She wasn’t here for an adventure. She was here because of some mysterious lead.

“Gabby said something shady was going on here,” she said to Luke. “She was investigating something for a story.”

“For her blog?”

“No, her blog’s about celebrity gossip. Unless maybe one of your family members is in the news? You’re the closest thing to celebrities that we have here.”

“Always a possibility,” Luke said lightly. “But as far as I know, none of my siblings are involved in any big scandals at the moment. Barnaby is back from mountain-climbing in the Himalayas, I think Carson just got engaged, and Fiona might be around. But I’m not sure about Rufus and Ruby. You never know what they’re up to.”

Heather smiled, a little envious of all his siblings. Being an only child meant she relied on her friends more. “Gabby was working on something for our podcast. We’re all about exposing bad people. Know any of those around here?”