6. Chapter 6
Kara
Iwant to argue with Cole. Afterall, being instructed by a man I met on a beach this morning should annoy me. In this situation, it doesn’t.
“Alright,” I say.
His gaze holds mine for one moment longer than necessary. “Good.”
Cole and Sheriff Vaughn quickly move out into the evening. The dedication to my safety gives me partial relief as some primitive part of me relaxes.
Sloane turns the tablet toward me. “I’m going to ask you a few more questions while they check outside. Some may feel repetitive.”
“Okay.”
“Have you received any strange messages before this? Email, direct messages, gifts, letters, comments from followers that felt too personal?”
“I get odd comments sometimes. Anyone with an online presence does. But nothing like this.”
“Any recent conflict? Former employee? Former romantic partner? Competitor? Someone upset by a business decision?”
The word competitor touches something in my mind, but not with suspicion. With guilt.
Vanessa in her restaurant office this morning. Vanessa’s tired eyes behind the jokes. Vanessa still grinding while I stare at the ocean. Vanessa saying I needed this break before the break-in, as if she could see me more clearly than I could see myself.
“No,” I say. “Nothing serious.”
Sloane’s gaze remains on me.
“Kara,” he says, using my first name now. “People often decide what counts as serious based on what seems reasonable to them. Unfortunately, the person creating the problem may not be reasonable.”
I look down twirling my fingers together.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “There are always people who want something. Introductions. Endorsements. Money. Help getting a show. A table at a restaurant. A quote for a product. But that’s normal in my world.”
“Normal doesn’t mean irrelevant.”
I nod slowly. My phone buzzes where it sits on the island. I flinch so hard my hip bumps the counter.
Sloane looks down first.
“Vanessa,” he says.
The name sounds different in his mouth. Neutral. Stripped of history. I reach for the phone, then stop. “She’s been trying to reach me.”
“You don’t have to answer right now.”
“She’ll worry.”
Sloane doesn’t say anything, but I feel scrutinized. No, my whole life and every conversation I’ve had with anyone is beginning to be suspect.
I look at the screen. Vanessa’s text is short.
Please call me. I’m worried.
Inside, I feel an obligation to contact her. Vanessa is probably worried. She’s my most caring friend and always there for me. I should message back. But I want to show Sloane I have some measure of self-control.
Outside, a beam of light moves across the lower edge of the front window. Cole’s flashlight, maybe. Or Sheriff Vaughn’s. Through the curtain gap, I see shadows shift beneath the cottage, and my heart immediately begins beating faster.
Sloane steps between me and the window without making a production of it. His silent movement is protective. Sunbreak Security is not a cute local firm with matching polo shirts and a clever lighthouse logo. These people are serious about caring for their clients.
Still, all of my senses are on this kind of hair-trigger heightened alert … with everything. I know Cole’s back in the beach cottage before I see him.
As soon as I do see him, I’m scanning for his impressions of anything found outside. His expression tells me nothing. And that tells me enough.
Sheriff Vaughn follows, brushing sand from the side of his boot.
“Well?” Sloane asks.
“No sign of forced entry,” Cole says. “Storage latch works. No fresh damage to windows or doors. Footprint under the house is too degraded now to be useful, but there are several partials near the dune path. Could be beach traffic or maintenance. It could also be someone watching the property.”
Sheriff Vaughn nods. “We’ll increase patrols on this road and along the beach access tonight. I’ll also have dispatch pull any nearby calls or reports from the past twenty-four hours.”
Sloane taps something into his tablet. “Rafi is checking rental access, vendors, maintenance records, and the number that sent the photo. We’ll also coordinate with Sentinel and Orlando PD for the original incident.”
I look between them, following pieces but not all of it. “So what happens now?”
There is the smallest silence — the kind where you know someone is trying to figure out how to break some news to you.
Sloane faces me fully. “Now we talk about personal protection.”
My stomach tightens. “A bodyguard. I don’t want to turn this into a bigger thing than it is.”
