His fond expression didn’t change as he patted her on the shoulder and promised he’d call.

“Not much new there,” Izzy said, her arms instinctually wrapping across her chest as they stepped back outside.

“Hmm,” Mia hummed. It was noncommittal enough to catch Izzy’s attention.

Izzy lowered her voice, though there was little danger of being overheard in this wind. “The doc?”

Mia flinched, almost imperceptible but there nonetheless. She probably didn’t want their guy to be someone she’d been friends with, which was understandable, but problematic if the island was as small as Mia advertised.

“It’s strange that Brandon noticed a phone call.”

That was true. The brain was good at assessing and then dismissing extraneous information. People called it a gut feeling or a sixth sense or hairs raised at the nape of the neck, without realizing they’d just picked up on something about their surroundings that they hadn’t even realized they’d observed.

But Brandon had been able to pinpoint what felt odd about the moment. That meant it had probably stood out enough to make it into a memory.

“So the doc goes on our persons-of-interest list,” Izzy said, as they passed the morgue, which was closed up for the night.

It wouldn’t hurt to swing by the bar, would it? Catch Sammy in a more casual setting, possibly with alcohol loosening his tongue. “You know, I think there was a mention of an adult beverage at some point?”

With an exhale that crystallized into white ice in the night air, Mia stared at the darkened windows of the doc’s place. She nodded once, more to herself than to Izzy, and started toward Main Street. “I definitely owe you a drink.”

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

MIA

The bar on St. Lucy’s was technically called Macky’s, but it had never actually been referred to as anything other than “the bar.” It was the only place on the island that served liquor, so there was no chance of confusion.

Although she’d agreed to go, Mia was already regretting the decision.

There was going to be gossip now that she was back. At first it wouldn’t be terrible, focusing mostly on the fact that she was home after fifteen years. But if she was stuck on St. Lucy’s for more than a day or two, those whispers would turn biting, laced as they would be with suspicion and bitterness and a very human hunger for others’ misfortune. If she went to the bar that night, she’d kick-start the whole process, and then there would be a ticking clock until she heard the first snide remark that someone didn’t bother to hide behind a dropped voice or the back of a hand.