I take the stairs two at a time, sprinting all the way up, with Ben on my heels. I find the card in the front pocket of my jeans. His Instagram handle—@thrillschillsbills—is easy enough to find, and I can see from his Stories that he was at Hotel Seaview as of an hour ago, enjoying a Continental breakfast.

Turning on my heel, excited by the chase—somewhere to start!—I notice Ben dazed in the doorway.

“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing my purse.

“What are we doing, exactly?”

I grin. Confusion looks good on him.

“Solving a murder.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nothing puts a damper on a fancon more than a police presence. A cruiser sits in the porte cochere with a strained valet perched nearby, itching to move it. A wash of relief passes over his face as he realizes Ben and I are on foot. We parked on a side street.

Hotel Seaview bridges the gap between town square and beach, looming on the edge of the boardwalk like a Victorian mirage. It towers in gleaming white wood, with a spray of windows, like freckles on a face, and a warm cherry-brown roof sitting on top of the main spire. Inside, dark beams hold up a soaring ceiling. A wraparound rail reveals the second floor. But beyond all that architectural class, the décor is decidedly…kitsch. As though a sea shanty threw up, then collected dust for twenty years.

I’m equal parts bummed and vindicated to see the sheriff and his deputies at the hotel; seems I am not the only one to connect the murder scene to Maura’s books. But it means they may have beat me to Chris. For a second, the reasonable side of my brain questions if it’s healthy—safe, even—for me to throw myself into a murder investigation. Perhaps not. Still, this feels right. It’s forward action. Doing something.

Ben startles at the door, observing Deputy Shields warily. I assess her from a different angle. Last night at the school when she took my statement, it was too dark to make out all the details of her features, but today I can see she’s startlingly young—can’t be much older than I am. She’s Indigenous; she has high cheekbones, large brown eyes, and a Kewpie doll mouth. She’s pretty. From the way Gabriel’s grinning at her across the reception desk, I think he must agree. Not that I care.

I grab Ben by the arm and tug him into the lobby. He dragged his feet all the way here—metaphorically, since he drove—and now he’s acting even less enthused. Too bad. I rush us past hotel check-in, looking for the con welcome table and, in the process, glimpse again the object of Deputy Shields’s attention: Gabriel. I increase my speed double-time, hoping he doesn’t see me—or us, really.