“John!”

  Thank God Molly had finally appeared, wearing a flowy white sundress and looking as fresh and as welcome as rain after a hot day.

  “Hello,” he said, forgetting Joanne and her guests and everything but Molly and her radiant smile. Then he remembered something else. “Here. I brought you these.” He handed her the flowers.

  Molly gasped as she took them from him. “Daisies!” Molly cried. “They’re beautiful! And my favorite. How did you know?”

  He didn’t know how he’d known. He just had. He wasn’t at all surprised to have been right.

  He was surprised, however, when Joanne and all of her guests (the women, anyway) let out a collective “Awwww.” He wanted to jump into the pool, sink to the bottom of the deep end, and not come out until he’d either drowned or they’d all gone away.

  “How beautiful,” Joanne said, setting down her tray of fish dip and taking the flowers from Molly. “I’ll put them in a vase for you. You and John go visit.” When Molly hesitated, Joanne waved her impossibly long, florescent-green nails at her. “Go on. I got this!”

  Molly laughed and took him by the hand, leading him away from the pool and toward a thatched tiki bar beneath the outdoor stairs she’d taken last night to get to her room.

  “Here, let me get you a drink,” she said. “What’ll you have?”

  “Beer is fine.”

  “Beer it is.” She slipped behind the bar and pulled out a bottle from an outdoor mini fridge. “Do you want a lime with that?”

  “God, no.”

  She laughed again and passed him the beer. “Sorry about that,” she whispered, nodding toward the still-gossiping guests, many of whom continued to look in their direction. “You know how it is. This place is like Disney World to them. Everything in Little Bridge is an attraction—including the locals. Seeing me with a man who’s brought me flowers is a bit like seeing the guy who plays Goofy without his head.”

  He looked at her. “I don’t think they see you as Goofy. Maybe one of the princesses, like Cinderella.”

  “Oh, and are you my handsome prince, here to rescue me from a life of drudgery?”

  Damn. He’d put his foot in it again. “I didn’t mean—that wasn’t what I—I meant because you’re so—”

  She laughed again, and reached out to lay a hand upon his wrist. “John, I was kidding. I wouldn’t mind being rescued from having to wash so many towels. But I couldn’t ask for cheaper rent or a more centrally located place to live, and Carl and Joanne really do need the help.”

  John nodded, thinking to himself that this would be a bad time to tell her about the apartment over the flower shop. Then it really would look like he was trying to rescue her.

  Instead, he said, changing the subject, “So, you texted that you had something to show me?”

  “Oh, yes.” She reached beneath the bar. “I’m afraid you’re not going to like it very much, though.”

  “Go ahead.” He sipped his beer, feeling extremely contented. It was nice simply to be in her company, even with a dozen pairs of eyes watching their every move. The waterfall by the side of the pool and jets in the hot tub were making a relaxing splashing sound, and the blossoms on the night-blooming jasmine had already begun to open and release their intoxicating scent. If he didn’t have to go home to see Katie, he’d happily hang out here all evening.

  “One of my patrons brought this into the library today,” Molly said, bringing a digital Leica out from beneath the bar. She must have noticed his expression change, since she added, quickly, “Don’t worry, it’s his father’s, not Mrs. Tifton’s. The time and date stamps on the photos on it prove it. That’s why I wanted to show them to you, though—the photos that he took on it last night. You’re not going to like them, but you need to see them.”

  Now John was beginning to feel less relaxed. His beer forgotten, he leaned forward against the bar to peer into the camera’s display screen as she switched it on. “Why am I not going to like them?”

  “Because,” Molly said. “They’re of Katie. Katie and the High School Thief.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Molly

  At first Molly thought John might be having a heart attack. He’d gone a little pale and his breath seemed to quicken as he scrolled through the photos on Elijah’s camera.

  “Are you—are you all right?” she asked, wondering if she should run for the emergency defibrillator that the Larsons kept in the kitchen. She’d taken enough job-mandated first-aid courses that she knew how to use it.

  She’d just always hoped she’d never need to.

  “I’m fine.”

  The words came out tonelessly. He hadn’t looked up once from the camera screen.

  “That is him, isn’t it?” Molly asked. “Dylan Dakota?”

  “That’s him,” John said. His gaze was still glued to the screen. “And my daughter.”

  “Yes. I guess Katie and her friends had a little photo shoot for some kind of cheer camp they’re applying to.” What was wrong with him? He looked so strange. “I think Dylan must have been skulking around in a lot of people’s backyards last night before he settled on breaking into Mrs. Tifton’s house. I bet there are other people who probably got footage of him on their home security cameras and maybe weren’t home and don’t even know it yet. I was thinking that if we sent this image over to Meschelle at the Gazette—”

  He finally looked up from the screen, and when he did, his blue-eyed gaze was troubled. “I can’t.”

  Molly was surprised. “But, John, why not? If Meschelle runs this photo on the front page, everybody will pay attention. It’s super eye-catching. This is much better than running a mug shot of the guy, which I’m sure you must have considered but can’t do because his lawyers would eat you alive. And this is a current photo and shows him in the act. Someone is bound to recognize him and realize that they’ve seen him somewhere around. Then they’ll call in and tell you where you can—”

  John pointed at one of the photographs—specifically at Katie, whose hip was thrust out as she blew a provocatively sexy kiss in the direction of the viewer, all while dressed in her very short Snappette skirt and halter top. “That’s my daughter.”

