Chapter 12 #2
My stomach twisted into a knot. Jane Sutherland. The reporter who’d investigated the church finances, who’d tracked Ruby’s and Pickering’s movements, who’d fled Grimm Island the moment their bodies were discovered and never looked back.
Until now.
“What do we know?” Dash asked, his sheriff’s mask sliding into place.
“Single gunshot to the back of the head. Execution style.” Harris flipped through his notebook with trembling fingers. “County ME is inside now. Says it’s a .38 Special—same caliber as the ’85 murders.”
Same caliber. Room twelve. The coincidence was about as subtle as a brick through a stained-glass window.
“Time of death?”
“Between midnight and 3 a.m based on body temperature and rigor. No signs of struggle. No defensive wounds.”
“Security footage?” Dash asked.
“Yeah, part of the renovation. Manager’s got it queued up in the office. This way.”
Harris led us past room twelve toward the small office tucked behind the lobby. The hotel manager—whose name tag read Preston—had the footage ready on a laptop, his hands fidgeting with a pen like a nervous tic.
“This is from last night,” Preston said, clicking play. “1:30 a.m.”
The footage was grainy black and white, but clear enough. A figure approached room twelve—medium height, dark clothing, baseball cap pulled low. The person’s face never turned toward the camera, not even for a second. Deliberate avoidance.
A knock on the door. Waiting.
After a moment, the door opened. Jane appeared in the frame—just a sliver of her, backlit by the room’s lamp. She stepped back. Let the person in.
My heart sank like a stone.
“She opened the door willingly,” I said.
“Or whoever it was gave her a reason to trust them,” Dash replied, his voice flat. “Claimed they had information about the case maybe.”
Eighteen minutes later, the figure emerged. Same careful avoidance of cameras, same deliberate movements. The person disappeared toward the parking lot, and the camera lost them in the shadows between streetlights.
“Did anyone report hearing a gunshot?” Dash asked Preston. “Other guests? Staff?”
Preston shook his head. “That’s the thing—we had three other rooms occupied last night, but nobody heard anything. The rooms have pretty good soundproofing from the renovation, but still…” He shrugged helplessly.
“Parking lot footage?” Dash asked.
Preston clicked through files with shaking fingers. “We’ve got three cameras out there, but…” He pulled up another video. “Whoever this was knew where to walk. Stayed in the blind spots like they’d studied the layout.”
I watched the footage loop, that medium-height figure moving with purpose through carefully calculated routes.
That could have been anyone. Elder Crenshaw was too frail to move like that.
But Stephanie? She had the right build. Or it could be someone we hadn’t even considered—someone who’d been watching from the shadows all along.
“I need copies of all this footage,” Dash said to Preston. “And the guest registry for the past week.”
“Already pulled it for Deputy Harris,” Preston said, looking relieved to be helpful rather than the bearer of bad news.
“Can we see the scene?” Dash asked Harris.
“Yes, sir,” Harris said, handing us latex gloves and paper booties at room twelve’s door. “County ME asked that we keep contamination to a minimum while they’re still processing.”
Room twelve had been transformed into something you’d see in a home decorating magazine. Soft gray walls. White linens. Black-and-white photographs of the low country in simple frames. Furniture that looked expensive because it was trying very hard to look simple and understated.
But no amount of money could change what this room had been. What it had witnessed.
Jane Sutherland lay on the floor beside the bed, positioned on her side as if she’d simply lain down to rest. Silver hair cut in a sleek bob.
Tailored navy slacks and a silk blouse that probably cost more than most people’s weekly salary.
Small pearl earrings. Wedding ring on her left hand—so she’d married after leaving Grimm Island. Built a whole new life.
The county medical examiner—a man in his forties with wire-rimmed glasses—was photographing the wound. He glanced up when we entered.
“Sheriff Beckett.” He straightened. “Dr. Martinez.”
“Anything else you can tell us beyond what you shared with Harris?” Dash asked.
“Used one of the hotel pillows to muffle the shot,” Dr. Martinez said, gesturing to a bloodstained pillow that had been moved aside for evidence collection. “Explains why no one heard anything. Smart thinking on the killer’s part.”
