Unless it hadn’t been as extraordinary for her as it had been for him. But she had certainly seemed to enjoy it. She’d been the one Mrs. Filmore had heard shouting, not him. He’d only knocked over a few piles of books . . . and of course, in the moment, nearly told her that he loved her, because—in the moment—he was sure he did.

  Now he was glad he’d kept those words to himself.

  “Did you honestly call Tabitha Brighton’s parents?” Molly demanded in a cold voice.

  Okay. So she was mad.

  “Yes, I did.” He stepped forward into the light so that he could see her face. Yes, she was definitely mad. Behind the lenses of her glasses, her dark eyes were pools of flames. Her lips were set into a firm line of disapproval, as well. “She nearly died. I felt they had a right to be informed.”

  “She’s eighteen!” Molly cried. “She’s an adult!”

  “She’s a runaway,” he shot back, “who swiped her parents’ credit card, fell in with a cult, got pregnant, trespassed, vandalized your library, and nearly died giving birth. If she were my daughter and someone found her in the condition that you did, I would want to know about it. So yes, I found her parents and called them.”

  Molly had unfolded her arms and was now pacing up and down the length of the outdoor hallway, still sputtering. It was clear that Mrs. Filmore had gone back down to her room, but Fluffy the Cat had stayed behind and was now sitting in the doorway to Molly’s room, calmly licking a front paw and regarding them both with wide amber eyes that seemed to say, Wow, buddy. You sure screwed the pooch on this one.

  John couldn’t have agreed more.

  “You do realize that legally, she has a right to her privacy?” Molly demanded.

  “Of course. But she isn’t one of your library patrons, Molly. She’s involved in a criminal investigation.”

  This stopped Molly cold. She swung an incredulous look at him. “Are you going to press charges against her?”

  “Maybe, if that seems like the best way to get her to give up Beckwith. I think she knows where he’s hiding.”

  “John, she’s been traumatized!”

  “All the more reason for her to give up the person who traumatized her. I know you think because she’s eighteen, she’s an adult, but she isn’t acting like one.”

  “Well, maybe her parents are partly to blame for why she acts the way she does,” Molly said. “Maybe her parents are awful, and that’s why she ran away from them.”

  John had to admit that Molly had a point. Tabitha’s parents had seemed pretty awful—at least the father.

  He wasn’t going to say this out loud, however. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t like it.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never called the parents of a child,” he said instead.

  “I’ve threatened to, lots of times,” Molly said. “But I’ve never done it. Kids have a right to their own privacy—and their own autonomy.”

  “I agree—until they start hurting themselves, or others. And it isn’t true that you’ve never called the parents of a child. You came to me today with compromising photos of my daughter taken by one of your young patrons.”

  Molly stiffened. “That was different.”

  “How is it different?”

  “Because that was part of your investigation. That was to help solve it.”

  “So was calling Tabitha’s parents. I have to work my cases the way I see fit. Sometimes my methods may not be pretty, but they tend to work.” Except when they didn’t . . . case in point, Larry Beckwith III.

  “But Tabitha’s parents are probably who she was running away from in the first place, John! And now you’ve told them exactly where to find her.”

  “You don’t know anything about her.” John thought it was possible that he was going insane. She was making him insane. “You sat with her while she was bleeding to death and drifting in and out of consciousness, but that’s not the same as having a conversation with her, because believe me, if you had, you’d call her parents, and a social worker, and a shrink, and all the help you could get for her, because whatever has happened to that girl, it’s made her bananas.”

  Molly blinked, hard. “John,” she said, in what sounded to him like a tearful voice, “I think you should go now.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. It’s late, and I have to be at the library in the morning for a staff meeting. I think you should go.”

  Belatedly, he realized that she was genuinely angry. And also about to cry.

  “Molly, you’re not actually going to let this come between us, are you? Because I thought we had a very nice time this evening—”

  “We did,” Molly said. “Physically. But I’m not sure we connect on more basic levels.”

  “What’s more basic than what we did in there?” he asked, jabbing a thumb toward her room. “Where, I’d like to point out again, I think we more than connected.”

  “I’m talking about empathy.”

  If she’d struck him, he could not have been more surprised. “You think I lack empathy?”

  “I don’t know how much empathy you can have when you refer to a woman who’s been through what Tabitha has as bananas.”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised, he knew. She’d already called him amoral and unconscionable. Why not add lacking in empathy to the list?

  But he still stood there feeling as if he’d been gut-punched, while the cat slowly began to lick its other paw. Don’t look at me, buddy, the cat seemed to be saying. I don’t know what’s going on here, either.

  “I think if you’d actually had a conversation with her,” John said, desperately trying to salvage the situation, “you’d agree with me that Larry Beckwith has brainwashed Tabitha Brighton to the point that she is bananas.”

  It didn’t work. Molly had gone back into her room to fetch his gun belt. “I don’t think so,” she said, when she returned.

  He knew he should apologize, but . . . why? He hadn’t done anything wrong! At least, not technically. He was the sheriff. It was his case!

