9. Chapter 9
Kara
By the time I end the video call with Dr. Vale, I feel like someone has taken a small spoon and scraped around the inside of my chest in a careful, but not cruel way.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a minute with my laptop closed beside me and the ocean murmuring beyond the walls.
Therapy is strange that way. Nothing physical happens.
No one lays a hand on you. No one raises their voice.
Yet somehow, forty minutes of calm questions can leave a person feeling like she has run miles barefoot over broken shells.
Dr. Vale looked exactly the same as he did the last time I saw him. Silver at the temples. Blue shirt. Thoughtful eyes. Gentle voice that gives nothing away unless he wants it to. He did not make me feel foolish for calling. He did not say anxiety like it was a flaw. He did not tell me to be brave.
He asked what happened and what I felt. Then, in the most unfair therapist trick of all time, he waited until I answered honestly. I rub both hands over my face and let out a slow breath.
My professional homework, apparently, is not to hide inside The Sandpiper all day memorizing every sound the cottage makes. Avoidance, Dr. Vale reminded me, can feel like safety while slowly shrinking the world. I hate how reasonable that sounds. A soft knock comes at the bedroom door.
“Kara?” Cole’s voice comes through the wood. “You okay?”
The answer is complicated.
“Yes,” I say, then stand because saying it while sitting on the edge of the bed feels like a lie. “I’m done.”
I open the door and find him in the hall, tall and broad, almost taking up too much space. He has changed into a dark gray shirt and cargo pants, his hair slightly damp like he splashed water on his face or took the fastest shower known to mankind. He smells faintly of soap and clean male skin.
His gaze moves over my face once, not intrusive, just assessing. “Rough call?”
“Productive,” I say.
“That sounds like yes.”
“It is therapist code for emotional excavation.”
His mouth almost curves. “Noted.”
I step into the hall and close the bedroom door behind me.
For some reason, I feel guilty about having shut him out, even though I needed the privacy and he respected it.
That’s another thing Dr. Vale and I briefly discussed.
Boundaries. How fear makes them feel selfish when they are actually necessary.
“I’m sorry if that was awkward,” I say.
“Privacy isn’t awkward.”
“Standing outside while your temporary client talks to a therapist probably isn’t in the brochure.”
“There’s no brochure.”
“There should be. ‘Congratulations, you’ve been assigned a celebrity chef with a missing knife and anxiety homework.’”
His eyes warm slightly. “Could use a better title.”
“I’ll workshop it.”
I didn’t expect one almost-smile to do that much.
Cole doesn’t ask what Dr. Vale said. He doesn’t pry, doesn’t tilt his head in that way people do when they’re pretending not to fish for details. He simply waits, and somehow that makes it easier to offer something voluntarily.
“He thinks I need to get out of the cottage,” I say. “Fresh air. Low-pressure normal activity. Something that reminds my brain the world is bigger than locked doors and strange texts.”
“I agree.”
“That was fast.”
“I agreed before your therapist said it.”
“You did?”
“You being isolated here makes my job harder.”
“So where does a person go in Sunbreak Harbor when she’s supposed to enjoy sights but remain difficult to stab with her own knife?”
Cole’s face settles back into business, though not entirely. “The Beacon first.”
“The lighthouse?”
“Sunbreak Security headquarters. Sloane wants you to see where we’re coordinating from. It may help you feel more secure. At least, we hope it does.”
“And after that?”
“After The Beacon, we go to The Salty Spoon.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Breakfast joint. Usually a line out the door.”
“Locals like it?”
“Locals complain about the line and stand in it anyway.”
“Excellent endorsement.”
“I’ll drive.”
The way he says it is calm, not controlling, but still very decided. I should argue on principle. Considering my circumstances, I don’t.
Cole’s vehicle is a black SUV that looks less like a personal car and more like something chosen by a man who wants reliability, visibility, and enough cargo space for things I probably don’t want to know about.
The inside is clean and practical. No fast-food wrappers.
No random clutter. Sunglasses clipped to the visor.
A first aid kit visible in the back. A cooler.
A folded towel. A ball cap with a faded Navy emblem tucked near the console.
He opens the passenger door for me, and I almost make a joke about chivalry until I realize his attention is already moving past me, over the road, the neighboring cottages, the dune path.
His movements and positioning are not as simple as politeness, much less chivalry. There’s a part of me that wishes I’d met him normally, without being stalked by some unknown crazy person.
I could pretend we’re dating. Because, yes, I would date him in a heartbeat. What’s not to like? He’s protective, brawny and fit, and his eyes get to me each time he glances my way.
Get your head on straight, Kara. Cole is simply working. You’re his current 48 hour assignment.
The drive to The Beacon is short, but Sunbreak Harbor gives me plenty to look at.
Morning has burned brighter now, the island fully awake.
Golf carts buzz past with beach bags strapped to the back.
A man in board shorts walks three dogs of wildly different sizes.
The candy-striped lighthouse rises ahead of us, red and white against an almost painful blue sky.
The scene unfolds with the kind of cheerful charm that should belong on a postcard.
Then we get closer. The Beacon is not just a lighthouse.
It is the lighthouse, yes, restored and gleaming, but attached to it is a renovated boathouse with wide doors facing the marina channel.
A glassed-in upper level overlooks the water, and through the windows I can see movement inside.
