3. Chapter 3 #2
She laughs softly, and for half a second she looks almost easy. Then a dog barks somewhere beyond the dunes. She flinches. Her hand closes around the shells so quickly one of them drops into the wet sand.
I don’t move toward her. Every protective instinct in me wants to. Every trained instinct tells me not to.
“You okay?” I ask.
She bends to pick up the shell, buying herself a second. “Yes. Sorry. I’m still waking up.”
Another answer that isn’t quite true.
When she straightens, the wind presses her swimsuit cover, thin and white and mostly useless against the breeze, against her hip. She holds my gaze for a moment through the dark lenses, then looks toward the water.
“I should get back,” she says.
I nod once. “Tide’s coming in. If you want shells, go south toward the point after low tide. Better finds there.”
“South toward the point,” she repeats. “Got it.”
“And watch the soft sand near the dunes. It drops off in places.”
“More local wisdom?”
“Practical warning.”
“Those are my favorite kind.”
She starts to turn, then pauses. “I’m Kara, by the way.”
Kara.
The name hits the same locked door in my brain. Still no full picture.
“Cole,” I say.
Her smile returns, smaller this time, but real. “Nice to meet you, Cole.”
“Likewise, Kara.”
She walks back toward the dune path with her shells cupped in one hand, flip-flops sinking slightly into the damp sand. I watch longer than I should. After she’s gone, the morning feels different.
I stand there with the rod in my hand and the surf around my ankles, listening to the water drag sand back into itself.
A man like me knows the feel of something out of place.
It’s not magic or paranoia. That feeling is rooted in pattern recognition built over years of paying attention when failure costs more than pride.
That woman is afraid, and she is trying very hard not to be.
My phone vibrates in the dry bag clipped near my gear. I let the first buzz go because whatever it is can wait thirty seconds. Then it buzzes again.
Sloane Archer.
I pull the phone free and answer. “Navarro.”
“Morning,” he says. “You on-island?”
“I’m standing in the surf. How can I help?”
There’s a pause, just long enough to shift my attention fully from the water to his voice.
Sloane doesn’t waste words, and he doesn’t call before seven unless something needs handling.
Former Coast Guard Investigative Service.
Current owner of Sunbreak Security. Calm as a locked door and twice as hard to get through when she decides something matters.
“We got a referral from Sentinel Protective out of Orlando,” he says. “Rafi took the intake twenty minutes ago and flagged it for me.”
The name sharpens my focus. Sentinel Protective handles people with money, visibility, and problems they don’t want splashed across headlines.
“What kind of referral?”
“High-profile client relocated to the island after a residential break-in. She arrived yesterday. Staying at The Sandpiper.”
My gaze moves automatically toward the dune path.
“Kara,” I say before I think better of it.
“You know her?”
“Met her five minutes ago.”
“That was coincidental … and efficient.”
“She walked onto the beach. I was fishing.”
“Right.” His tone loses the dry edge. “Kara Stone. Celebrity chef. Streaming shows, cookbooks, brand partnerships. Her Orlando house was broken into two nights ago. No forced entry. Main alarm system compromised. Secondary fail-over triggered and brought Sentinel in. Police responded.”
My grip tightens around the phone.
“What was taken?”
“One chef’s knife that apparently matters to her. Expensive. Engraved. More concerning, personal items were disturbed. Bedroom closet. Undergarments. Private photographs.”
That's the missing piece I didn’t want. I look toward The Sandpiper again. The cottage sits snug behind the dunes, hidden from this angle except for the roofline and the top edge of the screened porch.
“She alone?” I ask.
“As far as we know.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not smart.”
“I hear you.”
“No, Sloane, I don’t think you do. If someone bypassed a high-end security system and went through her personal things, this isn’t a nervous celebrity needing a beach reset.”
“I know exactly what it sounds like,” he says, and there’s steel under the calm now. “That’s why I’m calling you.”
I drag a hand over the back of my neck, looking down the empty stretch of beach.
“Does she know you’re involved?”
“Sentinel requested local awareness and gave us permission to contact if the situation escalates. She has not requested a personal protection detail. Not yet.”
“Not yet,” I repeat.
“Rafi is pulling property access records and checking whether The Sandpiper has any open maintenance orders. I’m contacting Marianne, the owner, to confirm who had legitimate access before Kara arrived.”
Good. That’s why Sloane is good. He starts where the paper trail lives and works outward until people start lying.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, though I already know.
“For now, eyes open. You’re closer to that stretch than anyone else. I trust you know what wrong looks like before it introduces itself. If Kara calls the sheriff or us, I may ask you to step in.”
I think of the red polish on her fingernails, the way she smiled when she insulted my grilling, the quick scan toward the dunes she tried to hide. Then I think of a missing knife.
“I’m available,” I say.
Sloane hears whatever is in my voice because he doesn’t joke this time.
“Good. And Cole?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s not a client yet.”
My gaze stays on the dune path long after Kara has disappeared from sight. But my body has already shifted into the state it recognizes best … alert, focused, and ready.
Sloane exhales softly, which is as close as he gets to commentary. “Keep me posted.”
The call ends, but I hold the phone for another moment while the water rushes in, curling white around my feet before sliding back.
The sun is higher now, warming my shoulders, lighting the pretty face of Sunbreak Harbor until it looks innocent to anyone who doesn’t know better.
I know better. I reel in my line and start packing my gear. My peaceful downtime from assignments can wait.