5. Chapter 5
Kara
For several seconds, I don’t move or make a sound. Everything narrows down to the phone in my hand and the image glowing on the screen. Someone has my knife. They want me to be afraid. And frankly, I am.
I try to reason with myself. Whoever this is doesn’t know where I am now. I’m safe … I think. There was the storage room door open and the footprint. Probably coincidence. But what if it isn’t? The thought and image on my phone sends absolute chills through me.
My thumb shifts before I fully decide what to do.
Sheriff Vaughn.
I call the number on his card with shaking hands. The phone rings once. Twice.
“Vaughn.”
His voice is calm, and that almost makes me feel silly. But I can’t help it.
“It’s Kara Stone,” I say, but my voice comes out thin and strange. “I just got a text.”
“What kind of text?”
“A photo.” I swallow, but my throat feels lined with sand. “Of my knife. The one taken from my house.”
He’s silent for about four seconds. This is no longer a storage door.
“Are you inside the beach cottage?”
“Yes.”
“Doors locked?”
“Yes.”
“Check them again.”
I move quickly, checking the front door, then the sliding doors to the screened porch. Both are locked. The windows are closed. The cottage suddenly feels too full of glass. Add the pale curtains and pretty sight lines to a quick list forming in my mind of ways the outside world might reach in.
“They’re locked.”
“Good. Do not respond to the text. Do not delete it. Forward it to the number I’m about to give you, then put your phone on the charger if you can. I’m on my way, and I’m looping in Sunbreak Security.”
“Okay.”
“I’m also going to ask you to stay away from the windows until we get there.”
My gaze lifts toward the porch doors, toward the curtains shifting softly in the air-conditioning.
“Do you think someone is outside?”
“I don’t know,” he says, which is both better and worse than pretending. “But until I know more, I’d like you away from the glass.”
I do exactly what he says. I forward the image to the number he gives me. Nausea rises hot and sudden in my throat. Then I set the phone on the island, step back, and press one hand to my stomach.
The screen lights up almost immediately. It’s Vanessa. Her name fills the phone, bright and familiar, a video call this time. For one second, I want to answer because she is the person I call when the world stops making sense.
But someone just sent me a picture of my stolen knife with a creepy message like a twisted love note. Before I can deliberate any longer, her call moves to voice mail. The screen goes dark.
Immediately, a text appears.
Everything okay? Call me when you can.
My breath stutters as I stare at it. Of course she’s checking on me. She checks on me constantly. That’s what Vanessa does. She worries loudly and often, and with the persistence of someone who has appointed herself emotional supervisor of everyone she loves.
It takes less than ten minutes for headlights to sweep across the front windows.
I look through the peephole first. Sheriff Vaughn stands on the landing, one hand near his belt but not on his weapon.
Behind him, two more vehicles sit in the drive, one marked sheriff’s office and one dark SUV with a discreet lighthouse emblem on the side.
I open the door with the chain still latched. Sheriff Vaughn’s gaze moves over my face, then past me into the cottage.
“You okay?”
The question is impossible to answer, so I nod.
He does not pretend to believe me. “May I come in?”
I close the door, unhook the chain, and open it wider.
He steps inside first. Behind him comes an older man.
He’s tall and composed, with long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail.
His eyes seem to register everything. He’s wearing navy trousers, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled, and a sidearm at his hip.
“Kara Stone?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Sloane Archer. Sunbreak Security.”
His handshake is firm and grounding. He doesn’t soften his voice in pity. He looks at me as if I’m a person standing in the middle of a problem.
“Sentinel in Orlando contacted us this morning,” he says. “They asked for local coordination while your home security situation is being taken care of. I’m sorry this escalated before we had a chance to introduce ourselves properly.”
Escalated. A clean word for someone sending me a picture of the knife they stole from my house.
Another man steps into the doorway behind him and my pulse trips for an entirely different reason.
It's Cole. The fisherman on the beach. Only now he’s not barefoot in the surf with a fly rod in hand.
He is wearing dark pants, a fitted black T-shirt, and an expression that makes him look less like a man who jokes about grilling and more like someone who has walked into danger so many times he recognizes the shape of it before anyone else does.
His blue eyes find mine immediately. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me or even confused about it.
“Cole?” I say before I can stop myself.
Something unreadable crosses his face.
“Kara.”
Sheriff Vaughn glances between us. “You two met?”
“This morning,” Cole says. “On the beach.”
“The ocean philosopher,” I hear myself say, because terror has apparently damaged my ability to sound normal.
Sloane’s brow lifts by a fraction. Cole does not smile, but his eyes warm just enough to make my chest squeeze.
“Fly fisherman.”
The exchange should feel ridiculous under the circumstances, and maybe it does. But for one tiny second, the fear takes a backseat. Then Sloane sets a slim tablet on the island and brings us back.
