Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Read online

  Those icy eyes widen the second the words leave her lips, as though they weren’t planned at all, and I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the taste of copper floods my mouth, staving off the need for a sarcastic remark.

  “Great. Glad you stopped by.”

  I grunt, using my elbow to close the lid, gripping the three grocery bags in my arms. Sloane starts after me, the soft crunch of her black flats loud as she follows.

  “Wait!” Fingers curl around my bicep, stronger than I’d anticipated. It burns where she grips me, her touch incinerating as it bleeds through my flannel. Clearing her throat, she slowly lets her hand fall, reaching up to push some of her brown hair from her shoulder. “I was hoping I could talk to you.”

  Pausing with one foot on the porch, I glance back, keeping my face blank. “I’ve answered all of your questions.”

  She blinks. “I... well, about the case, yeah. But I was hoping to maybe get to know you.”

  I bristle. “No thanks.”

  Stepping onto the porch, I make a beeline for the front door, wanting to disappear inside before my mother notices Sloane’s presence.

  “Look,” I hear the detective say, her lilted voice carrying on the slight breeze. “I came here as me today. No partner, no badge, no gun. Just me, a girl trying to do her job.”

  I freeze, my hand suspended as it reaches for the doorknob. My brain tries to rebel against reacting, logic reminding me that this woman is a master at deception. That she’s trained to get a rise out of people.

  And yet, my body spins anyway, pinning her with a dark look. “You came here without a gun? Without your badge?”

  For some reason, the idea of her being completely vulnerable draws the muscles in my chest tight, cinching them like a stitched-up wound.

  Shrugging, she tugs on the hem of her red blouse. “They’re in my car.” She points over her shoulder to a little red Honda parked down the street. “I just thought this way might be easier.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I bend, setting the groceries down on the glass patio table beside the door. I smooth a hand over my collar, then walk slowly back over to her, stopping a breath away.

  So close, I can smell her vulnerability. Can see the slight quiver in her pulse at the base of her throat when I’m near, proving that I’m not the only one who’s affected by whatever this energy is between us.

  “I’m not interested in letting you get to know me,” I say, raking my eyes down her curves before meeting her gaze and refusing to drop it. “Unless you’re offering the biblical sense of the term?”

  She doesn’t even flinch, for once maintaining eye contact. “I’m not, but I do have a warrant to search your home.”

  Chapter 8

  I should have known that trying to butter up Lincoln wouldn’t work. He’s an enigma; one that drives me insane but also fascinates me. I want to figure out how to break him open, like a rock you crack to see if there’s crystal inside. But there’s also a part of me that cowers away from his intensity. Something about his eyes, the way they seem to drag up my soul until it scratches beneath my skin that makes me want to run far, far away.

  The dichotomy of both leaves me reeling.

  But I have a job to do.

  We tore apart his boat but came up blank. Someone definitely scrubbed it clean, and with Lincoln refusing to cooperate—to give us anything to go off of, what other conclusion can we come to except that he was the one to clean it?

  It was enough for a judge to grant a warrant.

  Captain Stoll put up a fuss, not wanting to deal with Lincoln’s mom, or with the town’s ire from messing with the beloved Porters. And as much as I’d like to give in, to wash my hands of Lincoln Porter once and for all, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t hit every nook and cranny to make sure his name is cleared.

  His anger toward law enforcement and his unwillingness to sit down and even help aid the investigation makes things difficult.

  And him leaning against the wood-paneled wall of his cabin, staring daggers into my back while I lead the search of his home doesn’t help either.

  I huff, standing up straight, the ends of my ponytail swiping across my upper back. “All clear in here,” I holler to Alex in the other room.

  Various uniformed badges—most brought in from Portland—are wading through Lincoln’s small eight-hundred square foot cabin attempting to find... something. Or maybe hoping to find nothing at all.

