Sheriff Huggins and Charlie exchanged amused expressions before the sheriff asked, “And LINKUP is?”

“Dating website, and no, I don’t have a profile,” Frost added quickly.

Charlie believed him. “Does Floyd’s profile say anything about him being an art connoisseur?”

“No.” Frost scratched at the cowlick in his hair. “Unless you consider posters with women who—”

“That’s not what he means.” Sheriff Huggins adjusted his gun belt.

Frost typed and a second later a profile page for Floyd Hollins popped up on one of the screens.

His wavy blond hair curled over a tanned forehead and his teeth were unnaturally white. The kid stood in front of a massive boat—no, yacht—wearing a polo shirt with the collar popped and plaid shorts. Frost didn’t seem far off on his assumption of status. The profile picture stunk of money and privilege.

“Frost, I want you to contact Agent Padello and see if you can get the financial records of Mr. Floyd Hollins, particularly those connected to art purchases.” Sheriff Huggins stood. “If he’s purchased Sydney’s art before, maybe Ms. Benedict will be more helpful since she won’t be divulging any private client information.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lynch, how about you and I take a drive into Savannah and see if Mr. Hollins can teach us a thing or two about art.”

Charlie nodded as he rose from the chair. “Great job, Frost.” He gripped the young man’s shoulders like an older brother and felt some meat on his bones. “You’ve been working out?”

Frost’s face turned the color of ketchup. “A little.”

“If you ever need a workout buddy, let me know.”

“Really?”

“Sure. But for now, you just keep giving that brain of yours a workout.”

In the hall, Sheriff Huggins was waiting for Charlie. “You know, that kid looks up to you.”

“He’s a good deputy, sir. Truth be told, we’d be a lot further behind in this investigation without him . . . or his brain.”

The sheriff let out a low laugh as they walked through the station. Charlie could see Lane wasn’t the only one his uncle poured out fatherly affection on. He gave it freely to anyone who needed it and doled it out in whatever form necessary. For Frost, it was mentorship and guidance. For Lane . . . protection.

Who was the man who had come into the café and asked about Lane’s husband and Noah? Charlie didn’t doubt Lane had seen him in town, but why was he here? Surely, Lane would’ve recognized him if he was a local. Was he the same man she had seen outside her home? Charlie’s gut said he probably was, but were the man’s intentions criminal? And what was the focus—the value of those donations or was it something more?