“Do you know how many times I’ve answered that question?” There was a manic bent to Lacey’s voice, and she must have heard it herself. Her throat rippled. When she spoke again, her tone had evened out. “She didn’t tell me everything. You know, she liked her secrets. But. No, she didn’t seem like she was on the verge of slitting her wrists open.”

“Did she ever talk about Asher to you? Was she serious about him?”

Lacey laughed, her brows disappearing beneath the curtain of bangs. “Asher? He was just a summer fling. She . . . she liked the chase. He wasn’t even . . .”

She paused and licked her lips.

“He wasn’t even what, Lacey?”

“I’m not even sure why we’re talking about this,” Lacey deflected, her fingers tugging at the pearl earring, which nearly brushed her shoulder.

Mia usually liked this part of her job, mostly because she was good at it. Reading someone, trying to find the right buttons to push, when to stay silent, and when to poke a little bit. But Lacey was hard. She was constantly in motion, a fragile, skittish bird poised to take flight. Just as quickly, her gaze would turn direct, her words provocative for the sake of it. A contrast of nervous hesitation and unabashed confrontation.

“We’re talking about this because a reporter who seemed very interested in the topic ended up with a blown-out skull after asking too many questions. I’m not trying to dig up the past for the sole purpose of digging up the past.”

Lacey went still, and it was almost strange. Even the uneasy vibrations that seemed to roll off her body ceased for a few heartbeats. Then a deep breath brought her back, moving, fiddling. “Asher wasn’t her only fling that summer.”

Mia rocked back on the bench. Monroe and Asher had seemed well and truly in puppy love.

“Who else was she seeing?”

There weren’t many options. Not on St. Lucy’s. And all the artists in residence had been adults.

Lacey’s fingers tangled in the hem of her sweater, pulling, tugging, shifting. “I don’t know. She never told me. But I got the impression he was . . . older.”

And that opened a few more possibilities. “Was he someone from St. Lucy’s?”

“I think so,” Lacey said. “The artists weren’t exactly that appealing to her.”

But someone from the island was? Mia quickly skimmed through the list of who would have been around that summer. It wasn’t long. And certainly no one on it would have drawn the attention of the beautiful, rich Monroe Bell.

“She would sneak out,” Lacey said as if it meant something, leaning forward a little bit, her eyes wide. When Mia remained silent, Lacey looked away. “If it was an artist, they had plenty of space here.”