  My eyes glance to Lincoln, irritation slinking its way through my middle. Monet sits dutifully by his side, his happy demeanor from the dock gone, and in its place, a stiff back and raised hair, as if he’s mirroring Lincoln’s emotions about the unwelcome intrusion. Lincoln’s hand reaches down, absentmindedly rubbing Monet’s head.

  I blow out a breath, something warm tugging on the center of my chest. Maybe I’ll try to get through one more time.

  “You live here all alone?” I ask, walking toward him.

  He grunts but doesn’t respond, his eyes hard as stone, flickering from me to the men tearing through his personal belongings.

  “It’s nice,” I try again. “Homey.”

  His head snaps back to me, and my heart stutters as he trails his gaze from the tips of my toes, moving them agonizingly slow all the way up my body until they lock on mine—a fire burning in his stare.

  “Was homey,” he says.

  “Pardon?”

  He straightens off the wall, moving forward until he’s right in front of me, the heat of his body sticking to my skin. What is it about this man and getting into my personal space?

  “I said it was homey,” he repeats. “Before you and your… friends came and turned it into a sty.”

  My fists clench and I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay put, even though the urge to smack him in the face is so strong it stings my palms. He is such an asshole.

  “You think I want to be here?” I step in closer. “You think I want to be around someone who makes me feel like dirt under their shoe? You think it feels nice being on the end of so much hatred, when you damn well know I’m just here doing my job?”

  My chest brushes against his with every exhale.

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Lincoln,” I continue. “But I’m trying to catch a murderer.”

  He chuckles. “You’re doing a pretty shitty job.”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek, cocking my head as I take him in. “Maybe that’s the issue, isn’t it? The reason why you’re so angry all the time. Why you don’t answer any of our questions, or want to help us at all.”

  His jaw tics.

  Fiery satisfaction races through my veins at the realization that I’m affecting him. “I think that’s it. You don’t want us to solve this case.” My finger pokes his chest.

  He leans down, his energy wrapping around me like a straitjacket, his breath ghosting across my lips as his gaze slices through mine. “You don’t know shit about what I want.”

  My stomach flips and I rip myself away until I’m at a safe distance, drawing in a deep breath to settle my nerves. “And you don’t know the first thing about homicide,” I reply. “So either help, or get out of my way so I can do my job.”

  He smirks. “Easy, killer. The faster you get this done, the quicker you’re out of my fucking life.”

  “God, you’re so difficult,” I complain, my muscles tensing. “I’m trying to get out of your life, but you have to work with me for that. So, tell me you were out with friends, or that you cleaned the boat because you needed to, or… just give me something, Lincoln.”

  “Don’t call me that,” he snaps.

  I sigh, raising my head to the ceiling. “Mr. Porter, give me something so I can clear you. Stop fighting this so hard and let me help you.”

  His hand reaches down and pats Monet’s head as he works his jaw back and forth, as if he can’t decide between making my life miserable or making his life better.

  Finally, he runs a big palm down his face and groans. “I was at
Petey’s.”

  “Petey’s?”

  He bobs his head. “The bar down on Main.”

  My heart kicks in my chest. “From what time?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a nightcap and then...” He purses his lips. “Probably until midnight.”

  I nod, taking in his words. This is good. The autopsy showed Alta May had been dead for at least eight hours by the time she was drug up from the water. And if I can corroborate Lincoln’s story, that means that he isn’t the killer.

  “Why didn’t you tell us this from the get-go?” I ask.

  His gaze hardens into stone. “Because my life is none of your fucking business. Now do what you need to do and get the hell off my property.”

  “Do you remember your twelfth birthday party?” my mom’s tinkling voice asks through my phone.

  I lean back in the driver’s seat of my Honda, staring at the entrance to Petey’s.

  “Maybe?” I scrunch my nose.

  She laughs. “Well, we invited all your friends from school over, but the only thing you wanted to do was sit next to your aunt Cammie and beg her to let you come along with her to work, help her ‘solve the cases.’”

