Chapter 19
Knox
Sloane stood by my Jeep the next morning, two travel mugs of coffee in hand and a bag of road snacks tucked under one arm. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail, and she wore dark jeans with a soft blue sweater that made her eyes look like sea glass in the morning light.
Thanks to her initiative and top-tier people skills, we had an appointment on the mainland, to meet the mother of one of the missing hikers.
“Good morning,” she said, handing me one of the mugs. “I figured you’d want caffeine for the drive.”
I accepted the coffee, my fingers brushing hers in the exchange.
Neither of us had mentioned last night. Her nightmare, the almost-kiss, the way we’d shared her bed for a short time.
The air between us was electric with things unsaid, but Sloane’s smile was warm and genuine, as if she’d decided to let it go.
That made one of us.
“Thanks.” I took a sip. Perfect. Black, strong, hot enough to burn. “You didn’t have to make me coffee and pack me snacks.”
“The snacks are for both of us, and I wanted to.” Sloane climbed into the passenger seat looking steadier than she must’ve felt, given our mission. “It’s a two-hour drive to Raleigh. We’ll need sustenance.”
I started the Jeep and pulled out of the driveway. The morning was cool. Perfect hiking weather. Perfect for tourists who had no idea a predator might be watching them, waiting for the right moment.
“I can’t stop thinking about Walter Lehman,” Sloane said as we crossed the bridge off the island.
“The rope?”
“The rope. The property. The way he offered to help you search and seemed so anxious when we saw him at the store.” She shook her head. “That’s all red flags, right?”
“I don’t know.” I glanced in her direction, wishing I had answers. “But I agree. I don’t like how convenient it all is.”
“Is it possible he’s guilty and trying to get close to you?” she asked. “You told him you’re investigating, so if he pretends to help, he can actively lead you away from any evidence, or at least keep tabs on you, so he knows if you get too close.”
I squeezed her hand on the shifter as I merged onto the highway. “I agree that we need to be very careful around Walter Lehman.”
She looked through her window, processing. Long minutes passed before she came back to me. “So what’s our approach today?” She pulled out a notebook and pen. She’d been making lists over breakfast. “What do we ask Mrs. Lake?”
“I think we do our best to keep it simple. She’s been through hell.
” I merged onto Highway 12, the familiar road stretching ahead of us.
“We ask about Sarah’s trip to the island.
Who she talked to, where she went, if she mentioned meeting anyone.
Anything that stuck in her mind. Moms have that sixth sense.
We’ll see if anything about her last conversations with her daughter has stuck with her negatively. ”
Sloane made notes, her handwriting neat and precise. “What if she asks why we’re looking into this? Nash Sullivan’s the sheriff. Why are two random people investigating her daughter’s disappearance?”
“We should tell her the truth. My mother may have been searching for her daughter before she died. I’m trying to finish what she started. And that you were almost taken by someone we suspect might be the same person who took Sarah.”
Sloane looked up from her notebook. “You think knowing I was almost a victim will make her more willing to talk?”
“I think it’ll help her understand we’re not just playing detective. We have a stake in this. A personal reason to want his capture.” I glanced at her, saw the shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide. “You okay with that? With sharing what happened to you?”
“If it helps find answers for Sarah’s family, absolutely.” Sloane set the notebook aside and reached for the bag of snacks. “Want some trail mix? Or I’ve got granola bars, apple slices, and string cheese.”
“You packed for a week-long expedition.”
“I like to be prepared.” She pulled out a granola bar and unwrapped it, breaking off half and offering it to me. “Besides, we might need fuel if we’re going to be playing boyfriend and girlfriend all day.”
The casual mention of our cover story made my hands tighten on the wheel. “About that. We should probably get our story straight. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that kind of thing.”
“We met at your mother’s shop,” Sloane said easily. “I’d been going there for a couple years, so that part is true. We reconnected after she passed, bonded over our shared grief. Started spending time together. Things progressed naturally.”
“How naturally?”
“Naturally enough that we’re exclusive but haven’t said ‘I love you’ yet.
” Sloane’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if she was discussing a business proposal instead of a fake relationship.
“We’re still figuring things out, seeing where it goes.
That gives us flexibility if people ask uncomfortable questions. ”
I had to admire her strategic thinking. “And the night of the attack?”
