“Busy, hon?” I asked, turning my shoulder to the wind. Way down by the boathouse below me, whitecapped waves smacked the island’s stone wall. Tim was right. The weather was getting worse.

“Always,” said Carson. “But I’m glad you called. What is it we agreed on for dinner? I’ll take a trip to the market.”

“Fish.”

“Right. Fish.” I could sense him deliberating over sauces—remoulade, dill and lemon, or mustard cream? Cooking was Carson’s passion. “We should eat on the early side, yeah?”

“Oh,” I began. “I—”

Carson groaned. “Please tell me you’re not going to your parents’ place again.”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “But I’m not sure when I’ll be home. I’m . . . kind of on a case.”

The patter of his keyboard fell away. All I heard now was the cackle of a female patron and the steady thump of coffee-shop indie pop.

I’ve never had a problem keeping casework at the office when the workday is done. I hear doctors are the same way, especially the ones who treat sick kids or disassemble dead bodies. Bring that shit home and it’ll invade your world like a cancer, spreading unchecked until it consumes everyone you love. The darker your workday, the tighter its grip on your heart. For that reason, I didn’t want to tell Carson too much.

“It’s a missing person situation on one of the islands,” I said. “It’s weird, but nothing major yet. May take a while, though.”

“A disappearance.” His awe ballooned into disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking, Shay.”

“Hon, I’m fine.”

“What island?”

“Tern.”

I was curious to see whether he’d heard of the owners like Tim had. If Carson knew Tern Island, he didn’t let on. Instead, he said, “You’re not fine. Fine is not what you are. You’re not ready for this, not even close.” I could picture him at his coffee-shop table with a finger pressed against his temple, massaging the skin in slow circles like he did when he was stressed. Carson took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Shay. When you went behind my back and applied for this job, I humored you.”

“Humored me? You were furious.” I’d never seen Carson so mad as when I told him I was going back to work. He’d likened my decision to a kamikaze mission. We fought that night for the first time ever, didn’t talk at all the next day.

“I wasn’t furious, I was worried. It was a huge decision, Shay. You should have run it by me first.”

“I knew what you’d say.”

“Doesn’t that tell you something, babe? If it’s dangerous—not just to you, but to everyone around you—why do it?”

“Because,” I said, not liking how much I sounded like a pissy kid, “this is my career. It’s what I do.” It was the same argument I’d been making for months, and Carson was no closer to understanding. I needed to get back to what I loved. I needed to know if I could.