Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

“We got the emergency search warrant.” Jeff strode into the kitchen. “Wendy called it in. They found four bags of coke and $10,000 in hundred-dollar bills in Jackson’s apartment.”

“Fuck,” Michael bit out. Impotence and anger filled him.

By all accounts, Stu Devlin was a piece of shit but one that deserved to be behind bars, not fuckin’ dead.

“Twelve years,” Michael muttered.

“What?” Jeff asked, frowning.

“The last time there was a murder in Hartwell. It was twelve years ago.” Michael had done his research before moving here. Although there had been a couple of murder cases in the county, the town of Hartwell had been spared for years. Possibly because the sheriff’s department was based there, so Hartwell had more deputies patrolling the streets because of the number of tourists who poured in throughout the year. When it came to violent crime, there’d been physical and sexual assault cases in Hartwell, the highest percentage of which were committed by visitors.

But there hadn’t been a murder case in Hartwell in twelve years. Not until Michael arrived.

“We wanted to spook him, Jeff.” He rubbed a hand across the nape of his neck, agitated. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve seen a lot of bad shit over the years. I’ve never played my part in the cause of it before.”

Jeff glowered. “No. You don’t get to do that. Because if you’re to blame, then I’m to blame, and I’m not taking the blame for Freddie Jackson. All we can say is that we underestimated his brand of screwed up. My guess is he came to Stu Devlin for reassurance and instead Stu told him the police were raiding his place for coke.”

A setup. Made sense. Michael nodded, exhaling slowly. “He was getting jumpy. Becoming a liability for them. They wanted him out of the way.”

“It’s only speculation at this point but my guess, yes,” Jeff said.

“I need to find this fucker fast. A man this desperate … who knows what he’ll do next.”

“First, we need to go break the news to the Devlins.” Jeff shook his head. “Jesus Christ. I have to tell the man his son is dead and then ask him to come to the station for questioning.”

It was going to be a long night. Following Jeff out of the house, Michael asked, “Is this your first homicide?”

“It’s the first homicide where I knew the victim.” Jeff gazed back up at what had been Stu Devlin’s impressive home. “Looks like a Devlin finally tried to fuck over the wrong guy.”

Maybe so, Michael thought, but Stu was a victim all the same. Michael wouldn’t stop until he’d found the evidence he needed against Jackson. Then he’d bury him with it. Just as Ian and Rosalie Devlin would have to bury their goddamn son.

Murder.

It was in my thoughts almost constantly.

Murder had rocked our quiet seaside town.

No one much liked Stu Devlin. I detested him for attacking Bailey and getting away with it. But he’d deserved jail time—not two bullets in his chest.

As I worked away at a hammered silver bowl I was making for Old Archie to give to his woman Anita, I longed for music to drown out my morbid thoughts. Instead, I tried to concentrate on the bowl. Old Archie had been a regular at Cooper’s for as long as I could remember. That was until almost two years ago when his “lady friend” Anita was diagnosed with a spinal tumor. He got sober for her and had been helping her through what we all assumed would be her final months.

To everyone’s happy shock, Anita was in remission. She’d spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair, but she would live. Archie had seen Anita eyeing one of my handmade silver bowls a while back, and their anniversary was coming up, so he’d commissioned one for her.

I wished it would take my mind off Stu Devlin’s death and Freddie Jackson’s subsequent disappearance, but it couldn’t.

Michael had called to tell me about Stu’s murder, knowing it would be all over Hartwell soon enough. He’d been abrupt on the phone. I worried about him. While everyone huddled together in groups throughout the coming days, talking in whispers whenever they saw one of the Devlins out and about, Michael was hunting Freddie Jackson.

Two days after the news broke, I’d been working in my workshop when Michael stopped by to see me. My music had been blaring like it always was, and it was the first time I’d seen Michael truly angry at me since we’d left Boston.

“There’s a suspected killer on the loose, and your shop door is open while you’re blaring fuckin’ rock music! Does that not seem a little careless to you?” he’d yelled.

It had taken everything within me not to argue back. But he looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and he was only yelling because he was concerned. So I let it go. I promised I wouldn’t listen to my music while I worked until Jackson was found.

To thank me, Michael had given me a quick, hard kiss on the forehead and told me he wouldn’t be around much until he caught Freddie.

I understood that, but it troubled me. I remembered that even as a young cop, Michael had taken so much on himself. There was a whole sheriff’s office out there looking for Freddie, but I knew Michael would feel responsible for catching him.

It had now been seven days since Stu’s murder. Vaughn was shadowing Bailey wherever she went. Cooper hovered over Je