“You were helping Maggie with catering. Heard me scream, saved my life, and that cemented things between us. We’ve been inseparable since.” Sloane took a bite of her granola bar. “It’s mostly the truth, which makes it easier to remember.”
“Mostly.” I reached across the console and took her hand, the gesture becoming automatic. “We should probably keep practicing this. Make sure it looks natural.”
Sloane’s fingers curled around mine, warm and soft. “Like this?”
“Yeah.” I brought our joined hands to rest on my thigh, trying to ignore how right it felt.
We drove in comfortable silence for a while, hands linked, the ocean giving way to marshland and then pine forests as we headed inland.
Sloane fed me pieces of granola bar and apple slices, and I told her about the time my mother and I had driven this same route to visit her best friend in Charlotte, only to get lost and end up in the wrong city entirely.
“She never could navigate worth a damn,” I said, smiling at the memory. “Refused to use GPS because she said it took the adventure out of traveling. We ended up in Greensboro at two in the morning, and she just laughed and said we’d have a better story this way.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Sloane’s voice was wistful. “I wish I’d known her longer. She was my first friend in Carolina Bay. She was kind and encouraging. Like the mother my mother absolutely refuses to be.” She stopped, swallowing hard.
I squeezed her hand. “She must’ve loved you. Your passion for conservation, your business sense. And she would’ve appreciated how you stood up to your parents about the land trust property.”
“She knew. I just wish I hadn’t failed.”
“You didn’t fail. You tried. That’s what mattered to her. People who gave a damn and actually did something about it.”
“She told me once that I reminded her of you.” Sloane’s smile returned and she rolled her eyes. “She thought we had the same stubborn streak and need to fix things. I took it as the highest compliment, because there was no doubt she adored her baby boy.”
I had to look away, blinking against the sudden burn in my eyes.
We reached our destination just before ten, the city rising around us in glass and steel and bustling humanity. So different from the wild, windswept beauty of the island. I followed the GPS north to a quiet neighborhood, where modest brick homes sat on tree-lined streets.
Mrs. Lake’s house was painted a cheerful yellow, with flower boxes in the windows and a front porch swing. A small garden flourished in the yard. Signs of life continuing despite unimaginable loss.
“You ready for this?” I asked, killing the engine.
Sloane nodded, though her face had gone pale. “Let’s do it.”
We climbed out of the Jeep, and I automatically took her hand as we walked up the front path. Playing the part, I told myself. Maintaining the cover. Not because I needed the contact, or the reminder that she was here, safe and mine to protect.
Mrs. Lake answered on the first knock. She was small, maybe five-foot-two, with dark hair shot through with gray and eyes that held a world of grief. She looked at us with cautious hope, the expression of someone who’d learned not to expect good news but couldn’t quite kill the possibility.
“Mrs. Lake? I’m Knox Hawthorne. We spoke on the phone. This is my girlfriend, Sloane Mercer.”
The word girlfriend felt strange and far too natural on my tongue.
“Come in, please.” Mrs. Lake stepped back, ushering us into a living room that was tidy but lived-in. Photos covered every surface. Sarah as a baby, a teenager, a young woman in a graduation gown. Frozen moments of a life interrupted. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, water?”
“We’re fine, thank you.” Sloane’s voice was gentle, respectful. “We appreciate you taking the time to meet with us.”
We settled on the couch, and Mrs. Lake took the chair across from us, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “You said on the phone that your mother may have been investigating Sarah’s disappearance. Claire Hawthorne from Island Adventures?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I pulled out my phone, showing her photos of my mother’s notebooks and the newspaper clippings. “I found these after she died. She’d been tracking all three disappearances, making notes, trying to find the women, I believe.”
Mrs. Lake leaned forward, studying the photos.
“I met Claire. Sarah rented kayaking equipment from her shop. She was kind and so helpful. When Sarah went missing, she called me. Offered to organize search parties, help however she could.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t know she was still looking.”
“She never stopped.” My voice was rough. “And I’d like to finish what she started. We think there may be a connection between the three victims, something about their visits to the area that made them targets.”
She nodded, heartbreak etched in her features.
“Sloane was almost taken herself,” I added quietly. “She got away, but we’re afraid this person is still hunting.”
