Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Read online

  Oftentimes, that’s the subject of my nightmares—the fact that she’s gone and I can’t remember anything about her except what I can see in pictures.

  Slowly, my thumb traces over her tiny face, and a sigh works its way through my chest, popping like a latex balloon the second my landline starts to ring. The shrill tone pierces the air, startling me.

  I quickly close the box and shove it back into the nightstand, pushing the drawer and booking it to the phone. When I reach the landline, I make a mental note to move the lockbox to my boat, grateful that the Portland detectives missed it when they were searching.

  I don’t need more people thinking I’m crazy, and if they see the sketches, articles, and theories inside, they’ll have me committed.

  Thinking the caller is my mother or Daisy, I pick up without glancing at the caller ID, wincing when a different voice trickles in over the line.

  “Well, I checked out your alibi,” Detective Sloane chirps, the bright cadence of her voice making my insides twist tightly. “Either you’ve got these townspeople under some sort of spell, or you really were at Petey’s the night of the murder.”

  Monet trots over, parking at my feet and pushing his nose into my thigh until I start scratching beneath his chin.

  On the phone, I scoff, propping my shoulder against the wall. “I don’t make a habit of lying, Detective.”

  “No,” she agrees. “Just evading the truth.”

  Despite my annoyance, the corner of my mouth tugs up. “Is there a reason you’re calling? It’s well past midnight, and word on the street is I was cleared as a person of interest with the police department hours ago.”

  “I’m interested in you,” she blurts, and the whoosh of breath that crackles over the line makes my pulse skip, even as she begins backpedaling.

  I can practically envision the pink blush staining her pretty cheeks, and warmth slinks down my spine, collecting in my groin.

  “For the case, of course,” she rushes out, suddenly breathless. “I think you could be extremely beneficial in helping me find Alta May’s murderer.”

  Pinching my eyes shut, I suck in a deep breath, trying not to let my irritation bleed through.

  And failing.

  “I’m sure we’ve already established the fact that I want nothing to do with you or your investigation,” I say, my voice harder than I intend. But like an involuntary muscle spasm, I can’t seem to iron it out. “After the fucking week you’ve put me through, why would that change? You think I’m grateful that you finally did your goddamn job and cleared my name?”

  She speaks through her teeth—I hear it in the way her words are short and stilted. Forced. “My job isn’t to prove people innocent, Mr. Porter. It’s to find the guilty and make sure they’re brought to justice.”

  Fuck, why do I love her calling me that?

  I clear my throat. “Are those mutually exclusive job duties? No wonder you haven’t earned that special agent promotion yet.”

  Silence permeates the air, creating a stillness that unnerves me. It crawls over my skin, blistering where it touches, and I almost feel bad for the comment.

  “Doing your research, I see,” Sloane clips, some kind of shuffling happening over the line.

  My dick pulses at the thought of her calling me from her room at the Motel 6 near the edge of the island. Is she in bed, talking to me?

  Is she naked?

  Blinking myself from the onslaught of lewd thoughts depicting all the ways I’d like to have the detective splayed out on my mattress, I shrug, even though she can’t see me.

  “I’m nothing if not an informed target.”

  “You’re not a target at all!” she snaps, frustration seeping into her otherwise pleasant tone. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, but you refuse to freaking listen. All I care about is finding the person who killed one of your townsfolk. Doesn’t it concern you at all, the fact that the body was found in your trap, or do you really just not give a crap about anything but yourself? It could’ve been put there on purpose, for all we know, but I guess that doesn’t matter to you.”

  That ache in my chest opens back up, wider than before as it decays past the point of no return. The fact that the body had been wrapped tight in my trap hadn’t even fazed me, because frankly, it’s not the first time it’s happened.

  The lines are heavy, and buoys are dangerous. Every summer, I have to waste a catch to cut at least one kid free, and so I figured Alta May’s body had just been an unfortunate coincidence.

