Amy terminated the call and glared at the screen, thinking it a little odd that he would disappear without letting her know where he was going, or when he would be back. She supposed she should be concerned, but then she reminded herself that he had come down here on police business. He hadn’t mentioned what the job was—all he’d said was that Uncle Jack had wanted him to “take care of ­something”—but Amy had been on the periphery of his work long enough to know this could mean anything. Growing up, she had gotten used to him slaving away on whatever his latest case was, sometimes vanishing for days on end, so even if this excursion was supposedly meant for them to spend some time together, it wouldn’t surprise her if it turned out that work had once again stolen his attention.

Rather than sit and wait for him to make contact, Amy decided to focus on her growing hunger pains instead, so she freshened up, slipped on some clothes, and vacated the hotel in search of something to eat.

•••

The lively atmosphere outside was in stark contrast to when they had arrived the night before. The town was bustling with activity, every sidewalk a busy thoroughfare humming with people jovially anticipating the sunny day ahead.

Preparations for the 64th Annual Lighthouse Festival, as confirmed by the sign hanging between the pillars of the town hall, were underway in the square. An army of volunteers in high-­visibility vests was completing a variety of tasks: stringing up banners between the streetlights, threading fairy lights and lanterns through the trees, and unpacking colorful rides—a Ferris wheel, a carousel, flying scooters, and a miniature pirate ship—from a flotilla of flatbed trucks. They were inflating bouncy castles, rolling food caravans into position, and laying a series of cables between a portable generator and the copper-domed bandstand where a group of musicians was plugging in instruments and beginning a sound check.

Escaping the throngs of people, Amy headed for the first store she could find, a charming bakery with cabinets full of delicious-looking breads and pastries. There was so much on display that she couldn’t decide, so she took the recommendation of the portly man behind the counter—whom she presumed to be the baker himself, based on the dusting of flour coating the tips of his chevron moustache—and went for a strawberry-and-cream-cheese muffin.

She left the store, paper bag in hand, and found a park bench on the edge of the square, beneath the shade of a tree. As she tore chunks off her muffin and watched the last-minute preparations taking place for the festival, Amy couldn’t help but eavesdrop on conversations of townsfolk passing by, all of whom, despite their varied ages and genders, seemed fascinated by one common but mysterious topic.