  I roll my eyes, my heart faltering at the mention of my aunt, but an image appears in my head of the day she’s talking about. “Yeah.” I smile. “I remember. It’s not my fault the kids in our town weren’t as exciting as open investigations with CPS.” My lips turn down. “Not that Aunt Cammie ever let me help.”

  My mom chuckles again. “Yeah, well… she was just as protective of you as I am. May she rest in peace.” She sighs. “But I knew then that you were gonna do something great. Something to help people. I just wish you would’ve picked something safer.”

  My teeth sink into the skin of my cheek, frustration bubbling in the center of my chest. “As always, Mom, I appreciate the concern. But this is what I love.”

  “Yeah, well, forgive me for not wanting you to end up in a serial killer’s basement again.”

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, my fingers tighten on the phone. “Listen, I’m actually working now, so I gotta go. Tell Dad I love him.”

  “Okay, love you, baby. Be careful.”

  Click.

  I love my family, but it’s conversations like this that make me happy Alex is the one who went back to Portland to debrief Sarge. Mom would have guilted me into a visit where I would have had to sit there and listen to her complain about all the ways my job is too dangerous.

  Both of my parents have always been extremely protective, but as I grew older, my dad realized I was an adult, capable of making decisions. Now we just need my mom to get on board.

  Brushing away the annoyance, I turn off the engine and slide from my car. My shoes crunch over the gravel of the lot as I walk toward the run-down building, my eyes glancing around, taking in the two vehicles in the otherwise empty lot.

  Despite the faded green siding and the painted on Petey’s Tavern in red, there’s a charm that exudes from its foundation, and a smile spreads across my face as I open the door and walk into the dim lighting of the bar. Something about this place makes me feel nostalgic.

  Guns N’ Roses plays softly from the jukebox in the corner, and red booths line the walls, a few round high-top tables in the center.

  All of them empty.

  In fact, the only people here are two guys sitting at opposite ends of the bar, and a woman behind the counter, her tattooed arms waving in front of her while she talks to one of the patrons. I maneuver around the tables until I get to the bar, sitting down on one of the stools. Idly, I wonder if it’s always this slow, or if it’s due to the fact that it’s midday. A comfortable warmth spreads through my chest as I imagine the room bustling with locals, laughter and gossip spinning webs through the air in the way only a small town can.

  The bartender glances toward me. She smiles, her curly black hair bouncing in her high ponytail as she makes her way over.

  “You’re a new face.” She grins wider. “Don’t get too many of those around here. What can I get—?” She stops in front of me, her words trailing off as she takes me in.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry it’s just…” She swallows. “Your eyes are really beautiful.”

  My cheeks flush, a smile cracking across my face. “Thank you.”

  “They’re like blue ice,” she continues, leaning in until I fidget under her stare. “I’ve only…” She pauses, shaking her head. “Doesn’t matter. What ya drinking?”

  “I’m actually not here to drink. I’m here to ask some questions.”

  Her body stiffens. “What kind of questions?”

  “About your town.” I shrug. “The people in it.”

  “You some kinda journalist?”

  “No. I’m afraid I’m worse.” I lean in. “A detective.”

  “Hmm,” she grunts. “You here for Alta May, then?”

  “I’m here to help give her justice, yeah.” I nod. “You wouldn’t happen to have been the bartender here on Sunday night, would you?”

  A bang sounds from the back and she spins.

  “Isa! How many times do I gotta tell you we’re out of chicken tenders? Quit ringing them in!”

  She rolls her eyes and hollers back. “Archer, I swear to God, quit lying. Jordan wants some tenders, so he’s gonna get his damn tenders.”

  She scoffs, turning back around and forcing a smile. “Sorry. Archer’s lazy as shit.” She points to the back again. “But yeah. This is my bar. I’m always here.”

  “And was Lincoln Porter here?” I ask, my stomach tensing.

