He forked his fingers through his hair and stalked over to the front window of the apartment. Letting her drive away from Sea Glass Cottage this morning had been a mistake. He should have taken off after her, told her the loan wasn’t happening, and been done with it.

Now he owed her a follow-up.

But a text would have to suffice—after she left town and there was no possibility of another disruptive face-to-face encounter. Hopefully the chief would have an answer from the property management company by this afternoon and the trespassing issue could be resolved. At that point, she’d be free to leave.

In the meantime, sleep was top priority. Otherwise he’d be running on fumes during his shift tonight—and while Hope Harbor wasn’t a hotbed of intrigue or crime, no police officer could afford to be less than alert while on duty. Crazy stuff happened everywhere these days.

A postal service truck passed by the window, continued to the end of the Sea Haven apartment complex, and made a U-turn. Meaning mail had been delivered early today. And in light of the solid gray expanse overhead, it would behoove him to collect it before Mother Nature decided to wave her sprinkling can over town again.

He exited the apartment, returned the carrier’s wave, and strode toward the mail alcove. Sixty seconds later, he fitted his key in the lock on his box and pulled open the door.

A bulky manila envelope took up most of the space, and he worked it out, along with assorted bills and ads.

As he retraced his steps to the apartment, he flipped the envelope over and scanned the front. His name and address were handwritten, but the script was unfamiliar.

The top left corner was bent back, so he straightened it out—and picked up his pace when a few drops of rain splattered on the walk in front of him.

Squinting, he tried to read the smudged return address. Did it say Chicago?

Odd. He didn’t have any acquaintances there.

Could this be junk mail?

Unlikely. Junk mail didn’t come with handwritten addresses.

Perhaps a reader had tracked down his home address.

He stepped onto the small porch on his unit, weighing the envelope in his hand.

That was possible. Despite the efforts he’d made to keep his private life private, fans could be persistent—and the internet was a trove of personal information for anyone willing to dig deep.

As Christi had.

An image of her standing in the deserted cottage this morning, toe sticking through the hole in her sock, flashed through his mind—but he quashed it at once. He was done thinking about her.

After setting the rest of his mail on the patio chair he’d never used, he pulled out his pocketknife. Slit and bowed the envelope.