Three

He didn’t move when I crossed the street.

That was the first thing I noticed. Most men, when you catch them staring, look away. Embarrassed, polite. Not him. His eyes stayed locked on mine as I walked straight toward him, like he’d been waiting for me all along.

“Can I help you?” I asked, voice sharp enough to cut a rope.

Up close, he was taller than I thought. Broad shoulders, sun-darkened skin, sharp jaw line with a light scar on his jaw. His hair was black, cut short, but messy like he didn’t care what people thought. The tattoos crawled up his hands and disappeared under his sleeves, ink that looked old.

He leaned back against the hood of his truck, arms crossed. “You’re Elise Grant.”

The way he said it made my chest tighten. Not a question. He already knows my name.

I glanced at the truck. Local plates. Fishing rods in the back. The faint smell of salt and diesel clung to him, like the ocean itself.

“And you are?” I asked.

His mouth curved, not into a smile, exactly. More like an acknowledgment. “Hank Delaney.”

The name rang faint bells. I’d heard it in town before, whispers about the quiet guy who ran charters down at the marina. People said he kept to himself. People said he was trouble.

“I don’t need a charter,” I said flatly.

“Good thing I’m not selling one.” His gaze flicked over me, sharp but not leering, the way a man takes stock of someone who might be a threat. “I’m here to give you advice.”

That set my teeth on edge. “Advice?”

“Stop asking questions about Sadie Cooper.”

The words landed heavy, heavier than they should have.

So that was it. That is what all of this is about?

I took a step back, crossing my arms to mirror him. “Let me guess, you’re another friend of the sheriff?”

Something cold flashed in his eyes. “No. I don’t make friends like that.”

“Then what’s this? Intimidation?”

“Warning.” His voice was low, steady. “You’re not from here. You don’t understand how this town works.”

“I understand fine. A sixteen-year-old girl’s dead, and everyone wants to pretend she tripped into the ocean. You don’t have to be from here to smell the rot.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away. For a long moment, it was just us and the sound of the gulls circling overhead.

Finally, he pushed off the truck and stepped closer. Not close enough to touch me, but close enough that I caught the faint scent of salt and tobacco clinging to him.

“Listen, Elise,” he said quietly, almost gently. “You poke too hard at this, you won’t like what you find. And the people who don’t want you finding it, they won’t like you either.”

I hated the way his voice scraped against something inside me. A warning wrapped in concern, not threat. Like he knew something I didn’t, something he wasn’t ready to tell me.

I tilted my chin up. “You think that scares me?”

“No.” He studied me, his expression unreadable. “I think it tempts you.”

The words sent heat rushing up my spine because they were true. I wasn’t just chasing answers, I was chasing the part of me I thought I’d buried. The detective. The fighter. The woman who didn’t know how to let go of a case once it sank its teeth into her.

I hated that he could see it so clearly.

He stepped back, giving me space again. “You want to know who killed Sadie? Don’t look at the ocean. Look at the men who own this town.”

And then he turned, slid into his truck, and started the engine.

“Wait,” I called.

The engine rumbled, but he leaned out the window, watching me with eyes dark as stormwater.

“Why tell me at all? If you think I should stop asking questions, why give me more to ask?”

For the first time, he almost smiled. It was faint, bitter, gone as quickly as it came.

“Because I know you won’t stop.”

Then he drove off, leaving me standing on the curb with my pulse hammering in my throat.

---

That night, the cottage felt smaller than ever. I replayed every word, every look, trying to piece him together. Hank Delaney. Fisherman. Local ghost. A man who appeared out of nowhere to warn me off a case he shouldn’t have cared about.

And yet, he cares.

The way his voice softened when he said my name. The flicker of something in his eyes when I mentioned Sadie. It wasn’t loyalty to the sheriff, and it wasn’t fear. It was… guilt?

The addict in me wanted to drown the questions in whiskey. The cop in me wanted to follow him straight to the marina and tear his secrets out with my bare hands.

Instead, I forced myself to sit. Breathe. Write.

The notebook pages are filled with questions.

Who exactly was Hank Delaney?

Why warn me instead of staying quiet?

What did he know about Sadie or about the “men who own this town”?

I fell asleep on the couch with the pen still in my hand.

---

The next morning, I went down to the marina. I told myself it was about the case, but I knew better.

The docks were crowded with fishermen and women who came to buy the fishes, ropes slapping against wood, gulls shrieking, men shouting as they hauled crates of fish. And there he was, at the far end, standing on his boat with the ease of someone who belonged to the sea.

He didn’t see me at first. Or maybe he did and pretended not to. He was working , coiling ropes, checking nets, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His arms were strong, I could see his muscles bulging as he bent to tie the nets together.

I hated the way my stomach knotted just watching him, and the heat I felt inside of me.

Finally, he looked up. And when his eyes met mine, it felt less like a coincidence and more like a storm rolling in.

Neither of us spoke. Not yet.

I could feel the tension between us, for a moment I forgot the reason why I came here. All I could stare at was his lips and for a brief moment I imagined how it would taste like.