Chapter 24
MEGHAN
T he morning after Dean and Trish’s visit broke warm and still, the kind of Charleston day where the air felt too thick to move through and the gulls sounded closer than they really were.
The sky over the harbor was pale and cloudless when I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Caleb.
He’d been up a couple of times to prowl the perimeter.
I was awake every time he left, and I never slept until he slipped back in bed next to me.
The kitchen was quiet when I came in, just the low hum of the walk-in cooler and the metallic tick of the ovens heating.
I could’ve told myself it was going to be a normal day—prepping for dinner, checking invoices, ignoring the fact that I had a man in my life who could strip a Glock as easily as I could break down a duck.
But the lie didn’t hold for long. Not after last night.
I’d slept in bursts, dreams turning over and over into fragments—Caleb’s voice, Dean’s eyes narrowing across the table, the faint scrape of a chair on hardwood when I’d gone to the back to read that third note. Even now, the words clung to me like static.
I crossed the dining room to my office, fishing for the key in my bag. The sunlight through the tall windows caught on the crystal water glasses, throwing fractured rainbows across the tables. It should’ve been pretty. Instead, the shadows between the banquettes felt too long, too deep.
When I opened the office door, I almost didn’t see it.
An envelope.
Lying just inside, on the floor.
No stamp. No address.
It must’ve been slipped under the door.
I froze in the doorway, every muscle going tight. The air in the room felt different, like someone had been here and left their shadow behind.
For a long moment I just stared at it, trying to make my breath go steady. Then I stepped inside, picking it up between two fingers. The paper was thick, expensive—smooth under my thumb like stationary you’d use for wedding invitations or a resignation letter.
I sat at my desk, turned the envelope over, and slid a knife under the flap.
A photograph slid out.
It took me a second to understand what I was looking at.
The colors had that faded ‘90s wash, sun-bleached along the edges. My mother, in a white blouse with sleeves rolled above her elbows, hair pinned back the way she wore it when she was running a busy night at Meggie’s.
My father beside her, tall and broad-shouldered, one hand resting on the prep counter.
They were both smiling—not for the camera, but at each other, like whoever had taken the picture had caught them mid-laugh.
My throat closed. I hadn’t seen this picture in years. Maybe never.
I turned it over.
Four words, scrawled in black ink:
It’s almost time, Meggie.
The pen had bitten hard enough into the paper that I could feel the grooves on the front side.
For a long moment, all I could do was sit there, the sound of my own breathing loud in my ears. Whoever had written this knew Meggie’s. Knew my parents. Knew enough to use my nickname, the one they’d called me when I was small and the one Dean still used to remind me he’d practically raised me.
I shoved back from the desk so fast my chair hit the wall.
“Meg?”
Caleb’s voice came from the doorway, low and alert. He’d changed into a dark T-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a quick shower upstairs. His eyes went immediately to my hands.
“What is that?”
I held the photo out without a word.
He crossed the room in three strides, took it from me, and studied the front, then the back. His jaw flexed once, sharp and tight. “Where did this come from?”
“It was on the floor when I came in,” I said. “No envelope markings, nothing.”
His gaze flicked to the door, then back to me. “How long has the office been locked?”
“Since last night.”
He was already moving, checking the hallway, the entry, crouching to study the gap under the door where someone had shoved the envelope through.
I wrapped my arms around myself, the image of my parents burned into my mind. “Who even has this picture? I don’t.”
“Someone who wants you to know they do,” he said grimly.
I pressed my palms to my eyes. “It’s my past now. It’s supposed to be my past.”
He came back to me, setting the photo gently on the desk before cupping my chin. “It’s not the past to whoever’s doing this.”
Before I could answer, I heard the heavy thud of feet in the hall. Dean filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and braced like he’d walked in expecting to find trouble.
“Your sous chef said you’d be back here.” His eyes cut to Caleb, then to me. “What happened?”
I hesitated only a second before holding out the photo.
He took it, studied it, and I saw the shift—the recognition in his eyes when he saw my parents, the tightening of his mouth when he turned it over and read the message.
“Jesus, Meggie.”
Caleb’s voice was low. “This was left here sometime after close last night. No sign of forced entry. No cameras on this hall yet.”
Dean’s gaze snapped to him. “Yet?”
