Page 62 of Murder in the Lighthouse

“We’re fine with it. More than. Our priority is keeping our neighbors safe,” Brogan assured him. “Happy cops make for a happy community.”

After they settled the deal, Lucien walked Brent to his car. When he returned, he found Brogan watering plants in the solarium.

She noticed his demeanor had changed. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m glad you asked. Brent pays us lip service whenever we do something good, like putting Tazzie away for murder. Or solving multiple cold cases. But the chances of us ever changing his mind about partnering with private investigators will always stay the same no matter how often we provide money to shore up his department.”

“And you’re surprised by that? Come on, Lucien. Get real. Brent is an old-school kind of cop. He’ll never change the way he is. Everyone knows he’s a grump most of the time. Ask Eastlyn sometime. Or Colt. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just Brent Cody, set in his ways.”

“I know, but it still irks me,” Lucien admitted, dropping onto the sofa. He patted the seat next to him for her to join him. “I guess I just hoped that maybe, just maybe, we could change his perspective. Show him that we can be valuable allies to law enforcement, not just annoyances that he tolerates. I like to think that our work speaks for itself and that we can make a difference, even if some people are too stubborn to acknowledge it. But I guess we can’t change everyone’s mind.”

Brogan set down the watering can and plopped down beside him, a thoughtful expression on her face. “We may not have changed his mind but think about all the good we have done. The closure we’ve brought to families, the justice we’ve helped serve. That’s what matters most.”

“And what we will continue to do,” Lucien added, his eyes meeting Brogan’s. “No matter how many obstacles or skeptics we face, we’ll keep pushing forward. Because there are always more cases out there that no one cared about.”

“More families seeking answers,” Brogan injected into the pep talk.

“Exactly,” Lucien said with a nod, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I guess I can’t expect everyone to see things the way we do. As long as we know we’re making a difference, that’s what’s important.”

“We don’t have to rely on Brent to toot our horn for us. What counts is what we’ve done for the victims and their families. People like the Heywoods know it. Trish knows what we contributed to the Shepherd case without us saying a word. We don’t need Brent fusing over us. Do I need to remind youthat Jade has only released the first podcast covering this case? And the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since.”

She reached for Lucien’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’re just antsy waiting on the next case.”

“You know me too well,” he admitted. “Going after the next mystery is almost addictive.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” she said. “But I get what you mean.”

Lucien drew her closer and kissed her hair. “I told Birk during our recon mission about how you always seem to get me.”

“You didn’t lie. I’ve had years of experience,” she joked, rubbing her fingers across the stubble on his chin.

As they sat in the peaceful solarium, surrounded by the lush greenery, the room bathed in sunshine, a sense of satisfaction settled over them.

They may not always receive validation from critics like Brent, but they knew their worth. They knew their impact on those they had helped. And realizing that meant the cynics no longer mattered.

Their sense of accomplishment and peace starkly contrasted with their usual chaotic lives. This was a rare moment of tranquility that both cherished deeply. They spent the rest of the afternoon in quiet companionship, enjoying the simple pleasure of each other’s company.

Lucien fixed dinneroutside that night—beef fajitas with warm corn tortillas prepared on the grill. The aroma of grilled peppers and sizzling meat mingled with the sea air, creating an intoxicating blend that spoke of home and hearth.

Brogan picked the wine—a robust, fruity Zinfandel—bearing little resemblance to a particular pinot noir.

They ate, sitting across from each other under a starlit sky with a gentle breeze wafting off the water.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to drink wine again without thinking of a certain vineyard,” she admitted, sipping the jammy red.

“Same here. But the sooner we put the Shepherd brothers in our rearview mirror, the sooner we can enjoy nights like this. Look at that sky. Smell the ocean. I’ve never been as grateful to be home as I am tonight. It’s nice not to be thinking about murder for a change.”

“Here’s to no new murders,” Brogan toasted.

He leaned across the table after raising his glass and tapped it to hers. “I think I found a solution to the seating issue for Thanksgiving. We need a long table, right?”

“One that’s at least ten feet long. That gives everyone a little elbow room.”

“That’s what I figure. I have one in my workshop. It’s left over from a job I did two years ago for the Morrisons on Cape May. They gave me their old dining table. I’d completely forgotten about it. The finish is scarred, and there are watermarks all over the top from decades of use, but it’s twelve feet long.”

“Get out. Really? The top’s not a problem. I’ll just use a tablecloth to cover the top.”

“You’d need multiple tablecloths for this beast. All we have to do a few days before Thanksgiving is move it to replace this one. I still think eating outside is the best option.”

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