Things We Never Said (Hart's Boardwalk 3)

“If anyone dares even say that …” Michael bristled.

But contrition softened Jeff’s expression—he knew I was right. When I broke up with him a few years ago, people had gossiped about me, and a lot of it had been nasty. “I’m sorry, Dahlia.”

Exhausted, irritated, dreading the consequences of their juvenile antics, I shook my head and was about to walk away when a commotion at the front of the hotel drew our attention. We turned to see Deputy Wendy Rawlins and Deputy Eddie Myers hurrying across the lobby toward Jeff.

“Sheriff.” Wendy almost skidded to a halt.

Jeff and Michael grew alert at the deputies’ drawn, pale expressions. “What’s wrong?” Jeff asked.

“I know you’re off duty but …” Wendy glanced around and saw I was close enough to overhear. She turned to Jeff. “Sheriff, we need you and Detective Sullivan to come with us right away.”

My heart raced at the grim seriousness in Wendy’s tone and the deep concern that etched itself into Michael’s and Jeff’s faces.

“On our way,” Jeff said. He looked down at me. “We’ll talk later.”

I nodded, my anger defused under the heavy, horrible vibe the deputies had brought into the hotel with them.

Jeff strode away with his officers, but Michael lingered. His expression softened at my concerned countenance.

“Be careful.”

“Always am.” There was so much in his eyes. So much I knew he wanted to say. He seemed to decide on an apology. “I’m sorry if I was a dick in there. I’m … I’m terrified of losing you again.”

Tears brightened my eyes as he lowered his head, rubbing the back of his neck in a way that made him seem vulnerable. I didn’t like Michael vulnerable. I especially didn’t like him vulnerable as he walked away from me into a possibly dangerous situation.

“What was that about?” Vaughn crossed the lobby tow

ard me.

He watched the officers disappear. I heaved a sigh, my stomach roiling with anxiety. “I have no idea. Something bad, I think.”

“So it would seem.” His spectacular silver eyes focused on me. “Are you all right?”

“My life is one giant soap opera, Vaughn.”

“That would be a no, then?”

“That would be a hell no.”

Michael had come to learn a lot about the Devlin family in the last month since his arrival in Hartwell. He knew Ian Devlin along with his wife Rosalie, who was a bit of a hermit, and their youngest child Jamie all lived together in the Glades. It was a community of wealthy homes in the north of Hartwell. The Glades, despite their price tag, was not the prime real estate in town. There were several houses down the coast from the boardwalk, separated by land, that were worth millions. Vaughn Tremaine owned one of the sought-after beach houses that sat out over the water. Michael had garnered enough knowledge to know it would be a craw in Devlin’s throat that he didn’t own one of those homes.

Rebecca Devlin, the only daughter, left town four years ago for graduate school in England and had not returned since.

Kerr Devlin, the second-eldest son lived in a penthouse suite of the family’s hotel, The Hartwell Grand.

As for his second-youngest son, Jack, his house was a nice but average home in South Hartwell.

The eldest, Stu, lived in a beautiful family-sized home on Johnson Creek. The creek fed into Hartwell Bay on the southern coast. If you didn’t own a rare, spectacular oceanfront home, and you didn’t mind trading in a mansion-sized home in the Glades for location, you bought a house on Johnson Creek. Stu Devlin’s house was more than he needed. It was also on the bend of the creek with a private dock, and far enough away from its neighbors that someone could fire a gun and not be heard.

Which meant no one knew Stu Devlin was dead until the married woman he was screwing around with let herself into the house.

Michael stood in Stu’s glossy white kitchen as Stu’s body, now in a body bag, was loaded onto a gurney. There was blood splattered across the back window of the kitchen that faced the creek. Blood on the floor where Stu had died.

From what they’d surmised, and they’d know more once the coroner looked at the body, the two entry wounds were almost one hole, they were so close together. And they were on the chest, near the sternum.

The wounds were consistent with how a police officer was trained to shoot.

There had been an anonymous tip at the station that Freddie Jackson was involved in the selling and dealing of cocaine. No one had seen Freddie Jackson in hours. He didn’t come into the station for his shift, and his car had been abandoned two miles from here on the side of the road.