“May I see your phone?”
He studies the message without changing expression, then taps the screen a few times. “Unknown number. No accompanying text besides the image?”
“No.”
“Did you respond?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Sheriff Vaughn stands beside her, looking at the photo now. His jaw tightens, but only slightly. “That’s definitely the knife?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s mine.”
“How sure are you?”
“One hundred percent.” My voice cracks with certainty. “It has my initials engraved near the handle. You can see them if you zoom in.”
Sloane enlarges the image, and there they are.
K.S.
My name reduced to two letters on a blade in the hands of someone who should never have touched it.
Cole has not moved from the doorway. He stands with his body angled so he can see me, the front windows, and the porch doors without looking like he is trying to do all three at once.
“What kind of surface is it on?” he asks.
Sloane zooms out again. “White cutting board. Commercial grade, maybe. Could be residential. Could be any kitchen.”
“Lighting?”
“Overhead. Cool white. Not enough background to identify location.”
“Tomato sauce?” Sheriff Vaughn asks.
I stare at the red words on the screen.
Miss You.
“Probably,” I say. “Could be marinara. Could be tomato paste thinned with water. It has that gloss.”
The fact that my brain can identify probable sauce texture while I am terrified makes me want to laugh in a way that feels totally crazy.
Sloane’s gaze lifts to me. “Who has this number?”
“Friends. Family. My assistant. My publicist. Some business contacts. Too many people, probably.”
“Any fan-facing number? Brand contact? Newsletter? Public booking page?”
“No. Those all go through team emails or business lines.”
Sloane makes a note.
“Does that matter?” I ask.
“Everything matters until we can eliminate it.”
Sloane’s answer is honest, but not comforting.
Cole finally steps farther into the room. “Walk us through exactly what happened before the text came in.”
I take them through everything. The sheriff’s visit. The storage door and footprint. Talking to Vanessa. Had tea. Heard noises while on the porch. Tried to convince myself not to be paranoid. Yada, yada, yada.
I tell it as plainly as I can, though my voice catches once when I mention how normal everything had felt right before the phone buzzed.
Cole doesn’t interrupt. That is somehow more unnerving than if he did.
He stands near the end of the island with his arms relaxed at his sides, but nothing about him seems casual.
His body is still in a way that feels ready, as if every muscle has agreed to wait until needed.
I remember his hands on the flyrod this morning, strong and competent.
“Who knew you were here?” Sloane asks.
I answer the same way I answered Sheriff Vaughn earlier, but this time it feels more serious.
“Vanessa. My assistant, Talia. My publicist. Marianne, the owner. Sentinel Protective. I guess whoever handles the rental booking.”
“You said Vanessa is the friend who arranged the rental connection?”
“Yes. One of her wine suppliers knows Marianne.”
Sloane makes another note.
My stomach churns uncomfortably. “Do you think that matters?”
“Right now, I think your travel plans may not have stayed as contained as we’d like.”
“Vanessa wouldn’t tell anyone.”
“I’m not saying she would.”
But the words scrape anyway. Vanessa would not take a chance.
The thought arrives instantly, defensive and automatic. Vanessa is the one who made me leave. She’s my friend, reminding me to breathe. Vanessa is the one who sent me here because I couldn’t stand in my kitchen without thinking about someone else’s hands on my things.
Sloane’s voice remains even. “This photo doesn’t prove the person who broke into your house is on the island, but it proves they’re still engaged. They have an item taken from your home. They have your private number. And they chose to send the image today, after you relocated.”
“To scare me.”
“Yes, probably.”
Another honest answer.
My fingers curl against my palm.
Sheriff Vaughn looks at Sloane. “Can your people run the number?”
“Rafi is already on it.” He glances at his tablet. “Likely burner or spoofed, but we’ll try. I also have him pulling property access records, maintenance logs, and vendor contacts for The Sandpiper.”
“I can send the Orlando report number,” I offer.
“Please.”
Cole looks toward the porch doors. “I’m checking the exterior.”
“No,” I say instantly.
The word comes out sharper than I intended.
Everyone looks at me.
Heat rushes up my throat. “I’m sorry. I just… I don’t like the idea of anyone going outside right now.”
Cole’s gaze settles on me, steady and direct. “That’s exactly why someone needs to.”
“That is not as reassuring as you probably think it is.”
“Wasn’t meant to be reassuring.”
“Cole,” Sloane says.
“I’ll take Eli.”
Sheriff Vaughn nods. “We’ll do a sweep. Under the house, dune path, exterior doors and windows.”
Sloane studies them for half a second, then gives one brief nod.
“No solo hero nonsense.”
“Never,” Cole says.
His look says he absolutely does not believe him. Before he leaves, Cole steps closer to me, not crowding or touching, just lowering his voice enough that it feels separate from the others.
“Stay with Sloane. Keep away from the windows.”