Chapter 20
The Lazy Fish Grill perches on the edge of Poipu Beach, all weathered wood and string lights that twinkle against the darkening sky like someone strung up a constellation specifically for romantic dinners.
The sound of waves provides background music while the scent of grilled mahi-mahi and warm ocean air creates an atmosphere that’s unforgettable.
“Table for two,” Koa tells the hostess, who takes one look at him and suddenly develops the enthusiasm usually reserved for meeting celebrities or cops who are too hot for their badges and britches.
“Right this way, Detective Hale! Your usual spot?” The blonde winks and swoons in his presence. I’m guessing that happens a lot around him.
“You have a usual spot?” I ask as we follow her to a table that overlooks the beach.
“I eat here when I want to remember why I moved back to the island.”
The hostess seats us at a table where we can watch the last traces of sunset paint the sky in impossible shades of purple and orange that look like someone went wild with cosmic watercolors.
Tiki torches flicker along the beach, and somewhere in the distance, someone is playing the ukulele with an effortless ease that makes the tourists reach for their cameras and the locals nod with satisfaction.
“So,” I say, settling into my chair and trying not to notice how the flickering light makes his eyes look even more golden than usual, like someone sprinkled treasure in them, “do you always take murder suspects out for dinner, or am I special?”
“You’re not a suspect.”
“How do you know?”
“Because if you were in charge of the killer chaos, this place would have burned down by now. Possibly the entire beach. Maybe the ocean.”
I shoot him a look for going there.
The waitress appears with menus and water glasses, takes one look at Koa, and develops the same glazed expression as the hostess. “Your usual drink, Detective?”
He nods, and I quickly say, “Make it two.”
“Two Kona Longboards coming up,” she says, floating away on a cloud of obvious infatuation that I’m trying very hard not to relate to.
“Do all the women on this island react to you like you’re some kind of law enforcement deity?” I ask.
“Just the smart ones.” He gives a little wink as he says it.
“What about the smart ones who are immune to your charm?”
“Haven’t met any yet.”
“You’re meeting one now.”
“Really?” He leans back in his chair, studying me with intensity, and I’m getting the feeling that this interrogation might end in either handcuffs or kissing.
I’m sort of rooting for both. “Because you agreed to spend the entire day with me, accepted my dinner invitation, and haven’t stopped flirting since we got in the truck this morning. ”
“That’s not flirting. That’s strategic information gathering.”
“What information are you gathering?”
“Whether you’re as insufferably confident as you appear, or if it’s just an act you put on for tourists and murder suspects who can’t stop staring at your jawline.”
“And what’s your conclusion?” He frowns as he asks, and he only manages to look that much more handsome in doing so.
“Still gathering data. Might need more time. Possibly years.” Decades even.
The waitress returns with our beers and a smile that lingers just a second too long on the hot detective. “Tonight’s special is ono with macadamia nut crust, served with coconut rice and grilled vegetables. It’s the chef’s recommendation and also mine because it’s incredible.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, because honestly, at this point, I’d eat cardboard if it meant continuing this conversation.
“So,” Koa says once we’re alone again, taking a sip of his beer and watching me over the rim with those impossibly distracting eyes, “tell me about the ex-husband who led to this geographical confusion and possibly this entire situation.”
“It’s your standard midlife crisis package. Pretty young thing, sports car, sudden discovery that marriage vows were more like guidelines than actual commitments.”
“How long were you married?”
“Seven years. Long enough to learn that shared streaming passwords don’t constitute true intimacy, and that ‘I’m working late’ usually means ‘I’m working on ruining our marriage.’”
“What did he do for a living?”
“Corporate tax attorney. Specialized in helping rich people avoid consequences for poor decisions. In retrospect, I should have seen the irony coming.”
The food arrives with a theatrical presentation that assures us the chef takes his macadamia nut crusts very seriously, possibly more seriously than I take most things in my life.
The fish is perfect—flaky, perfectly seasoned, probably caught this morning by someone who knew exactly what they were doing and didn’t accidentally set anything on fire in the process. In other words, not me.
“This is incredible,” I say, taking another bite.
