“You okay?” He moved to help, crouching down next to her. His years of responding to every incident possible had him reaching for her.
“Fine, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” Her face had gone pale. Their hands brushed as they both reached for the same piece of broken glass. She jerked back.
He pulled back, surprised by her reaction. “You cut yourself.” A thin line of red shown across her palm.
She looked down at her hand. “It’s nothing.” Her expression had shifted, eyes unfocused.
He cleared his throat. The intensity of her stare made him uncomfortable. “You should get that cleaned up,” he managed to say despite a lump forming in his throat. He cleared it and blurted out his name. “Brooks Harrington. I’m new in town.”
“Vivienne Hawthorne,” she said in the mesmerizing tone from when she greeted him. She pressed the towel against her palm and smiled softly. “I gathered that much. Nobody from Westerly Cove orders ‘just coffee’ at The Mystic Cup. Except for Old Jack. He’s the only one.”
A hint of a smile touched his face. “What do the locals order if they’re not Old Jack?”
“What do the locals order?”
Amusement crossed her features.
“Tea, mostly. With elaborate names and specific brewing instructions. The coffee is for lost tourists and . . .” she paused, studying him with unusual eyes, “cops passing through.”
His shoulders tensed. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”
Her lips curved. “Good guess.”
Brooks looked down at his clothes. Nothing in his appearance screamed law enforcement. He’d dressed in civilian clothes, left behind any tells that might mark him as police. Either this woman was extraordinarily perceptive, or someone had told her about his arrival. Small towns thrived on gossip. News of the new detective probably traveled fast.
“Let me get you a fresh coffee.” She turned away, disappearing through an open doorway and returning with another glass pot. She moved quickly, adding a filter, coffee grounds and pressing buttons. The hot stream of bean water started almost instantly. “On the house since you helped with the mess.”
“Thanks, but not necessary. I can pay for my coffee.” Automatic response. He, along with his co-workers, had always been told to pay for their things because they didn’t want a kind gesture, like free coffee, to hang over their heads or have someone call in a favor. No police officer ever wanted to hear, “Remember that one time I bought your lunch . . .” something like that was nothing but trouble.
“Suit yourself.” She poured a fresh cup and placed it on the counter. “That will be three dollars.”
He handed over the money. Their fingers brushed again. Her quick intake of breath didn’t go unnoticed. Vivienne smiled, but her hand trembled as she made change.
“So, Detective Harrington, are you here about the missing tourist?”
He froze. “How did you know I’m a detective?”
The women at nearby tables had gone silent. So silent he could hear the whirl of the lighthouse beam make its rotation. He glanced over his shoulder, everyone looked at him.
“I didn’t.” Vivienne replied casually. “But you just confirmed it. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
A neat trap. He’d walked right into it. Sloppy. He studied her more carefully, reassessing. “I’m not here about any missing tourist. Today is my day off. I don’t start at the Westerly Cove PD until tomorrow.” But now he was curious. Who was this missing person.
Vivienne apprised him, her expression steady, unwavering. She finally nodded and gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Well then, Detective,” she said, holding his gaze, “welcome to Westerly Cove. I have a feeling things are about to get interesting around here.”
She said it like she knew something he didn’t. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He took a sip of coffee—excellent despite his reservations about the place—and wondered what he’d walked into. Probably nothing more than a small town where everyone knew everyone’s business and strangers were subjects of speculation.
His phone vibrated. A welcome distraction. Expecting Jim, he was surprised to see Chief Sullivan’s name. He stepped away from the counter before answering.
“Harrington.”
“Detective, I know you’re not starting until tomorrow, but we have a situation.” Chief Sullivan’s voice was gruff and direct. “Tourist went missing yesterday near the lighthouse. Husband reported it last night. We’ve been searching since first light. Could use an extra set of experienced eyes if you’re up for it.”
There it was.
With his phone still pressed to his ear he glanced at Vivienne. She was busy with customers but still caught his gaze. It was as if she was aware of his conversation. In Austin, he’d never have hesitated to respond to such a request. But things were different now. He didn’t want to be the same person he was in Austin. He didn’t want to be responsible for someone else’s death.
“Missing tourist. Near the lighthouse.” Vivienne’s movements stilled at the mention of the location. “I heard something about that.” Brooks never stopped watching Vivienne.