Mrs. Lake’s face crumpled. She reached for Sloane with trembling hands, pulling her into a fierce embrace. “Oh God. Oh God, you poor thing.”
Sloane stiffened in surprise, then melted into the hug.
“When?” Mrs. Lake pulled back, searching Sloane’s face. “When did this happen?”
“A few days ago. At a party. He grabbed me from behind—”
“But you got away.” Mrs. Lake’s hands framed Sloane’s face, and I saw her seeing her own daughter in this young woman. The daughter who hadn’t gotten away. “You fought back. You survived.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Tears streamed down Mrs. Lake’s cheeks. “Sarah would have fought too. She was strong. She took self-defense classes. She was prepared.” Her voice broke. “But it didn’t matter, did it?”
The room went heavy with grief.
“I’m so sorry,” Sloane whispered.
Mrs. Lake wiped her eyes, then pulled herself together with visible effort. “Let me show you her journal. Maybe something in there can help you stop him before he takes anyone else.”
Mrs. Lake stood and crossed to a bookshelf, pulling down a journal with a worn leather cover.
“This is Sarah’s hiking journal. She kept meticulous notes about every trail she hiked, every trip she took.
The police have copies of the relevant pages, but they said I could keep the original.
They brought me all of Sarah’s things from the room she rented on the island that weekend. ”
She handed the journal to me with trembling hands. “The last entries are from her trip to Carolina Bay. She was so excited. She’d been planning the time away for months.”
I opened the journal carefully, Sloane leaning close to read over my shoulder. Sarah’s handwriting was looping and enthusiastic, full of exclamation points and detailed observations.
August 19 – I’m back in Carolina Bay! Place is GORGEOUS.
Stopped at Island Adventures to get trail recs.
Owner (Claire) was amazing. Made me a custom map with all the best spots for me to check out.
She was so warm and welcoming - exactly the kind of person who makes you fall in love with a place.
Bought fresh pepper spray and a whistle. I can’t wait to get started.
August 20 - Hiked Highland Woods this morning.
Trail was perfect - well-marked, beautiful maritime forest. Saw deer, tons of birds.
Met a local guide at the trailhead who offered to show me some more remote areas tomorrow.
Seems to really know his stuff. Says there are hidden ponds and secret beaches most tourists never find. Gave me his card.
My pulse kicked up. “Did the police ever find this card? The one from the guide?”
Mrs. Lake shook her head. “No, but Sarah’s backpack was never recovered. Her phone, her wallet, everything she’d have had with her on the hike disappeared when she did.”
I flipped to the next entry.
August 21 – Why do weekend trips go so fast? Visiting the maritime forest soon. Found a cool shell on the porch. Feels like a great start to my last day here.
“That was the last time I talked to her,” Mrs. Lake said, her voice breaking.
“She called that morning, and we talked for almost an hour. She was nervous. The crowds were thick in town, and she felt a little uncomfortable. I told her to trust her instincts, to stay in populated areas.” Mrs. Lake wiped at her eyes. “She disappeared later that same day.”
“Knox?” Sloane’s hand found mine, squeezing hard.
“What’s wrong?”
“The shell.”
I looked up at Mrs. Lake. “What kind of shell did Sarah find?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
I pulled out my phone and showed her the photo of the scotch bonnet from Sloane’s coffee table. “Did it look like this?”
Mrs. Lake went very still. “I... I think so. She took lots of pictures and shared them with me.” Mrs. Lake stood and retrieved a photo album from the same bookshelf. “I printed them.”
“Did she describe the guide?” Sloane asked, her voice trembling. “Give you any details about him?”
“No.”
Mrs. Lake passed the book into my hands.
I opened the album and froze at the sight of the first photo.
Sarah standing in front of Island Adventures, grinning at the camera with her backpack and hiking poles.
In the window behind her, reflected in the glass, was a figure.
A man, tall and broad-shouldered, partially obscured but clearly watching her.
“Can I take a photo of this?” I asked.
“Of course. Take pictures of whatever you need.”
The next photo showed Sarah holding a small brown and white shell. A scotch bonnet. Identical to the one left in Sloane’s house.
“Oh my God,” Sloane breathed. “He marks them. Before he takes them, he marks them.”
Rage warred with nausea in my gut at the horrific revelation.
The shell was his calling card.