I parked the car and got out, gazing up at the restaurant. I’d read online it had once been run-down and tired, serving the same old lobster rolls, which had become so bland, rubbery and boring, even the number of tourists dwindled thanks to the shitty online reviews. Everything changed when the place had sold a few years ago and a wealthy retiree from Bangor gutted and fully renovated the building before putting his son in charge. As well as turning into a gourmet hot spot boasting an acclaimed new head chef, the Cliff’s Head had gone from weathered shack to modern, two-story brick-and-steel combo, complete with glass-sided balconies, all perched on the Newdale Bluffs, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and affording the best views in town.

As the smell of the salty ocean breeze and the sound of seagulls filled the air, I wondered how long Maya had worked here. Was she in there right now? Only one way to find out.

I walked to the front door and pushed it open. Light streamed in through the massive windows, making the place bright and airy. A server was setting up the wooden tables for the upcoming service, arranging heavy-looking silverware, white china plates, glinting crystal glasses and cloth napkins folded into lover’s knots. The high-backed black leather chairs and gleaming maple floors added to the restaurant’s classy feel. No doubt it was a popular choice for first dates, birthday celebrations and anniversaries.

A few guests sat at the tables closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows and I realized the photos hadn’t done the place justice because the breathtaking view stretched out for miles. The host walked over, dressed in black pants and a burgundy shirt with the silver logo—the same outfit I’d seen in the photo of Maya.

“Welcome to the Cliff’s Head,” he said. “May I get you a table?”

I wanted to blurt out I was looking for Maya Scott, but from my experience of living in Brookmount, I knew how small communities worked. They protected their own. Being too direct might not get me what I needed. Besides, Maya could be in the back somewhere, or maybe her shift hadn’t started yet. Either way, she didn’t know my face. When she saw me, she’d have no reason to suspect I was anything other than a paying customer, a tourist traveling the coast.

“A table for one would be great,” I said.

“Of course. You chose a lovely day to stop by. I’m Patrick, by the way,” he said as he guided me over to a table for two by the window. “Let me get you some water and the menu.”