  But knowing she might’ve been put there on purpose draws my muscles tight, unease filling the pit of my stomach like concrete, thick and weighing heavily as it settles.

  “What do you mean, if it was planted?” I ask.

  “Don’t tell me an ex-SEAL doesn’t know what a possible plant looks like.”

  “Of course I do,” I snap, my already-thin patience waning. “I was just too busy being interrogated like a fucking terrorist to pay much attention to the optics.”

  She doesn’t respond immediately, and I wonder if it’s because she’s given me insight into the case that she probably shouldn’t have.

  “This is ridiculous,” Sloane says, a little incredulous laugh tailing the end of her sentence. “You’re ridiculous. Now I’m thinking you definitely bribed the bartender to tell me nice things about you.”

  My brows raise, my body stilling. “You talked to Isa?”

  “Yes, Mr. Porter. How else could I corroborate your story?”

  For some reason, the two of them interacting never even crossed my mind, although it should have, since Isa’s the only one who ever tends bar at Petey’s. The only one I’d trust to make my drinks, too.

  “She talked about you like you were God’s gift to this little town,” Sloane goes on, scoffing. “Frankly, I don’t see it.”

  I smirk to myself, my eyes darting to the front door when a howling wind rips through the air, heightening the feeling of Halloween on Skelm Island.

  “Easy there, killer. You sound jealous. Isa and I have been friends for a long time, I can assure you there’s nothing to get your panties twisted over.”

  A long, pregnant pause ensues, and then a peel of laughter comes from her. It’s maniacal and hyena-like, more mocking than amused, and I find myself frowning at my dog, wondering what the hell this girl’s deal is.

  “Goodbye, Lincoln.”

  The phone clicks off, and then it’s just me, Monet, and a dial tone, bleating until the noise goes white around us.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of doing this?”

  Glancing over my shoulder at Gabe, I watch as he pushes a wheelbarrow over to the flower bed adjacent to mine, dumping mulch on the brick edge. Turning back around, I yank the skeleton key from the bottom of a fake rock, pocketing it before he has a chance to see where Mr. Jensen keeps it.

  “Not really,” I say, getting to my feet and brushing dirt from my knees. “No one else is going to do it, so why not me?”

  “You mean, ‘why me?’” Gabe snorts, pushing a hand through his sandy hair as he tips his chin up, taking in the ruined glory of the old lighthouse. “It certainly doesn’t look like it once did, does it?”

  My jaw tenses, my eyes following the path of his up the white brick tower to the black cat walk. Chunks of stone are missing from the walls entirely in some places, algae and dirt a permanent reflection of the neglect this part of the island’s seen over the last eighteen years.

  It should probably have been condemned or archived with the Maine chapter of the US Lighthouse Society, but the rumors surrounding the lightkeeper ensure people steer clear.

  As far as I know, I’m the only one who’s visited this decade, bringing Paul Jensen his groceries and tidying up what I can of his yard, doing maintenance on things around the little white house across from the tower.

  At least, what I can do from the outside. He’s never let me in to do anything else, the now-gray-haired man sticking to the shadows, away from where the memories ca
n hurt him.

  I can relate.

  If the rest of the town knew I come up here, though, I’m not sure what they’d say about me, considering everyone thinks Jensen is this evil man. So, the only person who knows about this part of my life is Gabe.

  Add in the fact that I can put him to work on the days he needs to escape domestic duties, punishing him in some way for being a dick, and it makes the secrecy worth it.

  “Nothing looks the same as it ages,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest as I survey the garden we’ve just covered for winter.

  “I guess.” He shucks off his leather gloves, tossing them to the ground as he slides me a sideways look. “Your sister is still pissed at me, you know. For fucking up the investigation and involving you.”

  “Good. I’m still pissed about it.”

  He blows out a long breath, rubbing at a spot on his forehead. “I’ll do better, man. I’ve just... I don’t know. You ever hear of male postpartum depression?”