  Molly was still confused. “I know, but, John, I’m sure Katie will be happy to help. She’s an outgoing girl. She’ll love the attention.”

  “It isn’t that,” John said, staring at her as if she’d gone crazy. “I don’t want that photo of my daughter on the front page of our town newspaper.”

  Suddenly, it all became clear—why he was so taken aback by the photos. It wasn’t only the fact that Dylan was lurking around in the background in some of them. No, he was just as disturbed by Katie’s appearance.

  But while some of his daughter’s poses were a little suggestive, Molly didn’t think they were shocking. They were the same kinds of photos all the teens she knew were posting online.

  Poor Katie. It was hard enough on the kid that her mom had left just as she was hitting her formative teen years and now she was being raised by a single father.

  But being raised by the town sheriff? Molly hoped she hadn’t gotten her into too much trouble.

  “John, I’m sure Meschelle can have the photo cropped so Katie doesn’t show, or blur her face out, since she’s a minor,” Molly rushed to explain. “There’s no need to mention her name or show her at all.”

  He lifted his bottle to take a long swig of beer, staring at the photo and continuing to look pained. “I’ll have to think about this.”

  Molly didn’t find this response very reassuring. “Look, I know this must feel very personal to you now. How could it not? Dylan’s trashing my library was very personal to me, too. But we can’t let our personal feelings keep us from doing everything we can to find this guy. I really think letting Meschelle run this photo would—”

  He plunked down his bottle loudly enough to cause several of the hotel guests to turn their heads to see what was going on.

  “We aren’t going to do anything to find this guy,” he said. “That’s my job.”

  Before she could say anything else, he was lifting the camera and turning to leave. “Sorry, but I really better go. I said I’d meet Katie for dinner. This does help.” He waved the camera. “Thank you.”

  Molly had a sinking feeling that instead of helping, she’d made everything worse—especially any chance of their having any sort of relationship, romantic or otherwise. She struggled to find something—anything—to say to salvage the situation. “John, I’m sorry. I—”

  “No, really,” he said, and managed a tight smile over his shoulder as he strode off. “I mean it.”

  Then he was gone.

  Molly was certain he hadn’t meant it at all. Sighing, she turned her wounded expression toward Joanne, who was simultaneously sipping a margarita and pretending to be wiping up a spill on an outdoor table nearby, not eavesdropping.

  “Did I blow it?” Molly asked her.

  “Oh, honey, no.” Joanne was quick to rush to Molly’s side. “He’s just a man, and a protective one at that. Seeing his little girl like that—so close to that fellow he’s been trying to catch for so long—threw him for a loop, is all. And to find out about it from you, of all people!”

  “Why is it so bad that he found out about it from me? I was trying to help.”

  “Well, of course you were. But he likes you—he brought you flowers, didn’t he? So he wants to look good in front of you. And then you throw it in his face that he can’t even protect his little girl from that piece of lowlife scum—”

  “That isn’t what I meant to do at all!”

  “Of course you didn’t. Don’t worry about it. As soon as he catches that walking piece of phlegm, it will all blow over, and he’ll be coming back again with flowers to apologize.”

  Molly shook her head, thinking of the pain she’d seen in those blue eyes. “I don’t think he will.”

  “Oh, come on now. Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, because I wasn’t doing laundry just now. I was using your old computer up at the front desk to download that camera’s memory card. Because I kind of had a feeling he wouldn’t agree to send Meschelle those photos.” Molly shrugged sadly. “So if he doesn’t, I will, Joanne. I have to. I can’t let that guy get away with what he did to the library—not to mention that little baby and her mother!”

  Joanne took a long, reflective sip of her margarita. Then, after swallowing, she said, “Well, in that case, you’re right, honey. The sheriff probably won’t be coming back with flowers for you anytime soon.”

  Chapter Twenty

  John

  Sunday was Spaghetti and Meatball Night at the Mermaid Café, and no matter what else was going on, John always tried to make a point of taking Katie there, not only because many other local families showed up and it had a nice community feel, but because he loved spaghetti and meatballs.

  Katie was not the biggest fan of either spaghetti or meatballs, however. As a child, when presented with the dish, she had usually screamed until given buttered noodles and no meatballs instead. Now, as a sophisticated young woman, she merely ordered a Caesar salad with a few strips of grilled chicken on top for added protein.

  But John would not break with tradition, not even after the bombshell Molly Montgomery had dropped on him . . . the latest in a series of bombshells she’d dropped that were blowing his previously orderly life to smithereens.

  How and why did she keep doing this? He had never met a woman who was at once so attractive and so determined to destroy him. Had she come to this island for this purpose only, under the disguise of a friendly children’s librarian?

  It seemed so.

  Now he sat in one of the Mermaid’s orange-and-teal booths, watching as his daughter happily waved to her friends on the other side of the restaurant. At home, she would have been texting if he’d allowed it, but at the Mermaid, texting was really not allowed, as Ed, the owner, would throw out customers for cell phone use.

