Chapter 7
7
CLAIRE
T he next morning, the air was already thick with heat and humidity by the time I stepped outside The Palmetto Rose. The scent of salt water and blooming jasmine wafted through the air, deceptively sweet, masking the rot I knew was buried somewhere beneath the surface.
Time to dig it up.
I’d barely slept. Between tossing and turning in that ridiculously soft four-poster bed and replaying every second of my encounters with Marcus Dane—first at the pier, then in the hotel lobby—my mind had been too wired.
So I did what I always did when a story had me by the throat.
I hit the pavement.
Charleston had woken slowly, stretching into its day like a cat basking in the sun. The streets hummed with easy conversation. People strolled instead of rushed, greeting each other by name, pausing to chat like time wasn’t a commodity. It was almost quaint . Almost .
But underneath the pleasantries, I felt it. The caution. The hesitation. The unspoken don’t ask too many questions, honey lingering behind every tight smile.
Back in New York, asking questions was expected—hell, it was a way of life. People thrived on gossip, on scandal, on knowing something before their neighbor did. You could shove a mic in someone’s face, and nine times out of ten, they’d have something to say—whether it was the truth or not.
Here? Silence spoke louder than words.
People in Charleston didn’t just hesitate. They calculated. Weighing whether speaking to me was worth the risk. Whether I was worth the trouble. Whether the wrong word might come back to haunt them.
In New York City, the danger was obvious. A source might slam a door in your face, maybe throw a curse or two your way, but they wouldn’t hold back if they had something to spill.
Here, the threat was quieter. Polite. Wrapped in a slow smile and a soft drawl that made it feel like I was the one making a mistake by even asking.
Not to mention, the Danes weren’t just known here. They were something else.
Respected. Feared. Maybe even revered in some weird way.
It was the kind of influence you couldn’t buy, not even with the obscene wealth I knew they had. This was something deeper. Something woven into the city itself, into the bones of the people who lived here.
And I wasn’t the only one who felt it.
A few conversations in, and I could already tell—I was an outsider, and no one was going to roll out the welcome mat just because I asked nicely.
I leaned against the counter of a small coffee shop, my iced latte sweating in my grip, while the barista—a woman in her late fifties with soft brown eyes—stirred sugar into her own cup like she suddenly had all the time in the world.
“You’re not from around here,” she said, giving me a slow once-over.
I smiled. “Let me guess—the accent gives me away?”
“That and the questions.” Her gaze was steady, unreadable. “People in this city don’t much like questions about the Danes.”
I tapped my nail against my cup. “That because they’re dangerous?”
Her lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Because they keep us safe.”
That was the most I got out of her.
From there, it was more of the same. Some people clammed up entirely. Others danced around my questions with the kind of well-practiced Southern charm that was both infuriating and oddly impressive. A few were just curious about what a woman like me—big-city podcaster, fast-talking and sharp—was doing sniffing around.
But one thing was clear: the Danes weren’t just a family. They were a shield. And no one wanted to be the one to poke holes in that protection.
Which meant I needed to go straight to the people who had no choice but to answer.
The law.
The Charleston County Sheriff’s Office was an old brick building just off King Street, the American flag flapping lazily in the sticky morning air. Inside, the cool blast of air-conditioning hit me first, followed by the scent of cheap coffee and the low hum of police radios crackling behind the front desk .
The deputy on duty—a man in his late forties with a shaved head and a no-nonsense air—barely spared me a glance.
“I’m looking for Sheriff Joe Christel,” I said, slipping my press credentials onto the counter. “Claire Dixon. The Unseen .”
That got his attention.
His gaze flicked from my ID to my face, his expression unreadable. “Sheriff’s a busy man.”
“I’m sure he is,” I said smoothly. “But I only need a few minutes.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even pretend to type something into his computer.
“The explosion at Folly Beach,” I pressed. “Surely he has something to say about that.”
A long silence. Then, finally?—
“The sheriff’s not here.”
Bullshit.
I folded my arms, tilting my head. “So you’re telling me the highest-ranking law enforcement official in this county just isn’t here at—” I glanced at my watch, “—nine-thirty in the morning?”
“That’s right.”
I sighed through my nose, fighting the urge to bang my head against the counter.
The sheriff wasn’t just busy . He was untouchable. A man whose loyalty wasn’t to the public, but to the Danes.
Figured.
I tapped my fingers against the counter, weighing my options. I could keep pushing, try to press one of the deputies, or I could regroup and find another way in. Neither would get me what I really wanted—answers.
And then there was Marcus.
My jaw clenched just thinking about him. Arrogant, cocky, built like sin and probably twice as dangerous. He was the kind of man I hated on principle. The kind who walked through the world knowing it bent to his will. The kind who could ruin a woman in bed and walk away without looking back.
Not that I’d thought about that last night. Except I had.
I’d tossed and turned, my mind racing with leads and dead ends, and somewhere in the mess of it all, my thoughts had drifted to the way he looked at me, the way he said my name, the way I just knew he’d be the kind of lover who wouldn’t bother asking, who’d just take.