  I make a face, tension coiling in my stomach. “Are you trying to co-op my sister’s trauma?”

  “What?” Gabe frowns, his head snapping back. “Jesus, no. I’m just saying I think I might be affected, not that I have it worse than she does.”

  Working my jaw, I nod once. “Okay.” I pause, considering his excuse, thinking of the way Daisy’s once bright eyes now seem sunken into the deep crescent-shaped moons beneath them, how sometimes she drifts out of consciousness, checking out even when she’s in a roomful of people. “You gonna see a therapist or something?”

  He shakes his head, rubbing at that spot on his temple again. “Nah, us Wilsons have impeccable willpower. I’ll get over it, I just need a little time.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Rolling his eyes, Gabe kicks a rock in my direction. “Because you’re my friend, and normal friends talk about the shit going on in their lives. I don’t care if you want to or not.”

  Later, long after we’ve finished up with the outdoor tasks and get ignored by Mr. Jensen again when we knock on the door, Gabe heads back to the main part of the island, and I stay behind to clean up.

  And ruminate.

  Once I’m satisfied with the state of Mr. Jensen’s yard, I walk around to the back of the lighthouse, reaching into my pocket to produce the skeleton key there. My hands shake as I force it into the lock, turning gently as if this isn’t the entire reason I come here.

  It creaks open, that familiarly eerie wailing of the hinges winding up the stairs, echoing through the tower. With one hand, I push the door shut, flipping on a switch that just barely illuminates the small room and its dilapidated spiral stairs.

  At the top, I settle into the lightroom, hunkering down on one of the padded benches as I stare out across the Atlantic, remembering all the times I came here as a child to do this very thing.

  It’s an entirely different feeling when you’re here to mourn, though.

  Leaning over, I rip up the seat of the bench across from me, pulling out the burlap satchel hidden inside. I dump out its contents, catching the drawing utensils as they clatter onto my sketchbook.

  Propping it up on my knees, I take a graphite pencil and flip to a new page, determined this time to use the stress from the last few weeks to finally get her eyes right.

  As I begin, my wrist flicking softly against the stiff page, working through the kinks of not drawing recently, I lose myself in the memories, not hearing anyone else come in and ascend the tower until it’s far too late.

  Chapter 10

  The fog never leaves.

  At least, that’s the way it feels as I pull up to the gravel drive at the north end of the island.

  “So you won’t be back until this weekend?” I ask Alex, gripping the phone in my right hand and opening the car door with my left.

  Something pulls my insides as I stand from my vehicle, gazing at the white tower that sits at the edge of the cliff, and then to the small cottage across the rocky yard. I can’t quite pinpoint the feeling. Sadness, maybe? It just looks so... forgotten.

  Beautiful to be sure, but muted, the shine hidden beneath layers of grime and disuse.

  My mind filters through everything I’ve learned about the lightkeeper and his family since talking to Isa and various other people through the town.

  A beautiful wife and daughter, they said. Swept away by the storm as it raged against the rocks. Some people think it was his wife, Cindy Jensen, who did it—killed her daughter and then offed herself. They call her “crazy Cindy” even though she’s been missing for eighteen years, and the records I could dig up showed she suffered from schizophrenia.

  But the vast majority are sure it was Paul Jensen.

  If their anger over him still being free to roam is any indication of how he’s received in town, it’s no surprise he never leaves his house.

  “Sloane?” Alex’s voice snaps me back to the present.

  I shake my head. “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Where are you?”

  I start walking, the small pebbles crunching beneath my shoes. “I’m at the lighthouse.”

  “Damnit, Sloane,” Alex curses. “I told you to wait. If what they say about this Jensen guy is true, you shouldn’t be there alone.”

  Frustration wells like a geyser in the center of my chest. “I’m perfectly capable of doing my job, Alex, and of defending myself, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Well, in case you’ve forgotten, last time you checked out a place on your own you were held captive by a serial killer who wanted to collect your eyeballs as trophies.”

