Mia thought back to the ferry, back to when she’d been standing on the deck, the spray from the sea cutting across her face, her eyes trained on the lighthouse. Thought back to the Bell mansion coming into view through the mist. Thought about the way Jimmy had reacted to the idea of Charles and Bix at the lighthouse that night. Thought about that old abandoned house tucked away on the Bell property. “I think we need to find Charles and Bix Bell.”

“Any luck with the uniforms?” Izzy asked.

Mia tucked her fingers in her pocket to pull out her phone, the urge to slam it against the wall barely suppressed when she saw the “No Service” status. “Mama said a storm is coming in. Worst one yet.”

Izzy wasn’t thrown by the shift in topics but simply grabbed her own cell, holding it face out, like she always did, as if Mia were somehow at fault for the lack of bars at the top. “My brain is choosing not to acknowledge that there could be worse storms than what we’ve already had. I’m just going to go ahead and plunk my head in the sand and leave it there.”

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, you know,” Mia said, without looking up from her screen, which remained stubbornly useless.

“Boooo,” Izzy mock shouted from across the room. “You’re better than cheap wordplay, Hart.”

Mia lifted her head to flash Izzy a quick smile. “Don’t underestimate how cheap I can get.”

It was a joke, but the words landed a bit heavy, effectively suffocating the light moment until the only thing left was the knowledge that neither of them knew how low Mia could go.

“So a storm . . . ,” Izzy prodded.

This wasn’t the time to brood. Mia rolled her shoulders. “Coming in tomorrow afternoon. Will probably drop a couple feet over the next few days.”

Izzy huffed out a laugh that was far more distraught than amused. Then she set aside her tea, pushing to her feet. “I think I should go to the mainland.”

No. The suggestion sat strangely in Mia’s stomach, and the pain beneath her breastbone throbbed in time with her heartbeat. “What?”

Eyes wide, Izzy began to pace. From the refrigerator, to the back door, to the table. Rinse and repeat.

“Look, we need to find information on Peter, on the Bells. We need one of us on the ground, not some knucklehead right out of the academy. And we need you here, so that people will actually talk to you.”