Gabe looks a little unhinged, and I remember the elation he’d been feeling that day. How he kept saying getting married felt like an out-of-body experience. One he’d never planned on having in his lifetime.
“Life’s short, you know?” My mother says now, poking me with her index finger. “Complications are always gonna exist. I’ve found they’re easier to navigate with someone at your side.”
I nod, trying not to focus too much on the fact that my complications are a little more extravagant than hers probably ever were, and instead I let her advice sink in when I leave the house at nightfall and head back to my cabin.
Monet sits on the porch as I cut the truck engine, fatigue bearing down on my bones as I make my way inside. Alex is nowhere to be seen when I latch the door shut behind me, which tells me he’s either at the station still, or asleep in the makeshift guest room.
Just as well. I’m not interested in seeing the fucker when he knows damn well what he interrupted at the church earlier.
Slipping out of my shoes, I tuck them in the corner and pad silently down the hall, Monet’s dog tags clanking together as he mounts the sofa, turning in for the night.
I reach the end of the hall and slowly push open my bedroom door, aware that doing so crosses another invisible line.
More than crosses it, even—joining Morgan tonight solidifies the things I told her at the church, makes them more permanent.
‘Acta non verba,’ as Preacher Cartwright used to say after every youth service. Actions speak louder than words—and mine are fucking screaming as I walk in, kicking the door shut with my foot.
Morgan’s curled up in my bed, the covers twisted around her thighs, as if she’s partway through a restless sleep. I approach her slowly, my heart leaping into my throat as I get closer, noting the SEAL T-shirt she’s wearing.
My shirt.
Fuck, if the sight of her wearing my shit doesn’t unspool my resolve.
Smoothing along the curve of her hip, trying to memorize the feel of her in my palm, I pull the comforter up over her. She lets out a little sigh of contentment, nuzzling deeper into the pillow, and I move to undress myself so I can climb in beside her.
At this point, I guess it doesn’t really matter whether she’s the lightkeeper’s daughter or not.
She consumes my every fucking thought, lights me up like stars in the sky, anyway.
Maybe it’s better if I don’t know.
And so, for tonight, I force my spiraling thoughts to quiet as I crawl onto the mattress and flip onto my side. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I yank her hips back so her ass nestles perfectly against my dick, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
For tonight, I’ll accept this for what it is.
Something real among the lies and deception this town seems to be full of.
And I’ll have to hope it’s enough.
Chapter 36
“Run.”
My eyes spring open. I try to shoot up to a sitting position, but something keeps me still.
“Ssh, killer. It’s just a dream.” A hand smooths over the back of my hair, and even though the smallest bit of sweat drips across my brow, a chill skates through me from the nightmare. My heart races so fast I can hear it in my ears, the sound drowning out common sense as I struggle against the hold I’m in.
“Morgan.” The voice tries again, the grip around my middle tightening further and pulling me against something hard.
I suck in mouthfuls of air, gasping in breaths to try and calm down my nervous system. Reason slowly filters back in as the fight-or-flight response eases.
“It’s okay.” The voice soothes.
It’s only once I’m calm that I realize who it belongs to.
Lincoln.
I’m not sure what he’s doing in here—even though it’s his bedroom—he’s never impeded on my space like this while we were staying in his home.
My heart stutters, still kicking against my chest as I lean back against him, curling my body into the edges of his, allowing his embrace to cocoon me in its warmth and provide a sense of safety that I haven’t felt in years. Maybe ever.
My fingers trail up and down his forearms; the ones that are currently strapped around my waist like a life vest, and my eyes follow my movement as I trace over his tattooed skin.
“Do these mean something?” I ask, my voice cracking from sleep.
His breathing is soft, and when he speaks, the tone rumbles through my back and vibrates into my bones, like we’re two halves of a whole, existing solely in this moment.
“They do,” he replies.
“What’s this one?” I run my hand over a black and white skeleton of what looks like a frog.
He blows out a heavy breath, his arms tightening around me. “That’s a bone frog. It was the first ink I got when I came home.”
I scrunch my brows. “You didn’t get these when you were enlisted?”
“Tattoos are IDs, killer. You should know that.”
“And you didn’t want to be ID’d?” Something heavy settles in my chest when I realize what he’s saying. That he couldn’t get tattoos because he needed anonymity as a soldier.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my back. “The places they sent me? Being ID’d would be a quick way to get killed. SO1s weren’t exactly welcome.”
“What’s an SO1?”
“Special Warfare Operator.”
My stomach churns. “God, that seems… intense.”
He swallows audibly. “It was.”
“So, what’s the bone frog mean?”
He hums, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of my shirt and tracing designs on my stomach. “Honor, sacrifice and service.” He pauses, his breath stuttering. “For all of my fallen brothers.”
I wait to see if he’s going to elaborate, but he doesn’t and I don’t want to push, still slightly worried that his guard will go back up and ruin whatever is brewing between us. And after I got home from hauling in a very volatile Paul Jensen, I realized that I didn’t want it to stop. Because for all the ways Lincoln is stubborn, and harsh, and rough around the edges, he’s also my constant.
