Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

Beside The Boardwalk was a surf shop, an Italian restaurant called Antonio’s, and then the largest building on the boardwalk. It stood out from the New England seaside buildings around it with its stern, clean lines of whitewashed walls and lots of glass. There was no neon sign for this building. Huge gold metal letters three stories up spelled out its name—Paradise Sands Hotel.

Michael looked up at the huge building. He’d had dinner in the five-star hotel with Kiersten, and its interior was as modern as its exterior. It was more masculine on the outside, however, than it was on the inside and somehow added a quality to the boards that weirdly worked. At least Michael thought it did.

At the end of the boards, Michael had noted the traditional, earthy-looking bar called Cooper’s. He and Kiersten had drinks there their first night in Hartwell, and it was his kind of place. Low-key and unpretentious. Next to the bar, a little farther down the boards, was the site of his infamous run-in with Dahlia last summer. Emery’s Bookstore and Coffee House. Michael couldn’t remember much about it—all he remembered was seeing Dahlia McGuire for the first time in nine years.

Distracted Michael had walked back to Main Street, bought necessities like coffee, milk, and bread from Lanson’s Grocery, and took a walk farther down the street to Hartwell City Hall. The attractive sandstone building housed the sheriff’s department at its rear. After he’d returned to his car, Michael hadn’t gone directly home. Before leaving Boston, he’d done something he could have done years ago but hadn’t. Deciding not to regret that or he’d never move on, Michael checked the DMV database for Dahlia’s current address.

He’d already put the address into his GPS, and it took him out of town (but only a tantalizing seven minutes from his new place) to a small estate of condos off the coastal highway that led directly to Main Street. Dahlia was a fifteen-minute drive from the beach, and the apartment buildings seemed isolated. There were well maintained, and the area looked nice enough, surrounded by neat lawns and trees that offered some soundproofing from the highway.

However, Michael hadn’t liked how far out of town she was. He did like how close she was to his condo, though.

As he’d sat outside her building, Michael had realized his behavior was almost bordering on stalking. So he’d left and made peace with the idea of approaching Dahlia once he had a speech ready.

Of course, he mused now as he walked toward the sheriff’s department entrance, that had all been blown to hell. This town was smaller than he’d realized because it was clear someone had mentioned his arrival to Dahlia.

He’d parked his car at the station that morning and was heading to Main Street to grab a coffee before his shift when his cell rang. An unknown number. Then he’d heard Dahlia’s voice in his ear and as he walked, heart pounding, listening to her demand where he was, he saw her.

Standing outside Lanson’s in a blue wool coat with her back to him. He didn’t need to see her face to know it was her. Michael would recognize Dahlia from a mile away.

It would be hard to take it slow with her. Especially when she looked at him the way she had when she was telling him about her silversmithing tools. No woman had ever looked at Michael the way Dahlia did. Like he was the sun, moon, and every fuckin’ thing in between.

Something was holding her back. Something she wouldn’t admit to.

With a heavy exhale, Michael strode into the station, coffee-less and prepared to accept the mulch usually provided in a police station instead. The middle-aged receptionist he’d met briefly on Friday gave him a broad smile as he walked in.

“Morning, Detective,” she called brightly.

Bridget. Her name is Bridget, Michael remembered. “Morning, Bridget.”

She beamed at him, her plump cheeks creasing with a pretty smile. “Sheriff asked to see you first thing.”

He nodded and walked through the clean, open-plan station. There were a couple of officers who gave him the nod, which he returned before turning the corner down the hall toward Jeff’s office. He’d introduce himself to the deputies and patrol officers later. Michael was the only detective in the sheriff’s department. Considering it was a detective’s job to follow up on criminal investigations, this information perturbed Michael. However, Hartwell was a quiet city in a small county. There had been serious crimes sporadically through the years, but the sheriff’s department had usually joined forces with the FBI in many of those cases, as far as Michael could see from his research.

The last time Hartwell had detectives in its department was in the 1990s. Jeff had told him Jaclyn Rose, the mayor, and some of the wealthier businesspeople who made up Hartwell’s city council would be eager to meet “the mysterious Bostonian detective” he’d hired to lead the Criminal Investigations Division.

Michael looked forward to that. Not.

He knocked on Jeff’s door.

“Come in.”

He strode inside. Michael liked to think he had good instincts about people, and he had warmed to Jeff King. He’d asked Michael why he wanted to work in Hartwell, and he’d been honest that he was moving here for his woman. Jeff hadn’t grilled him about it or asked who she was, and Michael respected a man who respected another man’s privacy.

Jeff stood from behind his desk as Michael walked in. Michael had done his research on Jeff King. He knew he was from Wilmington, had met his wife in Hartwell, moved here in his early twenties when they married, and taken a job as a deputy. Only a few years into their marriage, however, Jeff’s wife was diagnosed with cancer, and she passed away. Michael knew he hadn’t remarried but other than that, he knew little about the man’s personal life.

Michael knew Jeff had first been elected to sheriff five years ago and had won another election since. He was up for reelection next year.

At six foot six, Jeff towered over Michael’s five eleven as he rounded the desk to shake his hand. While the deputies and patrol officers wore tan shirts with the embroidered Hartwell Sheriff’s Department insignia on either sleeve, along with khaki pants, Sheriff King’s uniform was different. He wore a black shirt and black pants with his sheriff’s badge clipped above the left shirt pocket on his chest.

Although Michael outweighed him in muscle, there was a lean, hard edge to Jeff’s rangy physique. He possessed an aura of strength that Michael assumed went a long way to assure the people of Hartwell of his capability.

And Michael was a guy, but he wasn’t a dumb guy.

Jeff King was a good-looking fucker, and Michael had no doubt that helped a little when it came to election time.

“Welcome to the first day on the job,” Jeff greeted him.

He didn’t comment on Michael’s lack of uniform. On Friday night Jeff had brought the subject up and, thankfully, decided Michael wouldn’t wear one.