“What do you mean?”

“It seems the boat belonged to a man who disappeared a long time ago. Around about forty years, actually. Man by the name of Jay Malone.”

The way he watched Violet told her he expected the name to have a particular effect on her, but she kept her expression as placid as possible. “Oh?”

“Yes, ma’am. The case was closed not too long after he disappeared—seems there were some debt issues, and at the time there was no suspicion of foul play. The boat was never found and he was never heard from again. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your sister, Trudy, was married to Mr. Malone. Is that correct?”

With her throat suddenly as parched as dry pavement, Violet swallowed hard, a minute movement that did not go unnoticed by this young man. She dipped her head in assent.

“I looked back in our records from the years when Mr. Malone and your sister were married, and they showed that an officer was called to the Malones’ house one night, obviously before Mr. Malone disappeared. A neighbor claimed she heard a woman in distress.”

A woman in distress. Violet’s hands began to shake, and she clasped them together behind her back. “Did the officer find anything?”

Justin’s gaze flicked down to his notepad. “Not exactly. The officer’s report stated that the neighbor had heard a couple of foxes in the woods. He didn’t find anything else amiss.” He clicked his pen—once, twice. “Is there anything you think he should have found there?”

But Violet barely heard him. She was remembering the single time she had tried to involve anyone else in her attempts to help Trudy. The police, sworn to protect and serve, to give aid to those who need it. But what she found was condescension, arrogance, and thinly veiled ridicule. A veritable boys’ club. “Jay Malone is one of Sugar Bend’s most upstanding citizens . . . You should think twice about coming in here and placing blame on an innocent person.”

“Ms. Figg?” Justin’s voice roused her from the past, bringing her squarely back to the middle of her shop, standing before an officer from that very same police department where she’d been swiftly disregarded and shown the door. “Is it possible that officer missed something?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Violet picked up her duster where she’d set it down on a table and continued her dusting.

Justin shuffled his feet. “It was my uncle, actually, who visited the house. He’s the officer who made the report. Frank Roby.”

Violet froze. Frank? “Your uncle is Frank Roby?”

Justin nodded.

“When did you say he visited the house?”

He gazed at her a moment before he flipped a page in his notebook. “It was 1981. Mid-November.”

She’d gone to the police close to Christmas, and she met Frank at the Sandbar for the first time just after the new year.

“Do you know anything about your sister being mistreated?” His voice was professional, curt even, but there was a kindness in his eyes that nearly brought tears to hers. He had his uncle’s eyes.