Chapter 13
We drove on through Carolina Bay, hands linked across the console, keeping watch for the VW bus and the man who’d tried to hurt me. Thanks to Sheriff Sullivan, we also had specific addresses to swing by. Unfortunately, the ones we checked first didn’t have a VW bus in sight.
Our next stop was Alverez Marina, where Marissa’s father kept a small office overlooking the boat slips.
“Knox Hawthorne!” Mr. Alverez emerged from the office, weathered face breaking into a broad smile. “Heard you were back. Staying this time, I hope?” His gaze slid to our joined hands, and his smile widened. “And who’s this lovely young lady?”
“This is Sloane Mercer,” Knox said, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gesture that felt automatic now. “My girlfriend.”
The word sent a little thrill through me, even knowing it was for show.
“Mercer?” Mr. Alverez’s bushy eyebrows rose. “As in the big house on the sound?”
Here we go, I thought. The judgment. The assumptions.
But Mr. Alverez surprised me. “Marissa speaks very highly of you, Ms. Mercer. Says you’ve been nothing but kind to her and that you truly care about this island.” He extended his hand. “Welcome to the family. Any girl who makes Knox smile like that is all right in my book.”
Knox was smiling? I glanced at him and caught the slight upward curve of his lips, the softness in his eyes as he looked at me.
“Thank you,” I managed, shaking Mr. Alverez’s dimpled hand.
We showed him photos of the VW bus, but he hadn’t seen it around the marina. As we turned to leave, he called after us, “You two make a handsome couple. Claire would’ve been thrilled, Knox. Just thrilled.”
Back in the Jeep, I noticed Knox’s jaw working, emotion flickering across his face.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
“Yeah.” He squeezed my hand. “He’s right, you know? Mom would’ve been happy to see me dating.”
Our third stop was the island’s only hardware store, where Knox hoped the owner might remember anyone purchasing unusual supplies. The bell above the door announced our entrance, and an older woman looked up from behind the counter.
“Knox Hawthorne, as I live and breathe!” She came around the counter, pulling Knox into a hug despite his considerable height advantage. “Margaret from the Island Shakes told me you were back. Said you’d found yourself a girl too.” Her sharp eyes fixed on me with undisguised interest. “This her?”
“Mrs. Chase, this is Sloane.”
“Sloane Mercer,” Mrs. Chase said, not a question. “Heard about you. Heard about what happened at that party too.” Her expression sobered. “That must’ve been terrifying, honey.”
“Knox was there,” I said. “I was lucky.”
“Luck nothing. You fought back, from what I hear.” Mrs. Chase patted my hand. “And Claire raised her boy right. Taught him to protect what matters.” She winked at Knox. “Smart man, keeping this one close.”
As we left the store, unsuccessful in our VW bus search but thoroughly established as a couple in the local gossip network, Knox shook his head.
“Welcome to island life,” he said. “News of our new romance is making the rounds at warp speed.”
“Mission accomplished then,” I said, but my hand stayed firmly in his.
If I held on a little tighter than strictly necessary, if my pulse beat a little faster every time Knox looked at me, and if the fake relationship was already beginning to feel dangerously real to my heart…well, that was a problem for another day.
Knox
I turned my key in the lock at Island Adventures that night, and the familiar creak of the door sent a wave of emotion through my chest. How many times had I walked through this entrance as a kid?
Hundreds. Thousands. The building smelled like my childhood.
Salt, sunscreen, and the weathered boards that held it all together.
But everything was different now. My mother’s ghost stocked the shelves and spoke to customers.
She watched through the back window as families walked the dock to admire the sound.
Her smile would live here forever, and every time I entered the front door, it became harder to think about leaving. How could I sell my mother’s memory?
“You okay?” Sloane asked softly, her hand finding my arm.
We’d had a long day. The morning out, looking for signs of the VW bus. The afternoon in, watching news clips from the hikers’ disappearances, searching for a repeated face in each crowd.
When we’d both become too restless to sit at home until dawn, we decided on a change of scenery as we researched. I just hadn’t expected the surge of emotion upon entering this place. I’d been fine here before.
Sloane’s touch grounded me, pulling me back from the grief threatening to swallow me whole.
“Yeah. It’s just strange being here without her.”
Sloane squeezed my arm gently, then released me.
She understood. She’d lost Claire too, in her own way.