People at desks. Screens glowing. Someone crossing with a headset tucked around their neck.
A boat sits ready beneath the boathouse awning, sleek and serious-looking.
“This is Sunbreak Security?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“I was picturing polo shirts and a reception desk with a bowl of peppermints.”
“There may be peppermints.”
“But also boats.”
“Also boats.”
Cole parks near the boathouse entrance, and before I can reach for the handle, he says, “Wait.”
I do. He gets out first, scans the lot, then opens my door. This time I do not mistake it for manners.
Sloane meets us inside near a wall of windows overlooking the water. Beside him stands a man with warm brown skin, sharp eyes, and a tablet tucked beneath one arm like it might be an extra limb.
“Kara,” Sloane says. “Good to see you out of the cottage.”
“My therapist gets partial credit.”
“Then I like him already.”
“This is Rafi Haddad,” he adds. “Our COO.”
Rafi gives me a smile smooth enough to calm a boardroom or talk a city official into approving a permit before lunch. “Ms. Stone. I’m sorry Sunbreak Harbor is showing off its less charming side first.”
“Kara is fine.”
“Then Rafi is fine too.”
He shakes my hand, warm and professional, then gestures toward the glassed-in loft.
“We’re running the number that sent the image, rental access records, vendor logs, and anything Sentinel can get us from Orlando.
I’d love to tell you we have a dramatic answer already, but unfortunately, real investigations are rude enough to take time. ”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
“We specialize in useful honesty,” Sloane says.
Cole makes a low sound beside me. “Debatable.”
Sloane ignores him beautifully.
He gives me a brief tour that is more reassurance than spectacle. Ops loft. Dispatch screens. A rooftop lookout with a sweeping view of the island. A dive locker that smells faintly of rubber, salt, and metal. The attached boathouse where two team members are checking equipment beside the water.
The whole place hums with competence. Nothing feels like panic or drama, simply pure competence.
By the time we step outside again, my mood is lighter.
“I thought seeing it might help,” Cole says as we walk back to the SUV.
“It did.”
He glances down at me. “Good.”
One simple word response. But I feel it anyway.
The Salty Spoon is ten minutes away and already crowded when we arrive. The line stretches down the sidewalk beneath a striped awning, and the smell of bacon, coffee, butter, and fried potatoes reaches me before we even park.
For the first time all morning, my stomach makes a hopeful noise. Inside, the place is loud, bright, and packed with exactly the kind of controlled chaos that makes breakfast restaurants feel like benevolent war zones.
Plates clatter. Servers weave between tables with practiced speed. A wall near the register is covered with mismatched flip-flops hung on hooks beneath a hand-painted sign that reads MISSING SOLES OF SUNbrEAK. I stop in front of it.
“This is either charming or evidence of a town-wide footwear problem.”
“Both.”
A hostess recognizes Cole and greets him like a man who does not come often but is always noticed when he does. She finds us a small table near the back, against a wall, with a clear view of the entrance. I notice that too. Cole notices me noticing.
“Habit,” he says.
“I wasn’t judging.”
“You were a little.”
“I was professionally observing.”
He gives me a look. I smile before I can stop myself.
Over coffee and a plate of lemon-ricotta pancakes I absolutely plan to reverse engineer, I almost feel normal.
Cole orders eggs, fruit, and turkey sausage like a man determined to make breakfast behave.
I threaten to order him a biscuit in self-defense.
He says biscuits are acceptable. I tell him that is the lowest possible praise.
He listens more than he talks, but not in a way that feels empty.
When he does speak, it matters. He tells me the Salty Spoon owner started the flip-flop wall after a drunk groom lost one shoe before his wedding brunch.
I tell him about the time my producer tried to garnish soup with edible flowers that tasted like perfume.
He laughs at that. A real laugh this time that’s deep and resonates right through me.
Halfway through breakfast, a teenage girl near the register notices me. Her eyes widen. She whispers to her mother, who glances over, then immediately tries to pretend she hasn’t.
I know the dance.
“It’s okay,” I say softly to Cole. “I suppose she recognizes me.”
His gaze moves to the girl, then the room, then back to me. “Your call.”
“She’s just excited.”
When the girl approaches with a phone and trembling hands, Cole shifts slightly. Not between us. Not blocking. Just close enough that I feel the line he draws without anyone else seeing it.
“Could I maybe get a picture?” the girl asks. “I love your videos.”
“Of course.”
Cole’s voice is calm beside me. “No location tags until later.”
The girl blinks up at him.
Her mother nods quickly. “Absolutely. No tags.”
He smiles, but there is steel under it. “Appreciate it.”
The picture takes five seconds. The girl leaves glowing. Her mother mouths thank you.
I sit back down, oddly touched and unsettled.
“You did that without making her feel bad,” I say.
“That was the goal.”
“I’m used to managing it myself.”
“I know.”
“But you’re going to do it anyway?”
“When it affects your safety, yes.”
I should bristle. Instead, I look down at my pancakes and feel something inside me loosen that has been clenched for too long.
After breakfast, we step outside into hard sunlight and salt air. The island moves around us, bright and busy, indifferent to private terror. A gull screams from a rooftop. Someone laughs near a golf cart.
For the first time since Orlando, I do not feel safe because nothing can happen. I feel safe because if something does, Cole will already be moving on my behalf. And that realization may be the most dangerous thing that has happened to me all day.