Waving her cell in Izzy’s direction, Mia hopped off the counter. “There is this invention called a camera. You may have heard of it? You can even send the pictures via this little device.”

A balled-up napkin hit Mia’s face. “Smart aleck. You don’t have any service.”

That was true. She could still save them to her phone, though. Send them to Theo when the Wi-Fi kicked back in. If it ever did.

Mia pulled out her chair. “Hand me the ones with Earl and Cash Bishop, will you?”

Izzy threw her the notebook she’d been paging through. “What’s up with them? The Bishops.”

“Not counting the Bells, since they only came in the summer, the Bishops are St. Lucy’s royalty,” Mia said, as she flipped open to the sections with their initials. She lined up the little lens on the phone so she could capture the full page. “Earl is the island’s leader for all intents and purposes. Or he was. Now Cash might be.”

Mia clicked a picture and then moved to the next part. “Mr. Bishop always made me nervous.”

Izzy latched onto that. “In what way?”

“Not in . . .” Mia shook her head, strands of hair falling into her eyes. She pushed them back. “Not in an inappropriate way. He was just stern. Never smiled. I don’t think he thought I was good enough for Cash.”

“They’ve lived here forever?”

“And a day,” Mia said, thumbing to the page that had the notes about Cash on them. “They claim their relatives founded the port.”

“So you think they had something to do with this?”

Mia included the notes on Jimmy Roarke for good measure, then looked up. There was a thought lingering on the outskirts of her mind, fuzzy at the moment but waiting to be fully formed, nudging and knocking for attention. “What Lacey said today.”

It was kind of a high for her, you know. Playing men.

Izzy’s eyes flicked up and to the right, like she was relistening to the exchange. “Christ. An older man.”

“If Monroe was seeing someone older on the island . . .”

“Maybe it was Earl Bishop,” Izzy finished for her, and it was a relief that Mia didn’t have to actually say it.

For all that he’d scared her, Earl Bishop was an institution. A father figure, even though the last thing she’d needed was another one of those. Her tongue scraped against the dry roof of her mouth, seeking moisture it suddenly lacked.

“How old would she have been? That summer,” Izzy asked.