A warm pressure began to build between my legs.
In another life, where I wasn’t investigating a fucking explosion and he wasn’t him, we’d have a wild time. A reckless, no-strings, set-the-bed-on-fire kind of time.
Too bad this wasn’t that life.
I exhaled sharply and turned to leave when a voice cut through the air, low and edged with something that wasn’t quite boredom, but wasn’t far from it either.
“You looking for real answers or just the kind that sound good on your podcast?”
I turned.
A man stood near the entrance of the bullpen, arms crossed over his chest. He had sandy brown hair cropped short and a shadow of scruff on his jaw. He looked like the kind of man who’d been on the force long enough to be tired of it but not long enough to stop caring entirely.
He was watching me. Really watching me.
And my instincts screamed: this is something.
I took a slow step forward. “That depends,” I said. “You got real answers?”
The corner of his mouth curved slightly, but there was no humor in it. “I might. ”
“Then I’m listening.”
He flicked a glance at the deputy behind the desk—who was very clearly pretending not to listen—before jerking his head toward the hallway.
“Walk with me.”
I didn’t hesitate.
Falling into step beside him, I kept my pace even, my expression neutral. The hallway was quieter here, the distant sound of ringing phones and low conversations fading as we moved toward the back of the station.
“You got a name?” I asked, cutting him a sideways glance.
The man smirked, a lazy tilt of his mouth that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Deputy Eric Norton.”
He was tall, lean but solid, with a sharp jawline and the kind of weariness that came from years of seeing too much. His uniform was slightly rumpled, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle.
I filed away the details. Everything about him said cop—the posture, the walk, the sharp, assessing way he glanced at the corners of the room. But there was something else, too. Something that felt … off.
“And you are?” he asked, giving me that same assessing look.
“Claire Dixon.”
Recognition flickered in his gaze. “ The Unseen .”
I lifted a brow. “You listen?”
He shrugged. “I like the cases. Not always the commentary.”
I smirked. “That’s fair. But something tells me you’re not pulling me aside to critique my hosting style.”
His smirk widened, but it was brief. The seriousness settled back in just as quickly. “No, I’m not.”
I waited, pulse picking up slightly .
We moved past rows of desks, officers murmuring into radios, paperwork spread across cluttered surfaces. The sheriff’s office had that well-worn feel of a place where the people were always tired.
We reached a quieter hallway, and the cop finally stopped, leaning against the wall.
“I don’t like bullshit,” he said, watching me carefully. “And that’s all I’ve been fed since that damn pier exploded.”
I crossed my arms. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he said slowly, “there’s a reason this department is keeping its mouth shut. A reason people don’t ask questions.” He exhaled sharply. “But I heard something the other night. Something different.”
The air seemed to still.
I kept my face neutral, my pulse spiking. “And what was that?”
He studied me for a long moment, then finally?—
“Someone mentioned Department 77 .”
The words hit like a gunshot.
I barely stopped myself from reacting, from shifting too quickly, from letting the shock show on my face.
The deputy shook his head. “Don’t know who said it. Just overheard it at a bar. But it sure as hell sounded like something worth digging into.”
I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to stay cool.
“And what do you think?” I asked, tilting my head. “About the Danes?”
His jaw tightened. “I think people in this city know exactly who runs things.”
Cryptic as hell.
His gaze flicked over me, slow and assessing, lingering just long enough to make a point. “And I think you should be careful, ma’am. ”
I arched a brow. “Is that a threat, Deputy Norton?”
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “No, ma’am. Just an observation. The Danes have a reputation—for a lot of things. Business. Power. Loyalty.” His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed sharp. “And women.”
That got my attention.
He shrugged, all casual-like, but there was a warning in his tone. “Men like that? They take what they want. If you’re into that kind of thing, well …” He gave me a knowing look, his gaze dragging from my eyes to my mouth, then lower, over the tailored blouse that fit just a little too well and the curve-hugging jeans I’d thrown on that morning. “Let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first woman who’s gotten caught up in their world.”
Heat pricked at my skin, but I refused to squirm.
He wasn’t wrong about one thing—I stood out here. Back in New York, my outfit was nothing. Just another woman in business-casual with a little edge. But in Charleston, where pastel sundresses and breezy linen ruled, I might as well have been wearing a sign that said not from around here .
And Marcus?
My pulse kicked up against my will.
I swallowed, pushing the thought away before it could sink its teeth in.
Norton’s eyes were still on me, sharp and amused, like he knew exactly where my mind had gone.
I squared my shoulders. “I can handle myself.”
He smirked. “Yeah, I get that.” Then he leaned in, lowering his voice enough to make it personal. “Just make sure you’re the one doing the handling. Because men like the Danes? They don’t play fair. ”
I already knew that. I just wasn’t sure if I wanted them to.
But it didn’t matter.
Because I had what I needed.
I had a name.
And now? Now I was about to really stir up the hornet’s nest.