  Her lips purse, her brows drawing in. “Linc? Yeah, he was here most of the night. Why? He’s not…” Her eyes widen. “Miss Detective, ma’am. With all due respect, you better watch your tone when you come here and ask questions about Lincoln Porter. That man is an all-American. A hero.”

  I smile. “So I hear.”

  “Hero, my ass,” a voice from the end of the bar spits.

  Twisting to the side, my eyes meet the steely gray of an older gentleman with graying hair and a beard covering his face, hunched over a dark beer.

  “Jordan, watch your mouth. You don’t have to like him to recognize his service,” Isa says.

  “You don’t like Mr. Porter?” I ask, unable to stem the curiosity at someone other than me finding fault with the man.

  He sips from his drink, his lips smacking as he swallows before he spins on his chair. “I liked Mr. Porter just fine, was one of my closest friends. It’s his son I have a problem with.”

  “And Mr. Porter is…” I trail off, my brows rising.

  She sighs, tapping her nails on the bar top. “He’s dead.” She glances around before leaning over the bar, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But if you’re looking for people to question? You might want to take a look at Paul Jensen.”

  The name sounds familiar and I scan my brain trying to think of why, but I come up blank.

  “Oh?” I tilt my head. “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the lightkeeper.” She straightens.

  Confusion swirls through me, my forehead scrunching. “I thought the lighthouse was inoperable.”

  “It is.” Her brows raise, her long red nail tapping on the bar top. “But it wasn’t always. I used to be friends with his little girl back when we were kids.” Her eyes go out of focus, her lips turning down.

  “He has a daughter?”

  “Not anymore.” She gives me a close-lipped smile, and a chill skates down my spine. “Not since he killed her.”

  Chapter 9

  I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in years, and after Detective Sloane and her cronies turn my house inside out, it only seems to get worse. Two cups of peppermint tea and a dropper full of CBD oil later, and I’m still wide awake as I sit in my dad’s old rocker on my front porch, staring up at the moon.

  Or, rather, the lighthouse just beneath it; the black bonnet of the towe
r disappears into the night sky, practically kissing the constellations.

  Once upon a time, that was my favorite place to be—probably because we weren’t technically supposed to go up there. Morgan’s dad never cared, but her mom had an irrational fear of us plummeting to our deaths on the catwalk.

  Well, maybe it wasn’t irrational. But no one took the woman seriously back then, because that fear was just one of many.

  A forlorn pang scratches at my chest, and I reach up with a fist, trying to massage it away. But like all invisible wounds, this one continues festering, souring my mood as my mind replays the sound of belly laughs and whispered confessions over pinky promises.

  The memory of something pure. Maybe the last pure thing in my life.

  Too early, I learned how easily it can all be ripped away.

  Pushing up out of the rocker, I swing open the screen door and head back inside, Monet following. Walking into the bedroom, I kick off my black house shoes and yank my T-shirt over my head, tossing it into the laundry basket in the corner.

  Flopping down on the edge of the bed, I lean over to pull open a drawer in the pine nightstand, rifling through the items inside until I get to the metal box at the bottom. I remove it slowly, my hand shaking with the effort it takes not to abandon ship, and place it in my lap, smoothing my fingers over the gold engraved lettering on the lock.

  Miss you, Pops.

  Tapping my fingers on the black edges, I hesitate for just a moment, my heart lurching into my throat. It sets up camp until I can scarcely breathe, anxiety filtering through the cracks of my brain as I wrench the box open.

  Loose photos and clippings fall out, and I bend to pick them up, my eyes catching on the top photograph—a playground picture I’ve practically memorized at this point. I scan the familiar faces, Gabe, Oliver, and me in the back, giving bunny ears to Morgan and Isa, the fifth member of our little group, as the two girls hug each other.

  My chest pinches as I stare into Morgan’s soft eyes, crinkled with laughter, wishing the picture wasn’t black and white so I could remember the exact hues of her irises.