  John waited until Katie had had a few bites of her chicken and he knew she had something in her stomach and wasn’t still light-headed from all the calories she’d expended at the dance practice she’d been at all day. Then he pulled out the camera Molly had given him and said, “We need to talk about this.”

  Katie glanced down at the camera and said, “Isn’t that Elijah’s? He said his dad left it when he moved out.” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God. Don’t tell me he stole it. No way. I know Elijah’s a little weird, but he would never—”

  “I’m not talking about the camera.” John switched on the display screen. “I’m talking about these photos.”

  Katie blinked down at the screen. “Yeah. What about them?”

  He felt a surge of exasperation. “Katie, these photos . . . you look . . . they . . . you . . . the way you’re posing . . .”

  She rolled her eyes and turned her concentration back to her salad. “Dad, we were just goofing around.”

  “Yes, I can see that. But—”

  “We’re not posting them anywhere. Well, the headshots we’re going to send with our apps to cheer camp. But the rest of them were just for fun.”

  “Just for fun,” he repeated, looking down at a photo of all three of the girls lifting their skirts and mooning the photographer—presumably this Elijah person. They still had on their cheer shorts or whatever they were called beneath their skirts, but that wasn’t the point.

  “Come on, Dad,” Katie said, still laughing as she speared a crouton with her fork. “Don’t tell me you never did silly things in high school.”

  “I did,” he said, thinking of an incident involving a spear gun, some eggs, and an old friend’s car. “But we never filmed it.”

  “Well, times are different now.” Katie popped the crouton into her mouth. “Everybody films everything. It’s no big deal.”

  “It is a big deal,” John said, flipping through the photos until he found the one he wanted. “At least this time. This is why.” He showed her the picture of herself with Larry Beckwith in the background.

  At first Katie’s expression didn’t change. She said, “So what? I’m blowing a kiss. You know we all do that in the ‘Mack the Knife’ number—”

  Then her expression did change. She reached for the camera in order to bring the screen closer so she could get a better look.

  “Oh my God, Dad! Who is that guy? Is he spying on us? That is so gross! What a creeper.”

  “That,” John said, “is Larry Beckwith III, also known as Dylan Dakota.”

  “The guy you’ve been trying to catch for so long? The one who messed up the MTV house and the library? Oh my God, is he stalking me?”

  Katie looked more thrilled than frightened by the idea that she had a stalker. John sighed and reached across the table to take the camera from her.

  “No, he isn’t stalking you. He robbed a house near Sharmaine’s last night. We think he must have tried a number of homes before finding one that was unoccupied.”

  “So he’s creeping on Sharmaine?” Katie reached instinctively for her bag, in which she kept her phone. “I have to tell her right away. She’s always wanted a stalker. She’s going to die.”

  “You are not going to tell Sharmaine,” John said. “At least not yet. First of all, no cell phones in here, remember?”

  She glanced toward the sign by the Mermaid’s register:

  NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO PROBLEM.

  USE YOUR CELL PHONE? GET OUT.

  Then she sighed. “Oh, right. Darn.”

  “Second of all,” John went on, “this photo of you and Beckwith is now evidence. And there are certain people who think it should be submitted to the press so that the public can see it and help with the search for Beckwith—”

  Katie gasped. Unfortunately, she appeared to be gasping with delight, not horror.

  “Oh my God, Daddy, are you serious? What site? Is it BuzzFeed? When? Tomorrow?”

  He frowned. This was not going at all the way he’d assumed it would go. Although he should have known: his outgoing dancer daughter would love the attention—any attention.

  “The Gazette,” he said, and was bemused to see her shoulders slump in disappointment.

  “The Gazette? That only has like five thousand subscribers. And there’s a paywall. Hardly anyone is going to see it. And I’m really trying to build my brand—so is Elijah, by the way. Do you think you could get it onto the front page of the Miami Herald? Or on CNN? A lot more people will see it there. And make sure you use Elijah’s name as the photographer, Elijah Trujos. We all promised we would give him full credit if we used the photos for anything promotional.”

  John stared at his daughter. Was it possible that Molly Montgomery knew his daughter better than he did? She’d said that Katie wouldn’t mind the attention, and she’d been right.

  “Katie, your face is not going to be on the front page of any paper tomorrow because if I decide to turn the photo over to the media, I’m going to make sure your face is blurred out—”

  “Daddy, no!”

  “—for your own protection.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  “—and I certainly won’t allow them to use either your or Elijah’s names, because you are both minors, and I don’t want you to be forever associated with this case or that man.”

  “But, Daddy, I look really good in that photo. I’m in my Snappettes uniform and everything. Think of all the donations it could bring to the team!”

  John shook his head. “That is exactly what I’m worried about. Do you have any idea how many sexual predators there are who would love to see a photo like that and track down the girl in it?”

  “Ugh, Daddy.” Katie pouted. “I don’t understand how you can be such a boomer when you were actually born in the eighties.”

  He pointed at her. “For that, you get no dessert, young lady.”