  “You can’t have it both ways, Molly,” he insisted. “You can’t demand that I publish my daughter’s photo in the paper and then also tell me not to contact Tabitha’s parents. I was right to call her parents, because she needs them. She does, desperately. And when you see that I’m right, you’ll . . . well, you’ll be the one bringing me pie. Banana cream pie.”

  He smiled, proud of himself for the witticism. A little levity might help the situation. It had always helped with Katie, and even Marguerite, when they got emotional.

  But he soon saw that it had definitely not helped now. He knew this the minute his gun belt came sailing at him.

  Fortunately, he caught it before it hit the wooden floor. She’d practically thrown it at him, which wasn’t good. It was never a good thing to throw firearms, even when they were holstered, with the safety on.

  “Not going to happen,” Molly said. She didn’t sound tearful now. She only sounded angry. “I’m going to bed. I think you should, too. Good night.”

  “Good night,” he said, and watched as she ducked into her room, slamming the door behind her, leaving him and the cat outside in the suddenly still, all-consuming darkness.

  The cat, unperturbed, yawned and sauntered toward him. John took a quick step backward, knowing what the cat intended to do—rub up against him and once again get its orange fur all over his uniform trousers.

  “No,” he said. “No way, cat.”

  He hurried down the steps to the hotel’s courtyard, fastening his belt as he went. The cat sat at the top of the stairs and watched him go with wide, unblinking eyes. John couldn’t help but think that the cat was judging him, much in the way he was judging himself. The evening that had started out as one of the best he’d had in as long as he could remember had ended in disaster.

  But how? He couldn’t understand it. What had he done? Violated HIPAA by calling a victim’s parents?

  What was so wrong with that? When it was during the course of an investigation, that was his job.

  And yes, maybe he had mentioned that Tabitha was a little bit off her rocker. But he wasn’t going to lie about the facts in a case. Facts were facts. That didn’t mean he was lacking in empathy. He had plenty of empathy!

  Just not for nitwits who went around breaking the law, putting the lives and property of innocent citizens at risk.

  If Molly Montgomery couldn’t see this, then maybe she was right, and they couldn’t connect on a basic level.

  Except . . .

  Except.

  Everything felt so right when they were together. So right and so good and so true.

  Only now that they were fighting, everything felt terrible.

  What was he going to do?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Molly

  Molly couldn’t sleep at all that night.

  Which was upsetting, because she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, either.

  In fact, she realized as she stumbled down to the kitchen the next morning to help Joanne set up the breakfast buffet, she’d been sleeping pretty badly ever since she’d found that baby in her library’s restroom and met the blue-eyed sheriff who was now haunting her dreams—when she did manage to snatch a few minutes’ sleep, which wasn’t nearly often enough.

  “So,” Joanne said, winking at Molly as she popped some of the Larsons’ famous blueberry muffins from their pan and onto a serving plate. “How did it go last night? I heard you had a visitor.”

  Molly smiled wanly. “Great.” It was impossible to keep anything secret in a small hotel or on an island as tiny as Little Bridge. Soon everyone would know that she and the sheriff had slept together. It was only a matter of time.

  Joanne beamed. “I knew it. I just knew you two were made for each other. You know why?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because you both take your jobs so seriously. Not many people find their passions in life, but the two of you really have.”

  “Hmmmm.” This was interesting. In fact, maybe they took their jobs a little too seriously. “Yes. Well.”

  Why had she lashed out at him that way? She didn’t know. Well, she did know, but now that he was gone, it seemed so unreasonable. So he’d called Tabitha’s parents. So what? He’d obviously felt that he needed to. He was right that he’d spent more time with the girl than she had. He had to know what her mental state was, and what he was doing. Didn’t he?

  Molly wasn’t sure. He was a man, and men were so . . . well, mysterious. No matter how many books she read, she didn’t think she’d ever understand them. Look at what had happened with her ex. Molly had thought she’d known him, and then he’d turned out to be someone completely different. Not that he’d cheated on her or turned out to be a gambling addict or a serial killer or anything like that. He’d simply assumed that after they were married and had kids, she was going to quit her career to homeschool them.

  Not that this was such a terrible thing. In some situations, homeschooling was preferable and/or necessary. And some people—like Eric’s new fiancée, Ashley, at least according to her social media posts—would be thrilled to commit their lives to it.

  But where had Eric gotten the idea that homeschooling a not-yet-existent child was something Molly wanted?

  Maybe she had simply never really known him, and he had never really known her.

  Well, she wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  It was just unfortunate that she’d already slept with the sheriff—well, not exactly unfortunate, because sleeping with him had been really fun. Better than fun. One of the best sexual experiences she’d ever had, if she were honest—before getting to know him better.

  Unless . . . well, unless he was right.

  But how could he be right? Who would refer to a young woman who’d been through what Tabitha Brighton had as bananas? That was just so insensitive. Who would call her parents when she so clearly had chosen a life far from them? Who would—

  “Oh, would you look at this?” Mrs. Filmore and her husband were the first people in the dining room for breakfast—as usual—and so were the first people to grab that morning’s Gazette and unfold it. “What a creepy photo!”

