“The one asking Francis about you? Is he your boyfriend?” the old man asked, tilting his head.

“No,” I quickly answered.

“I heard he’s staying at Nelson’s place.”

How did information already make its way around Briarport on Agent Beck? He’d been here barely a day, and it was peak tourist season, yet somehow, the locals still managed to flag the newest stranger in town.

“Interesting,” I said, pretending to care.

I didn’t care. 

I repeated that over and over in my head, yet somehow, a lump formed in my throat every time I thought about seeing him again the following day. I could’ve just emailed him the files, but he’d insisted I come to his place.

A door slammed out back, and Barren hurried off, terrified into starting work by our director’s arrival.

I swallowed hard to clear the feeling in my throat. One more day, and I’d see him again.

7. Stone

7

STONE

I barely slept, I couldn’t turn my mind off. There was no set time for Lenore coming over, but that didn’t stop me from spending most of the night preparing. I went over every single fact of the case, the documents I brought, and made sure I had food.

Guests expected snacks, right?

I never hosted. Working alone was always preferable, and my mind worked better when left to peace and quiet. What was I doing?

This went against every standard and routine I set for myself.

It was the early morning hours, and I caught a glimpse at the sun rising over the ocean from the back sunroom. The pinks and red were beautiful on most days, but I found them hard to admire anymore. Ever since that day, the color red just reminded me of blood.

So much blood.

Her body lying helplessly on the floor of that room. The same room I didn’t make it to in time. One miscalculation, and I’d failed her.

I turned away, focusing on making myself breakfast and coffee. I’d spent Thursday locating a grocery store and stocking my fridge with the essentials. My work was cut out for me, and I knew I’d need at least a week or two minimum in Briarport.

I grabbed a copy of The Briarport Chronicle at the store. I tried to crosscheck the articles in the latest edition with the journalist who wrote the final article on the Coastal Killer to confirm if they still worked at the paper, but I found myself at another dead end, not one worth pursuing.

There were other leads to follow.

If the FBI were opening the case, they’d first speak to the police. I needed to tread lightly with local law enforcement. I was uninvited and not acting on official FBI direction, so I needed to keep my contact limited.