  I cringe. “Gross.”

  He huffs.

  “Well, what do you want me to do, Alex?” I continue. “You aren’t even coming back to the island for three days. You expect me to just sit and twiddle my thumbs? I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, well some of us aren’t fine,” he bites back.

  Guilt weaves its way around my middle, jerking me to a stop. Sighing, I run a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry.”

  He’s silent for a few beats. “For what, exactly?”

  For being stubborn.

  For getting caught by The Portland Dresser.

  For almost sleeping with you after.

  “For a lot of things,” I mutter. “But I really don’t think we have to worry too much about this guy.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  I shrug. “Call it a feeling.”

  The wood fencing that runs along the side of the path is worn and rotted, and I glance around, my gaze snagging on the small white cottage with fresh mulch in the flower beds and chipped red paint on the shutters. My heart twists violently, a throbbing ache forming between my temples.

  Great. Just what I need.

  “Sloane?”

  “I’m here.” My hand reaches up to rub at the sudden pain. “Sorry. My head’s killing me.”

  “So go home and rest,” he pleads. “I’ll talk to Sarge and convince him I’m needed there, and we can go question Jensen. Together.”

  I shake my head, even though he can’t see. “No way. Look, you know where I am.”

  “That didn’t stop anything last time.”

  “It also didn’t stop you from saving me.” I sigh dramatically. “My hero.”

  “Jesus Christ, Sloane. This isn’t a joke. If something happens to you… you know I lo—” He clears his throat, and my stomach falls, like a rock was dropped in the center.

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

  The tension bleeds so heavy it pours through the phone, wrapping around my throat and squeezing. “Don’t ask me to stay on the sidelines. Don’t ask me to…” I hesitate, my chest burning. “You know I can’t give you that,” I finally whisper.

  Alex heaves a heavy breath down the line, and I close my eyes, picturing him leaning against his SUV, a hand running through his hair. My gut cramps with regret.

  “Okay.... okay,” he finally says. “Pro
mise you’ll call me once you leave.”

  I lift my head to the sky, my heart skipping when a shadow floats across the windows at the top of the lighthouse tower.

  Nobody is supposed to be up there.

  “Yeah, promise.”

  Alex says something else, but for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you what, because my hand is already hanging up, my attention focused on the top of the lighthouse.

  I move closer, squinting my eyes as I try to make out shapes, but I come up short, almost as if there was never anything there to begin with.

  My gaze flicks over the grassy yard in front of the tower and across it to the small cottage, that same strange sensation from earlier sprinkling through my insides as I look at the home. My fingers grip my phone tighter as I walk away from the lighthouse, and toward the front door of the house instead.

  It’s quiet other than the sound of choppy waves crashing along the base of the cliff’s rocks, the salty cold breeze whipping through my hair, making the strands stick to my face. My footsteps stutter as pain splices through my head, making my brain dark and jumbled.

  I step onto the front porch of the house, the smell of fresh mulch stinging my nostrils—a sharp contrast to the decay of neglect that seeps from every other surface of the home. There isn’t a doorbell, so I knock, rocking back on my heels, an eerie feeling skating up my spine as I wait.

  No one answers.

  I knock again… still no answer.

  Moving to the window, I cup my hands over my eyes, leaning in and pressing my palms against the dirty glass to try and peer inside, but it’s as dark and dreary as the rest of the island.

  Huffing out a breath, I whirl around, my vision going to the top of the old lighthouse. Maybe he was the shadow I saw?

  The sun is barely peeking over the horizon now, and a chill skates across my skin as dusk settles in, my footsteps quickening as I make my way to the entry of the lighthouse and crack the door.

  It groans as it opens, and a breath of relief escapes me. I step inside the small room, my hands growing clammy and stomach tossing as I take in the dust-covered table that’s pushed into the corner and a lone wooden chair with a broken leg.