4. Chapter 4 #3
Sheriff Vaughn straightens, brushing sand from his hands. “I’m going to take a quick look around the exterior, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
I follow him even though staying inside would probably be more dignified. He checks windows, stairs, the outdoor shower, the under-house area, and the stretch where the dune path begins. The whole time, he asks simple questions without making me feel foolish.
What happened in Orlando?
Was anything taken?
Did the person leave a note?
Do I have copies of the police report?
Did the missing knife have sentimental value?
That question catches me off guard.
“It was mine,” I say. “My favorite knife.”
“So … yes?”
I look at him. He doesn’t smile. The wind moves between us, warm and salty.
“Yes,” I admit. “I guess so.”
He writes something down. By the time we return to the porch, I feel both calmer and more embarrassed, which is a combination I dislike intensely.
“I know this probably sounds like I’m overreacting,” I say.
“What it sounds like,” he says, “is that someone broke into your home yesterday, touched private belongings, took an item personal to you, and now you’re alone in a rental house trying to decide whether every unfamiliar sound is a threat.”
My throat tightens.
“That’s unfortunately accurate.”
“Then I’d rather you call us over a storage door than talk yourself out of calling when something genuinely feels wrong.”
I blink at him, caught off guard by the kindness.
“Thank you.”
He gives a brief nod. “For now, I don’t see evidence of forced entry into the cottage. The storage door could have been left unlatched. Footprint could belong to maintenance, cleaning crew, previous guest, or someone who cut beneath the house to reach the beach path.”
“So it really could be nothing.”
“It could.”
“But you don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not convinced either way.”
That is somehow worse than a lie meant to comfort me.
Sheriff Vaughn pulls a card from his pocket and hands it to me. “Call the office if anything else happens. And if you feel unsafe, don’t worry about whether it sounds silly.”
I take the card carefully.
“Okay.”
He turns to leave, then pauses near the stairs and looks back at me. “One more thing, Ms. Stone.”
“Yes?”
“Try not to stay too isolated while you’re here. Sunbreak Harbor is safe, but safe doesn’t mean you should make yourself easy to corner.”
Easy to corner. The words follow me long after his SUV backs out of the driveway.
I lock the door after he leaves, then stand in the bright kitchen listening to the ocean, the gulls, the soft shift of the cottage around me.
Safe. Not safe. Nothing, but maybe something. My phone buzzes on the kitchen island. It’s Vanessa. I stare at her name for a second longer than usual before answering.
“Please tell me you are lying on the beach and not working,” she says.
I look toward the locked front door.
“I had to call the sheriff.”
“What?” she says, voice sharpening with concern. “Why? What happened?”
I tell her about the storage door, the footprint, and Sheriff Vaughn. Vanessa listens in perfect silence.
“Oh, honey. You’re still rattled. That’s all.”
“I don’t know. The sheriff didn’t act like I was crazy.”
“Of course he didn’t. He’s a small-town sheriff with a celebrity guest. He’s going to be careful.” Her voice softens again, warm and coaxing. “Kara, your nervous system is fried. You went through something horrible. Don’t let fear steal the peace you went there to find.”
I close my eyes because I want so badly for that to be true.
“I know.”
“Make tea. Sit on that gorgeous porch. Watch the water. And for the love of butter, stop checking every shadow.”
The phrase is so Vanessa that a small laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“There she is,” Vanessa says gently. “My girl.”
My girl. The words should comfort me. They do … mostly.
After we hang up, I make tea because she told me. Apparently, I'm easier to manage than I want to admit. I carry it to the screened porch and sit facing the dunes while late afternoon light turns the sea oats gold. The world looks peaceful again.
I sip my tea and tell myself the sheriff is right. I should call if something feels wrong, but that doesn’t mean everything is wrong. I am allowed to be careful without becoming paranoid. I am allowed to be shaken without surrendering the next two weeks of my life to fear.
A breeze moves over the porch. The dunes whisper. Somewhere beneath the cottage, wood creaks softly as the heat settles.
My fingers tighten around the mug, but I don’t get up. Not this time. I sit there until the sun begins to lower, until the light softens, until the line between water and sky turns hazy and gold.
Then my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number. For one second, I think it’s the sheriff’s office. But there is no name. No contact. Just the number and a single image loading slowly on the screen.
When it appears, my blood goes cold.
It’s my knife. My missing chef’s knife. The expensive Japanese one engraved with my initials. The one that disappeared from my kitchen in Orlando.
It’s lying across a white cutting board, the blade angled just enough to catch the light. Beside it, written in what looks like tomato sauce, are two words.
Miss You.
The cottage goes silent around me. The knife is still in their possession. And they’ve just proven they know exactly how to reach me.