The one person I can trust to be exactly who he is. And the only one I don’t feel as if I’m letting down with every single one of my decisions.
“Did you draw all of them yourself?” I continue, needing something to keep my mind off the nightmare that’s haunting the corners of my mind.
He hums again, his lips coming down to press against my neck, sending shivers racing down my back.
“What was your nightmare about?” he redirects.
My brows draw in as my chest pulls tight. I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that. Even when I was a kid, and my parents stayed up at night, holding me through the terror, they never once pried into what it actually was, probably assuming they were just silly kid dreams of clowns and monsters under the bed.
“I’m not sure,” I say back. My gut squeezes. “I have them a lot though. Same one since I’ve been a kid, so you’d think I’d have it figured out by now, but it’s just…”
“A dream?”
A small smile breaks across my face. “Yeah… I guess.”
It grows quiet, nothing but the sound of our breathing and the warmth that cascades around me, radiating off his skin and sinking into mine. And this is nice. Feels like we’re almost… something.
More than just lust and tension exploding into a tragic loss of common sense.
I twist around in his arms, my eyes meeting his, my stomach somersaulting from his stare. My fingers move, skimming from his arms up to the tops of his shoulders, my eyes locking on the black roses that spread out across his bicep and over his chest, reaching for his heart.
“What about these?” My heart sticks in my throat while I ask.
I need him to say it’s nothing. I’m desperate for him to prove that it’s just a coincidence, so I can continue to brush off his theories as if they’re just ramblings of a man stuck in his grief.
/> But even before he replies, I know that’s not what he’ll say.
“They’re for Morgan.”
I close my eyes, my gut roiling. “Of course they are,” I whisper.
“Cindy loved to garden.”
“Who’s Cindy?”
“Her mom,” he says. “The cottage out at the lighthouse used to be overflowing with flowers. Ones that weren’t supposed to even be able to grow in Maine.” He laughs, shaking his head. “But she always had a green thumb, and even as she lost herself to her madness… I think she must have found her sanity in the roses.”
“She had schizophrenia, right?”
“Yeah. She was… broken.” His jaw clenches. “And this stupid fucking town made it worse. Always calling her names, badgering her in public, pretending like her mental illness was something contagious. Like it was her fault for being sick.”
A burn radiates through my chest, an ache of sympathy singeing through my insides as I imagine anyone going through that.
“Morgan was bullied by a lot of the kids around here, simply because of who her mother was.”
My stomach sinks.
“I used to meet her up in the lighthouse tower.” He smirks. “You know the room.”
Scoffing, I smack his chest. “Please, be serious. I want to know.”
He chuckles, his fingertips skimming up my spine. “I had known Morgan my whole life, you know? She was my person. She was my best friend. The most innocent time of my life, ripped away when she was.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and I lean my head on his chest, listening to the beats of his heart while he continues.
“Her mom grew a lot of flowers, but Morgan’s favorite were these roses. They were like this… deep purple, but from far away they looked pitch black. And every time we’d meet, she’d bring me one. Thanking me for being her friend.” He hesitates, his voice breaking when he speaks again. “As if she needed to bribe me to want to stick around.”
“Anyway,” he clears his throat, looking down at me and pressing a kiss to my forehead, his brow rising. “None of that rings a bell?”
My insides twist as I shake my head, not wanting to tell him that every time I dream, it’s of black roses.
We arrested Paul Jensen, but can only hold him for forty-eight hours.
Alex handled yesterday’s questioning, but to no one’s surprise, Mr. Jensen wasn’t cooperative. Kept his lips sealed and hasn’t said a single, solitary word since he’s been here.
Not even trying to prove his innocence.
Technically, we have nothing to prove his guilt either.
But the arrest did what it was supposed to do. It calmed down the town enough for them to pack up their picket signs and go back home. And it let us bring in Paul to question. There’s a team going through the lighthouse cottage and the lands that surround it as we speak, but unless they find something solid, Paul Jensen will be a free man again in less than twenty-four hours.
As I walk into the room, the same one that I first met Lincoln in a few weeks back, a tendril of apprehension winds its way through me, as if my soul is trying to warn the rest of me to be on guard.
The heavy door slams behind me, clicking shut and echoing off the bare walls. My shoes clack, clack, clack, as I make my way to the metal table in the center of the room, nothing on it except for the weight of Paul Jensen’s stare as he watches me sit down across from him.
My insides tighten and I shift in the seat, clearing my throat. I lay down the folder and rest my elbows on the table, looking up at him and forcing a smile on my face.
“Hi, Mr. Jensen. How ya feeling?”
His face stays blank as he stares at something behind me, his eyes unfocused and dazed.
Okay, then.
“You thirsty? Hungry?” I try again.
Still nothing.
Not that I expected anything less.
Blowing out a breath, I lean back in my chair, chewing on the inside of my lip. “Yeah, you’re right. This sucks.”
I take off my badge that’s clipped to my belt and toss it on the table, watching his eyes follow the movement, his gaze narrowing like the piece of metal personally offended him.
“You don’t like cops,” I note. “It’s fine, I get it. With the ones you have to deal with in this town? Who could blame you.”