The friendship they’d formed over hiking and environmental conservation, over shared glasses of sweet tea and conversations about protecting the island they both loved was real and abiding.
Sloane spoke of my mom the way people spoke about those they cherished.
I flipped on the lights, and the store came to life.
Bright yellow kayaks hung from the ceiling.
Paddleboards leaned against the walls. My gaze fixed on the worn wooden countertop where my mother had greeted thousands of customers over the years, learning their names, remembering their stories, making everyone feel welcome.
And where my initials were still carved into the wood, right next to hers.
“Where should we start?” Sloane asked, moving deeper into the shop. She looked beautiful and completely at ease here. Like someone who belonged in this space.
Like she belonged with me.
I shoved that thought away and crossed to the counter.
“Let’s start with her customer and vendor logs.
Everyone who rented equipment, bought supplies, or asked for trail recommendations would be written there.
” I pulled out a stack of leather-bound journals from beneath the register.
“It’s a long shot, but maybe we’ll find a man’s name listed near each of the missing hikers’ names. ”
We settled side by side on stools behind the counter, close enough that I could smell her perfume, something floral and clean. Close enough that every time she shifted, her shoulder brushed my arm, sending sparks of awareness through me.
Focus, Hawthorne. You’re here to find answers.
I pulled a box of business files from beneath the counter.
Vendor contracts, supply orders, insurance documents.
The mundane backbone of the shop Mom had loved.
I opened a folder labeled “Vendors - Active” and flipped through the pages.
Sullivan’s Seafood. Alverez Marina for kayak purchases.
A printing company in Nags Head for brochures.
Along with dozens more. The second folder was far lighter and marked: “Vendors - Terminated.” I opened it slowly. Only one contract lay inside.
Lehman & Son – Excursion Supplies and Trail Guides Contract Initiated: April, nearly twelve years ago. Contract Terminated: this January. More than a decade of business, ended just a few months before Mom died.
“Look at this.” I tipped the paper in Sloane’s direction.
The letterhead at the top read “Lehman & Son – Excursion Supplies and Trail Guides.” The termination line held a single name. Walter Lehman.
“Is this a family business?” Sloane asked.
I shrugged. “Could’ve been.” I fished my phone from my pocket. “Either way, this guy was working with Mom for a long time, then she fired him. That has to be important.”
“Do you think there’s a connection?”
“I don’t know. But I want to talk to this Walter Lehman.”
Sloane leaned closer, reading over my shoulder as I photographed the contract with my phone. “4847 Maritime Forest Road. Do you know it?”
“No, but it’s local.”
“What’s the note say?”
Mom’s handwriting in the margin was sharp and decisive. “Concerning behavior. Inappropriate questions about female customers. No further contact.”
The air in the shop felt suddenly colder. This wasn’t just a terminated business relationship. This was a lead.
Sloane’s eyes met mine. She grabbed the corner of the paper. “Did she write anything else?”
I checked the back of the paper and the box beneath the file. “No. Just this.”
Sloane rubbed goosebumps from her arms as she dug back into the files.
“I’m looking at the dates around the women’s disappearances.
Rebecca disappeared two years ago in June,” Sloane said, flipping through the pages.
“Your mom noted she visited on the fourteenth. Was anything else of significance happening that weekend?”
I searched for local events at that time on my phone. “The annual fishing tournament. It’s a big deal. Brings in a lot of tourists. Runs the whole second week of June.”
“Sarah Lake disappeared in August last year.” Sloane was already moving to another journal. “She visited your mom on the twenty-first.”
I searched again. “That was the weekend of the kite festival. Another major tourist draw.”
Sloane looked up from the journal, her green eyes sharp with understanding. “And Jessica Hammond?”
“Let me check.” I scrolled through my search results.
“That was the summer concert series.” Sloane’s eyes widened. “I was there. It kicked off that Friday and went all weekend. Traffic was madness.”
“They all came during big events.”
“When the island was crowded, and it would be harder for an individual to stand out.” Sloane’s voice was quiet, controlled, but I could hear the thread of anger beneath it.
“Perfect hunting ground for a predator.” My muscles flexed. “Easy to blend in with the tourists, pick a target, follow them to isolated trails.”
“But the women all came here first. To your mom’s shop.” Sloane turned to face me fully, and we were suddenly very close. “Could he have a connection to this place?”