“Kara,” Sheriff Vaughn says gently, “someone broke into your home, took a personal item, and is now using that item to contact you directly after you relocated.”
My gaze drops to the island. Right, that’s true.
Sloane’s voice remains even. “My recommendation is a temporary detail while we assess the threat. Forty-eight hours to start. You don’t have to make permanent decisions tonight, but I don’t advise staying here alone.”
Alone. That word has changed shape so many times in the past two days I barely recognize it anymore.
“I came here to rest,” I say, and I hate the small crack in my voice. “I came here because my house didn’t feel safe.”
“I know,” Sloane says.
“And now this place doesn’t either.”
Cole steps closer, stopping on the opposite side of the island. “The place isn’t the problem.”
I look up at him.
“The pattern is,” he says.
My throat tightens. “What does that mean?”
“It means this person is using gaps. Distance between Orlando and here. Time between incidents. The parts of your life where people assume nothing serious is happening yet.” His gaze stays on mine. “We close the gaps.”
Sloane leans a palm lightly against the counter. “Cole works close protection contracts through us when we need someone with his background. He knows this island, he knows the water, and he knows how to keep a situation quiet when quiet matters.”
My eyes glance back at Cole. Former military. It is suddenly obvious in a way it wasn’t this morning. The way he stands and seems on-guard, always scanning. Calm sits on him like discipline, not personality.
“You were fishing,” I say.
“I was.”
“And now you’re…” I gesture vaguely because my brain refuses to supply the right word.
“Available,” he says.
Sheriff Vaughn clears his throat, and I realize the room has gone still around us in a way that makes my face warm.
Sloane, bless him, continues as if nothing happened. “If you agree, Cole stays close. He assesses vulnerabilities, coordinates with us, and remains with you when you leave the property.”
“Stays close, how close?” I ask.
Cole answers before anyone else can. “Within reach when we’re in public. Within hearing distance when we’re not.”
That is a very specific answer. My pulse notices.
“So, not hovering.”
“I don’t hover.”
Sloane gives him a look. He ignores it.
I fold my arms tightly, then immediately unfold them because I do not want to look defensive. “And tonight?”
“Tonight,” Cole says, “I stay here.”
“With me?”
His expression does not change, but something in his eyes does. “Near you.”
“That distinction is doing a lot of work.”
“It can do more if you need it to.”
I stare at him. He holds my gaze without a trace of apology, but there is no leer in it, no assumption, no casual male satisfaction at making me flustered. Just steadiness. Control. A promise wrapped in restraint.
Sloane cuts in smoothly. “There are other options. We can place a guard outside, increase patrols, or relocate you to another property. But given the unknown number, the stolen knife, the earlier incident under the house, and the fact that your private number is now compromised, Cole inside the cottage is the safest immediate choice.”
Inside the cottage. With the man from the beach. The man who watched me pick up shells and somehow noticed fear I was trying very hard to hide. A laugh rises in me, but it dies before reaching my mouth.
“This is insane.”
“No,” Sloane says. “It’s inconvenient. There’s a difference.”
Sheriff Vaughn’s voice softens. “You’re still in control here, Ms. Stone. We’re making recommendations. You decide.”
But control is a strange thing when every option exists because someone else has already taken too much of it away. I look at the darkened porch curtains, then the phone face down on the counter, then Cole.
He says nothing, and I appreciate his hands-off style. He doesn’t push, just waits.
“What if I say no?” I ask him.
“Then I sit in my truck outside until Sloane tells me to stop or you call someone else.”
My eyebrows lift. “That sounds like not taking no for an answer.”
“That sounds like respecting your answer and making my own decision about where I park.”
Sloane sighs. “Cole.”
“What?”
A tiny, absurd laugh slips out of me. Everyone looks at me again.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pressing my fingers briefly over my mouth. “It’s been a strange few days.”
Cole’s eyes soften. I can’t look at that softness for long.
“Forty-eight hours,” I say finally.
Sloane nods once. “Forty-eight hours. We reassess after that.”