Dash’s jaw tightened like a cable under stress. “Rush the ballistics on that casing.”
“Already planned on it given the circumstances.”
Jane on her knees, a hotel pillow pressed to her head to silence her final moments. The past catching up after four decades of running.
Through room twelve’s window, the late afternoon sun was starting to slant golden across Waterfront Street. Soon the dinner crowd would be heading out—couples dressed for the restaurants, families finishing their beach day, tourists with their shopping bags and sunburns.
Normal people having normal evenings, completely oblivious to the fact that someone had been executed twenty feet away.
Jane Sutherland had run from Grimm Island in 1985. Had built a new life somewhere safer. Had stayed silent for decades, carrying her secrets like stones in her pockets.
And someone had tracked her down anyway.
“If ballistics confirms it’s the same gun,” Dash said quietly, “we’re dealing with someone who’s been killing for forty years and thinks they’re untouchable.”
“We need to find that gun,” I said.
He looked at me, and I saw the determination in his eyes mixed with something else—worry. Not just for the case. For me. For all of us asking questions someone clearly didn’t want asked.
“We will,” he said. “Time for conversations without kid gloves.” He pulled out his phone. “Stephanie Donaldson and her ex-father-in-law are going to explain exactly why this secret is worth killing for.”
Outside the Flamingo, the late afternoon sun was painting Harbor Street in shades of amber and rose, the kind of light that made even the most ordinary things appear touched by magic. The evening hour was approaching, and I realized I hadn’t eaten since my morning scone.
“I need food,” I said. “And something stronger than tea after the day we’ve had.”
Dash glanced at his watch. “Magnolia’s should be open. Good food, quiet atmosphere. We can talk without half the island listening in.”
Ten minutes later, we were walking through the restaurant’s front door. “Two of us for dinner,” I told the hostess at Magnolia’s, a woman in her thirties whose crisp white blouse and practiced smile suggested she’d been managing the evening crowd here for years. “Somewhere quiet, if you have it.”
She led us to a corner table on the screened porch where the evening light filtered through jasmine vines. The harbor spread below us, all silver water and bobbing masts, deceptively peaceful after the horror we’d left behind.
Our waitress, Riley, appeared with menus and the kind of smile that suggested she’d mastered the art of reading her customers’ moods. “Y’all look like you’ve had a day,” she said gently. “Can I start you with something to drink?”
“Moscato,” I said without hesitation. “The sweetest you have. And we’ll need a few minutes with the menu.”
“Sweet tea for me,” Dash added.
Riley nodded and disappeared, returning quickly with a glass of wine that caught the porch lights like liquid gold. The first sip was exactly what I needed—sweet and light and utterly uncomplicated, washing away the metallic taste that crime scenes always left in my mouth.
“Better?” Dash asked, watching me over his glass of tea.
“Getting there.” I studied the menu, though my appetite felt fragile. “The she-crab soup, I think. Something warm.”
“Grouper for me,” Dash told Riley when she returned. “Blackened, if you do it that way.”
“Perfect choice,” Riley said. “Miss Adelaide’s soup is legendary—she adds just enough sherry to make you forget your troubles without making you forget your manners.”
The food arrived with admirable speed, my soup bowl releasing steam that smelled like comfort and old Charleston recipes. The first spoonful was everything Riley had promised—rich and creamy with that hint of sherry that warmed from the inside out.
“Jane Sutherland had something she needed to finish here,” I said, watching a great blue heron stalk something in the shallows beyond the restaurant’s dock. “Something worth risking her life for.”
Dash was about to respond when a familiar voice called across the porch.
“Mabel! Sheriff Beckett!”
We looked up to find Reverend Sutton approaching, dressed in a navy shirt and tie. He moved with the careful grace of someone who’d learned to navigate social situations without causing offense, his smile warm but carrying an undercurrent of concern.
“Reverend,” I said, genuinely pleased to see him. “Please, join us if you have time. We could use some perspective.”
He hesitated for a moment, then pulled out the empty chair. “I don’t want to intrude. I just finished dinner with the elders when I saw you sitting out here. I’m sure you’ve both had a day. I heard about Jane Sutherland.”
“You knew her,” Dash said. It wasn’t a question.