Chapter Five
Sean, Brian, and Rafe left the sheriff’s department a little after six and split up for the evening.
There was still no sign of Stuart Crowell, so they’d spent the rest of the afternoon interviewing the women who’d been with Daphne Jones Saturday night.
None of them had seen who she left the club with.
Visions didn’t open until eight, so Brian had a detective assigned to question the staff and check for security footage. They’d follow up on it in the morning.
During a break in his budget meeting, Sheriff Griffin had called and ordered the task force to report in at nine the next morning. Detective Brad Lynch would be back by then and needed a full briefing before the team decided where to go next.
By the time Sean left the station, exhaustion sat heavy behind his eyes.
Between the crime scene, autopsy, interviews, and paperwork, the day felt twice as long as it should have.
The image of Daphne Jones on the forest floor kept pushing into his head, no matter how hard he tried to focus on anything else.
Knowing he’d need a few suits, dress shirts, slacks, and another sport coat or two, Sean stopped by the storage unit he’d rented. Thankfully, he knew exactly where everything was and didn’t have to dig through half his belongings to get everything.
Dusk had settled over Whisper by the time he drove through the small business district.
Warm light spilled from shop windows onto the sidewalks, and the salty breeze drifting inland through his open window carried the faint scent of the ocean.
Most of the storefronts were closing up for the night, but one still glowed bright across from his uncle’s hardware store.
Grace had mentioned the location belonged to her new physical therapy practice. She’d lucked out when the owner of a former yoga and Pilates studio moved south and vacated the spot.
Sean slowed as he passed, his gaze catching on the figure moving inside.
Without giving himself time to reconsider, he pulled into an open parking space and shut off the Mustang. Through the large front window, he spotted Grace painting one of the interior walls. The sight of her somehow eased some of the weight pressing against his skull.
Telling himself he was only stopping by to check out the place, he climbed out and headed for the door. The handle didn’t budge when he pulled on it.
Grace glanced up from across the room, smiled, and hurried over to unlock the door. Holding it open, she said, “Hi there. Come on in.”
The warm scent of fresh paint drifted out as Sean stepped inside. After the ugliness of his day, the soft lighting and pale blue walls felt strangely calming.
She locked the door behind him. “Welcome to Pro-Care Physical Therapy.”
When she faced him, he couldn’t stop the chuckle that bubbled up from his chest. “You’ve got paint on your nose.”
“Oops.” She pulled a rag from the back pocket of her jeans and scrubbed at the gray smudge. “Did I get it?”
“All gone.”
The grin she flashed him made some of his exhaustion fade, and he no longer had an interest in going home alone.
He wandered farther into the studio, taking in the fresh carpet and newly painted walls.
Grace was adding large gray silhouettes of athletes in motion against the pale blue background.
A built-in desk filled the small reception area, separated from the larger treatment space by a half-wall.
Aside from paint supplies and drop cloths, the place sat empty, but he could already picture patients moving through the rooms.
It suited her. Bright. Welcoming. Full of energy.
He glanced back at her. “Looks great. Little empty, though.”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “That’s because my furniture and equipment haven’t arrived yet. The reception chairs, PT tables, and stacked washer and dryer get delivered on Thursday. Gym equipment comes Monday, and the medical machines later next week.”
“That’s a lot of stuff.”
He followed her toward the wall she’d been painting, the scrape of her sneakers against the plastic-covered floor echoing through the quiet space.
“It is.” She dipped the brush into the paint tray. “I managed to buy everything except the medical equipment with the business loan. The rest I’m renting for now.” She released a slow breath. “Hopefully, I can afford to purchase those too after the first year.”
He admired the determination in her voice. She didn’t sound scared so much as driven—like failure wasn’t an option.
“Will you be running the place alone?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I already hired a receptionist and a part-time billing clerk, and I put an ad in the county paper for another physical therapist.” Excitement brightened her face.
“I got a few responses today and already set up interviews. Tomorrow, I’m visiting doctors’ offices around the area to introduce myself and hopefully drum up business.
