I glanced around, hoping Francis hadn’t overheard. My new promotion would be taken away just as quickly as it was given if she knew I was using museum resources to send tips to the FBI.

It was part of my due diligence as the one in charge of organizing and preserving our town records, right? I had an obligation to pass along any information that helped solve the case.

Somehow, I knew Francis would never see it that way, especially not after she’d turned down my idea for a tribute to the victims. She’d think I was working on the project against her instructions, and that was cause enough for her to strip me of my new position.

In all fairness, I was working on the project without her knowing, but I planned to keep it that way.

If my work and records I kept could help catch the Coastal Killer, then I would continue. For the town I was growing to love, the people in it, and the victims who would never know what Briarport came to be.

“Um, back here,” I said in a mere whisper, hoping Francis wouldn’t notice.

“What?” he asked, leaning in.

“Just follow me,” I huffed.

I wanted the FBI to look into the Coastal Killer—part of me couldn’t shake the feeling the person responsible for so many deaths was still out there—but I’d finally worked my way up in my job. Maybe digging into it all had been mistake?

I shook my head. No, this was the entire reason I worked my way up in this job, the one goal I had, my purpose after I lost everything years ago. I’d get justice for the victims.

I led the agent into the back room, where’d I’d spent the majority of the day cooped up working.

“I’m Lenore,” I said, feeling obligated to introduce myself to the complete stranger I was now stuck sharing my work with.

“I know,” he said nonchalantly.

Duh. He had read over the tips I sent and asked for me by name. My heartrate picked up, my body feeling warmer again.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” I huffed, trying to hide my embarrassment. I barely knew the man, and, already, he was getting under my skin.

“Agent Winston Beck,” he answered. “But you can just call me Beck.”

He smiled, his hands shoved into his pockets. I realized he had to be at least a foot taller than me. Not that it was hard. I was only five feet, one inch tall. That one extra inch was very important to me.

He followed me to the desk, where my computer sat with a dark screen. I sat down, booted up the computer, and typed my log in quickly.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, my heart pounding, feeling him hovering behind me.