But what did that even mean? She looked great. Her face was the same creamy pale—she’d always sunburned easily—but it had slimmed some as she’d grown into her adult features, her already prominent cheekbones becoming even more so. Her light-brown hair was long, like it had always been, but instead of the braid she’d always worn, it hung in layers down her back.

He shook his head. Her appearance had nothing to do with the answers he sought. He couldn’t tell anything about her academic or professional accomplishments from the way she looked.

Main Street ended at “the little beach,” which was the town’s not-very-original name for what was, in fact, the smaller of its two beaches. The women started crossing it, heading for the pier. As he trailed them, his attention was drawn by some movement near one of the lifeguard stands. While most of the stands were just elevated platforms, this past summer, a local artist had convinced the town council to let her convert one of them into a functional art project. She’d built a small deck surrounding the platform, with stairs up from the beach. On the platform was a structure topped with a miniature version of the old lighthouse.

It was cute, and the lifeguards loved it because it functioned as a shed they could keep supplies locked up in, but from a policing perspective, it was a pain in the ass. They were forever catching people doing questionable stuff up there. Teenagers drinking. Hell, adults drinking.

And, of course, doing what Art Ramsey and his wife Jamila Johnson were doing at this very moment.

He sighed. He wasn’t on duty, and if they would just be more subtle about their interludes, he could look the other way. But no. They hadn’t even bothered to break into the shed part of the structure like most self-respecting public sex havers did. At least they were dressed. Mostly. “Hold up!” he called to Maya and Evie.

He switched on the flashlight he kept on his key ring—he carried it and the knife he’d used to spring Evie from the refrigerator because there really was no such thing as “off duty” when you were the chief of police in a small town—and coughed while aiming the flashlight at the sand in front of the couple, trying to get their attention without making them feel like they were being ambushed.

A masculine curse and a feminine giggle were followed by the sound of clothing being adjusted. He waited a few seconds before walking around to the front of the stand. “Evening, folks.”

Art took a step away from his wife, as if it would somehow obscure the fact that they’d been caught in the act. “Sawyer. Son.”