“Island living does have its advantages.”
“Speaking of which, where exactly do you live when you’re not interrogating suspects over romantic dinners?”
“Kilauea. North Shore, about twenty minutes from the resort. Close enough to respond to emergencies, far enough to pretend they’re not happening when I’m off duty.”
“What’s it like?”
“Quiet. Rural. The sort of place where your biggest traffic jam is caused by cattle crossing the road, and your neighbors are more likely to be wild chickens than people.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“It is. There’s a lighthouse there—built in 1913, still operational.
Best place on the island to watch the sunrise when you can’t sleep because you’re thinking about cases or other things.
” His eyes meet mine when he says “other things,” and I feel my face heat.
“And the whole area is dotted with these old stone walls from the sugar plantation days. Local legend says they’re haunted by the ghosts of workers who never got paid. ”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask.
“I believe in things that can’t be explained by rational investigation. This island has plenty of those.”
“Like what?”
“Like the way certain places feel different. Sacred. Like they remember things that happened there, even if no one alive was around to witness them.”
The way he says it makes me look at him differently, really look, and I see layers I didn’t expect. There’s something deeper here than just a cop who grew up local. There’s someone who genuinely loves this place in ways that go beyond professional duty.
“What’s your favorite part of the island?” I ask because I genuinely want to know and also because I like watching him talk about things he cares about.
“It’s hard to choose. The Nā Pali Coast for drama, Hanalei Bay for beauty, Waimea Canyon for perspective.
But honestly? I love the little things tourists never notice.
The way the trade winds sound different depending on where you are—gentle in the valleys, fierce on the ridges.
The fact that you can drive for twenty minutes and go from tropical jungle to desert canyon. The way time moves differently here.”
“Different how?”
“Slower. More deliberate. The island forces you to pay attention to what actually matters instead of just rushing through your life, checking boxes.”
“And what actually matters?”
“Family. Community. Protecting the things that make this place special instead of letting them get destroyed by people who only see dollar signs.”
“Is that why you became a cop?”
“Part of it. Also, because someone has to stand between paradise and the people who want to exploit it. Someone has to care enough to fight back.”
“Against people like Nolan?”
He nods. “People like Nolan.”
“So,” I say, twirling my fork through the coconut rice and trying to sound casual instead of like someone conducting an interrogation over fish, “how exactly did Nolan die? I mean, obviously, he drowned, but was there something else? He seemed pretty healthy for someone who just randomly decided to take a late-night swim in our toxic waste pool.”
Hale pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth. “What makes you think there was something else?”
“Call it intuition. Or the fact that a man who was scared of everything from shellfish to sunscreen probably wouldn’t willingly enter water that looks like it could support marine life and possibly give you superpowers if you survive.”
He sets down his fork and studies me across the table. “This is confidential information.”
“I’m excellent with confidential information. Ask anyone. Very discreet. Haven’t told a soul about anything.” I pause. “Except Ruby and Lani, but they don’t count because they’re basically me.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Come on, Detective. I’ve been sharing everything I learned. Fair trade. Quid pro quo, and other Latin phrases that mean you owe me information.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, watching the last traces of sunset paint the water gold. “Oleander poisoning.”
“Oleander? The plant?”
“Highly toxic. Causes cardiac arrest and respiratory failure. Small amount mixed into food or drink, and within a few hours...” He makes a gesture that suggests things are going very badly very quickly.
“But he drowned.”
“He was incapacitated by the poison, then drowned. The guy probably couldn’t coordinate his movements well enough to swim or call for help. He may not have even known where he was by the time he hit the water.”
I feel my blood chill despite the tropical heat and the warm food in my stomach. “That’s... calculating. Premeditated. Someone planned this.”
“Very much so. Oleander poisoning looks like a heart attack if you don’t know what to look for. Easy to miss in a drowning victim unless you’re specifically testing for it.”
“And oleander grows everywhere on the island.”
“Everywhere. It’s one of the most common landscaping plants in Hawaii. Pretty white and pink flowers, popular with resort designers who don’t realize they’re planting poison gardens.”