Amy curled up her legs, twisted her body toward the door, and said nothing. They had been driving for over an hour. Long since free of the interstate, they were now speeding through open country on a narrow two-lane road. She had no idea where they were headed, and she wasn’t sure why she had agreed to come. Her dad had made the announcement with an air of finality, saying the excursion was “police business” and “only for the night,” but that it would also be a chance for them to “spend some time together.” How that would be possible if he planned to be working a case at the same time, Amy didn’t know, but the last thing she wanted to do was put up a fight, so she had offered no objection and instead resolved to make it through the weekend with no arguing and as little drama as possible.

“Amy?”

He was still flicking through the stations, waiting for an answer.

Amy folded her arms in such a way that she could rest her head on the flat of her hand and muttered, “Anything, I don’t mind,” then spent the rest of the drive staring out the window.

•••

The journey neared its end some 120 miles later, when the road Amy and Kevin were on brought them to the outskirts of a small coastal town.

Noticing the car decelerate, Amy sat up straighter and saw that the view, previously a rotating scene of trees and rolling hills, now offered a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. A large sign loomed ahead—a bright circular motif featuring the image of a blue-domed lighthouse, with a golden sun, squiggly blue ribbons of water, and a message arched above the lighthouse: Welcome to Seabrook.

They continued for another few miles, passing a church and a school, then navigating a series of tree-lined streets with porch-fronted cottages and farmhouse-style homes, before arriving in the center of town. The town square was quaint and equally picturesque; a generously proportioned redbrick town hall loomed over a large grassy plaza, surrounded on the fringes by a pastiche of wooden buildings. One of those, according to the robotic voice on her dad’s phone, was their destination.

“There, that’s it,” he said, lifting one finger off the wheel and pointing toward a grand, four-level hotel with a black awning out front, marked in gold lettering with the words The Lookout.

They parked, grabbed their bags from the trunk, and headed inside.

The lobby was a wide-open space with a low vaulted ceiling and halls leading off to the left and right. One hall led to a corridor of guest rooms, the other toward the bar. There was an unmanned concierge desk over by the stairs, on top of which was a small rack of brochures, a banker’s lamp, and a notice that read Hotel Customers—See Bar with an arrow pointing to the left. Kevin and Amy duly followed.