“The Montroses all eventually died off, and, right around midcentury, the mansion was sold to the Bell family,” Mia said, tipping her head. “The Montrose family had hosted artists in residence during their summer holidays, and the Bells continued that tradition right up until that summer Monroe died.”

“They never came back?”

“No.” Her thumb finding the delicate skin of her wrist, Mia traced over the thin line that was there until she found her thready pulse. Her ulcer seethed beneath her breastbone, already angry that she was drinking on a mostly empty stomach. They hadn’t had a chance to eat anything, and between the lighthouse and the figure in the woods, she’d lost her already-weak appetite.

“That’s about it.” Mia shrugged. “St. Lucy’s has the basics but not a lot of luxury. The winter is pretty much all one rolling storm, with small breaks in between.”

“Oh God, does that mean it gets worse than this?” Izzy pointed toward the door, and Mia couldn’t help the gleeful tint to her own laugh, the smugness that was your birthright from growing up in a place like St. Lucy’s.

“This is child’s play,” Mia said, and Izzy buried her face in her hands. “And since you didn’t bother to check, I can tell you we have several fronts rolling up the coast toward us right now. There’s a good chance we’ll get stuck here if we don’t solve this in the next day or so.”

Izzy groaned, a pitiful wail, not even bothering to lift her head.

“It gets better.” Mia leaned in. “Our cell service and internet have the constitution of a fainting Victorian lady. They have a tendency to give out completely at the merest hint of bad weather.”

Peeking at her, Izzy pouted. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Just your abject misery,” Mia said, shameless, but then sobered. “But it is something to take into account. We might be cut off from backup. Not able to look anything up, even. Sometimes the hot spots are feeling generous, but more often than not it’s a crapshoot whether you get bars.”

Finally straightening, Izzy just nodded, seeming to take it in stride. “Okay.” She drummed the table.

Max came around with another pour of Eagle Rare, and this time Mia slipped him a twenty that he didn’t refuse. He left just as easily, a small pat on her head reminding her that most people here still thought of her as sixteen years old.

“So should we split up?” Izzy asked, once Max had left.

“Hmm?”

“We came here to talk to the locals, right?” Izzy tipped her head toward the rest of the tables, bringing Mia’s mind back to the reason they were on St. Lucy’s at all: Robert Twist. “I’m guessing I won’t get very far, so point me to the biggest gossip here, and you can go for the more subtle route.”