  “What’s it of?” grunted Mr. Filmore. He was never very talkative, but he was even less so before his first cup of coffee.

  “Look.” Mrs. Filmore held up the paper so everyone in the dining room could see it.

  And there, directly above the fold, was a full-color print of the photo Elijah had taken of Katie in her Snappette uniform, blowing a kiss, with Dylan Dakota lurking in the background.

  Beside the photo, in large black letters, screamed the headline:

  Have You Seen This Man?

  There was an article beneath it that was several paragraphs long, written by Meschelle Davies.

  Molly nearly dropped the bowl of pathetic-looking fruit salad she’d made.

  Katie’s image had not been cropped or blurred. Her face was clearly identifiable in the photo.

  “Good Lord,” cried Joanne, who was serving Mr. Filmore scrambled eggs. “That’s—”

  “Kathleen Hartwell,” Mrs. Filmore said, reading the caption below the photo. “‘Sixteen-year-old daughter of Sheriff John Hartwell, with image captured by Elijah Trujos of suspected High School Thief. Anyone with information on the identity of this man is urged to call the Sheriff’s Department.’ Oh my goodness, isn’t the sheriff the man who was visiting you here last night, Molly?”

  Molly set down the fruit salad bowl with a thump. “Y-yes.” She swallowed. “I . . . I . . . I better go.”

  “Molly?” Joanne called after her as Molly raced from the dining room. “Is everything all right?”

  “Fine! I just have a meeting. I’ll see you later!”

  Molly felt guilty for rushing off like that, leaving Joanne to deal with breakfast service alone (though Joanne’s husband, Carl, usually showed up to help later, after taking his sugar levels). But she simply couldn’t face the scrutiny of the Filmores, especially with Katie Hartwell’s photo staring up at her—the photo she’d insisted John give to The Gazette.

  She understood why he’d done it. His desire to catch the High School Thief was almost pathological.

  But what she couldn’t understand was why he hadn’t had Meschelle crop out Katie or blur her face. Though she had to admit, not doing so made the image much more startling. It was bound to get a good deal of attention. . . .

  This suspicion was proved true when she arrived at the library (late, of course) and found the staff there poring over The Gazette.

  “Oh my God,” Henry said when she walked in. “Did you see this photo on the front page of today’s paper? Isn’t this that girl who was in here the other day with her dad, the sheriff?”

  “Yes,” she said, with a tight smile. “That’s Katie Hartwell.”

  Molly regretted that she hadn’t called in sick for the day. She’d thought about saying that she had food poisoning or a migraine—anything not to have to face talking about John or anything, really, to do with what had happened over the weekend.

  But now she really, really regretted it.

  “This photo is so creepy!” Henry declared. Creepy appeared to be the word of choice to describe the picture that Elijah had snapped of Katie and the High School Thief. “I feel like I’ve seen this guy somewhere before, but I can’t think of where.”

  “Well,” Molly said, as she went to put her purse away. “If you do, you should contact the Sheriff’s Department immediately.”

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “But I feel like if I had seen someone that grotesque-looking, I would totally remember where.”

  “I don’t think he’s actually grotesque,” Phyllis said in her calm voice. “I think he merely appears that way because of the ominousness with which he’s looming in the dark behind the girl. Perhaps, in another setting, he would appear more normal.”

  Henry shook his head, still staring down at the photo. “No. No, I’ve definitely seen him before. But where?”

  “Maybe around the new library. We know he’s been hanging out there.”

  Molly picked up the phone at her desk and checked her voice mail while simultaneously scrolling through the emails on her desktop computer. She didn’t know what she was hoping to find—something from the sheriff, perhaps?

  But he had her personal cell. If he’d wanted to get in touch with her, he’d have called or texted that number.

  He hadn’t, of course. She’d already checked her phone a million times. Why would he bother to contact her when she’d made it so clear she wanted nothing more to do with him?

  There was one unusual message on her office voice mail, however. Molly stopped scrolling through her many emails when she heard it. A female voice, hesitant and oddly weak, said, “Hello, Miss Montgomery? Hi, this is, um, Tabitha Brighton. I’m the, um, person you found in the library? Anyway, they tell me you’re the one who saved me and, um, my baby. I just wanted to call and say, um . . . thank you. Thank you very much for what you did.”

  There was a long pause, during which it sounded like the girl was holding back a sob. And then Tabitha said, “That’s all. Just thank you.”

  Molly was so surprised—and moved—that she held on to the receiver for a second or two longer than necessary after Tabitha hung up, staring at her cluttered desktop, her eyes too watery with tears to see anything.

  “Are you all right?”

  The voice startled her, even though it was gentle. Molly turned to see Phyllis Robinette beside her, holding a cup of tea.

  “Oh, yes.” Molly hung up the phone and hastily wiped her eyes. “That was Tabitha Brighton, the mother of Baby Aphrodite, thanking me for helping her. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I never cry . . . except of course at the end of books.”

  “Well, you’ve had a rough few days.” Phyllis sank into the chair beside Molly’s desk. She was such a small woman that she easily fit into it. “I was going to say that you don’t look very well. Your color is off. Is something the matter?”