If everything stays on schedule, I should be able to open on time. ”
Her eyes danced with pride as she talked, and Sean realized he hadn’t thought about dead bodies or serial killers once since stepping through the door.
“That’s great.”
Picking up her paintbrush again, Grace turned back to the wall to fill in the outline of a golfer. “So what brings you by?”
“I was over at the sheriff’s department with my brother. Sheriff Matt Griffin asked us to help with a case.” He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and watched her work. “I saw your lights on while I was heading home.”
The studio had grown quieter now that the evening traffic outside had thinned. Faint music drifted from a radio near the reception desk, mixing with the soft scrape of brushstrokes against drywall.
He felt awkward just standing there while she worked. “Need any help?”
“No, thanks. I’m almost done for the night anyway.” She flexed her fingers around the brush handle. “My arm’s starting to protest.”
Sean laughed. For one dangerous second, he almost offered to massage it for her, but considering the dreams he’d already had about Grace Whitman last night, that probably wasn’t the smartest idea.
“Have you eaten yet?” he asked instead. “I’m starving. While you finish up, I could run over to Basil’s and grab us a pizza.”
Her face brightened. “That sounds amazing. Their pizza is the best. I haven’t had it since I moved back, and I’ve been craving it.”
“Toppings?”
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling. “Pepperoni. Lots of it.”
“Works for me.” He headed for the door, feeling lighter than he had all day.
“And don’t forget paper plates and napkins.”
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment before stepping out into the cooling evening air.
When he returned, the scent of paint faded beneath the mouth-watering aroma of hot pizza filling the studio.
Grace had cleaned the brushes and washed the paint from her hands by then.
Sean shrugged out of his sports coat and draped it over the reception counter before joining her on the carpet with his back against one of the finished walls.
The open pizza box rested between them beside two cold bottles of cola.
Outside, darkness had settled over Whisper, the storefront windows reflecting the glow from inside the studio.
A cool breeze rattled the front door now and then while the old building creaked softly around them.
Hungry and tired, they ate in comfortable silence, and for the first time since the middle-of-the-night call from Matt, Sean felt like he could finally breathe without the weight of the case pressing quite so hard against him.
Reaching for a second slice, Grace asked, “So what case are you working on? No offense, but I assume it can’t be good if you were asked to get involved.”
Sean finished his bite before answering. “No, it isn’t good. It’s a homicide—a female victim under strange circumstances.”
He left it at that. The serial aspect hadn’t been released yet, and after spending the entire day staring at crime scene photos and autopsy reports, he had no desire to drag that darkness into this room.
Grace studied him for a moment in the soft overhead light. “You can’t tell me anything more, can you?”
“Not really.” He reached for a third slice. He hadn’t exaggerated about being hungry. The pizza sat a whole lot better in his stomach than the sandwich he’d forced down after the autopsy. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” She set her paper plate aside and took a swig of cola. “I had a lot of friends on the NYPD. They couldn’t talk about their cases much either.” Her gaze drifted toward the painted wall. “Thanks for dinner.”
“You’re welcome.” He nodded toward the golfer's silhouette. “The place is coming together. You’re pretty talented.”
Grace snorted softly. “I’m a good tracer, not an artist. I borrowed an old overhead projector from the elementary school, projected athlete outlines onto the walls, and traced them.”
He studied the unfinished section beside the golfer and spotted the faint pencil outline of a baseball player holding a bat. “Still better than anything I could do.”
Her smile warmed him far more than it should have.
Without thinking, he reached over and caught a strand of her hair between his fingers. Soft as silk. The simple touch sent heat through him before common sense slammed on the brakes.
When a puzzled expression crossed her face, he dropped his hand fast. “Sorry. You had paint in your hair.”
He was finding it harder by the minute to ignore his attraction to her. The problem was, he still had no clue whether Grace felt the same way or saw him as nothing more than part of the extended family orbit she’d grown up around.
Before he could do something foolish—like touch her hair again—he pushed to his feet and started gathering up the empty paper plates and pizza box. “I’d better get going. It’s been a long day. I’ll dump this out back.”