He grunts and a flash of victory speeds through my chest.
“But, you know what they say,” I continue. “When you’re down on your luck, you gotta find luck in the people at your side.”
His gaze snaps up to mine. “What?”
My eyes widen slightly when he speaks, my stomach jumping.
I watch his facial features carefully as I repeat my words. “I said I don’t blame you.”
He shakes his head. “You said ‘when you’re down on your luck…’”
“Oh, yeah.” I smile. “When you’re down on your luck, you gotta find luck in the people at your side.” I shrug. “It’s true, you know? No one here besides me can help you, Mr. Jensen. And I want to help you.” I lean in. “Between you and me, I don’t think you did it.”
His mouth is parted slightly as he stares at me, the color draining from his face, but he covers the action, sitting back in his chair, his features smoothing. “Where are you from, Detective?”
“Portland.” I grin, hope flaring to life in my middle. He’s talking. “And you? Have you always lived here?”
He nods. “You have beautiful eyes. I bet you get told that a lot.”
My stomach cramps, unease billowing through me like a storm cloud. “Thank you,” I reply.
“They from your mom or your dad?” He tilts his head.
Nerves buzz beneath my skin. “The perfect mix of them both.”
I smile when I repeat the words I’ve heard my dad say a thousand times—whenever someone would ask how my eyes were so icy blue when neither of theirs matched.
Mr. Jensen’s gaze doesn’t leave me for long moments, and as much as I want to fidget, I force myself to stay still. To not cower beneath his stare.
“I didn’t kill anybody,” he finally says.
I blow out a breath. “The bodies on your property tell a different tale.”
“Do you know how many stupid kids come out onto my property with no damn regard for personal safety or privacy?”
I scrunch my brows. “I thought everyone was afraid of the lighthouse. Don’t they say it’s haunted?”
“There’re no damn ghosts, Detective. The only things that haunt that lighthouse are my memories.”
My stomach sinks, knowing I’m about to prod at his wounds. “I’m so sorry about your loss, Mr. Jensen. The town probably doesn’t make it easy on you, does it?” I shake my head. “Lots of people gave your wife and daughter a hard time, didn’t they?”
His jaw clenches.
“No one would blame you for thinking they deserved it.” I lift my brows. “For thinking they had sealed their fate with their actions.”
His bottom lip trembles, but he clears his throat and the sadness washes away, almost like it was never there in the first place. “The only fate I’m interested in is being reunited with my family.” His voice breaks. “With my baby girl.”
Emotion slams into my chest, hard and fast, my vision blurring as an image hits me so quickly my head spins.
“Be careful out there, baby girl, yeah?”
“Daddy,” I yell. “It’s fine! I’m just meeting Linc up at cliff’s edge.”
He grins, his sandy brown hair blowing in the early morning breeze. “Look out for your mom while you’re there? You know she likes to pick flowers and roam.”
Bitterness coats my insides, my bottom lip sticking out. “I don’t want to.”
“Baby girl,” he sighs. “She’s still your mom. She’s just a little lost. And when you’re down on your luck, you’ve gotta find luck in the people at your side.”
My eyes grow wide, my heart seizing in my chest as I stare across the metal table at Paul Jensen.
/> Morgan Jensen’s father.
And the man who was just in my memory.
Chapter 37
I can’t remember the last time I woke up from a sporadic night’s sleep feeling rested. But as I stretch my arms above my head, pouring coffee into an oversized mug, my body feels almost reenergized.
Maybe it has something to do with waking up to Morgan in my arms, soothing away her fears as she wrangled herself from a nightmare.
Maybe it was going down on her after, trying to erase the questions and pity swirling in her gaze. The way she seemed to crack wide open for me, surrendering her body as if she expected my tongue to solve her problems.
I was more than happy to oblige—there’s nothing like a hearty breakfast to start your day, and I’d die with Morgan’s thighs wrapped around my head if given the chance.
Whatever it is that’s going on with us, I know at least that much. And having her in my bed, in my arms, brought me a sliver of the peace I’ve been chasing for almost twenty years.
I try not to read too much into it, willing to put my theories on the back burner for now if it means keeping her to myself a little longer.
“I’m not saying she cured my insomnia,” I say as I walk around my kitchen island, setting the steaming mug down on the counter.
“Really?” Daisy drones, lifting her head from where it’s buried in her arms. “Because that’s what it sounds like you’re saying.”
I smirk, pushing the mug toward her. She wraps her fingers around the ceramic, bringing it to her lips for a sip. “It’s just easier to sleep with someone lying next to you.”
Daisy scoffs. “Tell me about it.”
Her tone is bitter, and she rubs at her left eye with her fist, putting the mug back down. I bite into a protein bar and lean against the fridge, watching as she tries to revive her tired body.
Charlie’s asleep in the collapsible playpen in the corner, with Monet snoring in front of it, head resting on his paws. When I got back from dropping off a crate-full of fresh lobster at Heinz’s Grocery on the mainland, he’d been squalling in my sister’s arms as she stood on the porch, thrashing the way only a baby can.
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