The words didn’t even make sense on first read. It took three more tries for it to sink in, and once it did, her pulse kicked up, fast enough that she could actually feel the beat in her throat.

The artist. Peter. A gadfly that had buzzed at the edges of her mind ever since Mia had heard of him.

They’re all lying.

Were they? All of them? How many people had seen the body? The guys who had pulled him out of the water. But anyone could have mistaken two middle-aged Caucasian men, especially with his face so bloated with the sea. They hadn’t even been to town since Mia had arrived, which made her think they kept to themselves. And when they’d interviewed them . . . hadn’t they said the man had been an artist? Should that have been a red flag?

Her brain tripped then, sadness slipping into the new hollowness beneath her breastbone. Sammy. He had to have known, there was no way around it. At the very least he was an accomplice.

She thought back to the first day, the easiness of his welcome, the familiarity of their banter.

Was it just Sammy? Was he covering his own tracks or someone else’s? It was possible that no one beyond him had seen the body. The men from the boat had called him directly, probably. If he told everyone in town it was the reporter, why would anyone question him? Especially with Mia and Izzy on the way.

They’re all lying.

The words focused and then blurred before sharpening once more. She blinked hard, staring at her phone’s screen.

Of course, they were all lying. It was the one truth Mia knew, and knew well.

But was there more to it? Did Izzy know something else, something that hadn’t come through on her messages yet? Mia’s phone lagged, trying to load other texts, but then it promptly shut down.

Frustration coiled in her belly, climbed into her esophagus. This goddamn island. Her fingers trembled in her effort not to fling her cell across the room.

She started to push herself to her feet, not knowing what her next move would be yet, but knowing that sitting among dusty memories in the Bishops’ attic was no longer productive.

As she rocked to her knees, she realized that Cash was standing there, still and silent, only a few steps away. On instinct, she flinched, her hand going to her holster, as she prayed her distraction hadn’t just gotten her killed.

“Mia.” Cash’s voice was eerie, stripped down of all the bitterness that had turned it rough downstairs.

The fine hairs on her forearms stood on end, her skin pulling tight into goose bumps as the whisper trailed along her nerve endings.

“Cash. You scared me,” Mia said, keeping her hand tucked right up against her gun as she slowly, very slowly, stood up.