“They’re going in this week,” Caleb said evenly. “First priority was outside coverage. Now I’m rethinking that. Maybe we need cameras everywhere.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You said you were handling it. You didn’t say she’d be getting—” He cut himself off, looking at me. “—this.”
I stood, frustration bubbling up hot in my chest. “I didn’t exactly ask for it, Dean.”
“That’s not the point,” he shot back. “The point is somebody out there has pictures from thirty years ago and knows enough to put them under your door in the middle of the night.”
Caleb’s hand settled at the small of my back—steady, grounding. “We don’t know if this is about her, her parents, or the restaurant. Could be all three. Which means we work from every angle until we know.”
Dean gave him a look I couldn’t read—half skeptical, half considering. “What’s the plan?”
Caleb glanced at me. “First, get this scanned, bagged, and somewhere safe. I’ve got contacts who can run the handwriting. Then I want the lock on this door changed. Maybe I can get more cameras installed inside today.”
Dean grunted, but it wasn’t disagreement. “And finding out who the hell’s been walking into your life like they own it?”
Caleb’s voice went flat. “That’s already in motion.”
Dean set the photograph back on the desk like it might shatter. “Whoever this is, they’re getting too close. I don’t like it.”
“No one likes it,” I said, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
The office suddenly felt smaller, the air too warm, like the walls had shifted in overnight to box me in.
“I can’t even walk into my own restaurant without wondering if something’s waiting for me.
I feel like I’m—” I broke off, searching for the right word. “—cooped up. Pinned down.”
Dean’s gaze softened in that gruff way of his. “You’ve been running yourself ragged between this place and whatever the hell this is,” he said, motioning toward the photograph. “You’re allowed to take a breath.”
“I don’t need a breath,” I lied. “I need to figure out who’s doing this and why.”
Caleb’s eyes were steady on mine. “You need both.”
Dean crossed his arms. “Here’s what I’m thinking.
You finish dinner service tonight. I’ll stick around after close, keep an eye on Promenade—make sure nothing comes or goes that shouldn’t.
You two—” his gaze flicked to Caleb, then back to me “—take a night out. Somewhere with noise and people. Somewhere you’re not looking over your shoulder every five seconds. ”
I blinked at him. “You’re suggesting I go on a date while someone’s slipping notes under my door?”
“I’m suggesting you let someone else have your back for a few hours,” Dean said. “If you stay glued to this place twenty-four-seven, whoever’s behind this will start to think they’ve got you exactly where they want you—on edge and predictable.”
Caleb’s mouth tugged in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I like your uncle.”
Dean ignored that. “Go to a bar, a late dinner somewhere. Hell, get on a boat and float around the harbor for all I care. Just get out.”
I hesitated, because it felt backwards—running toward normal when my instincts were telling me to lock the doors and hole up somewhere no one could find me.
But the truth was, the thought of staying here after close, pacing the empty dining room while the shadows crawled over the walls, made my skin crawl.
And there was another truth, one I didn’t want to admit in front of either of them: part of me wanted that night out with Caleb. Away from the notes. Away from the way my hands shook when I found the last one.
I sat back in my chair. “You’d really stay here?”
Dean shrugged. “I’ll bring a book. Trish can either stay here with me or camp out at the hotel. She’ll be fine, either way.”
Caleb glanced at me, his voice low. “It’s not a terrible idea.”
I looked between the two of them—Dean, solid and unflinching, Caleb, steady and watchful—and for the first time since I picked up that envelope, the knot in my chest loosened just enough for me to breathe.
“Fine,” I said. “One night out. But I’m not getting on a boat.”
Dean’s mouth curved just slightly. “Fair enough.”
Caleb’s hand brushed mine, warm and sure. “I’ll pick the place.”
I almost smiled.
Dean checked the hall like he could strong-arm the air into behaving, then nodded once, decisive. “I’m going to grab Trish and a few things from the hotel. Call if anything twitches.” He touched my shoulder—quick, grounding—and left.
Silence folded in behind him, softer than before. Caleb didn’t fill it. He waited, thumb tracing idle circles against my knuckles where our hands had found each other.
“Can I ask you something?” he said at last.
I braced without meaning to. “You can try.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair. The picture—your mom’s sleeves, the way they’re looking at each other. It felt … lived-in. Not a big occasion. Do you remember nights like that? What was it like, right then, when that was normal?”