Page 81 of All Along The Watchtower

So that was how I found myself loading Peyton into the front seat of my Jeep as I drove the short distance to Pop’s place.

His house sat back from the road, nestled beneath ancient live oaks draped with Spanish moss. The cedar shingles had weathered to a soft gray, worn smooth by decades of salt spray and storms. It wasn’t much to look at—just a simple one-story cottage with a deep front porch and white trim that needed touching up. But it was home.

“This is where you grew up?” Peyton hopped out of the Jeep, taking in the weathered wind chimes and the collection of beach glass in mason jars that lined the porch rail.

“From age eight on, yeah.” I climbed the creaky steps, fishing my keys from my pocket. “Pop’s lived here for over fortyyears. Back when this was just a working-class neighborhood of fishermen and boat builders.”

Now most of those modest homes had been torn down, replaced by towering vacation rentals with infinity pools. But this little pocket had survived, probably because the owners were too stubborn to sell.

Through the front window, I could see Pop’s favorite chair still pulled up to the view overlooking the water. His coffee cup sat on the side table, where he’d set it down that morning before heading to the Brewhouse. As if he’d expected to be back later. Because, of course, he had. My throat constricted.

“There’s his dock.” I nodded toward the weathered boards stretching out over the sound. “He doesn’t take the boat out as much anymore since his heart started acting up. But he still likes to sit out there and fish.”

The space felt empty without him in it. Wrong. But I pushed that thought away and focused on why we were here.

I pulled open the screen door and went to put the key into the lock, but I realized the interior door was already slightly ajar. Had he forgotten to lock it on his way out? It wouldn’t surprise me. He’d been on the island since God was a boy, through all those years when people simply didn’t lock up. I’d been on him the past decade to change that habit, but my success rate was spotty.

Shaking my head, I pushed the door open and froze.

The living room looked normal at first glance, but something felt off. My gaze swept left, catching on the slightly crooked drawer of Pop’s roll-top desk. He was meticulous about keeping that closed.

My heart kicked up. “Stay here.”

But Peyton had already followed me inside. “What’s wrong?”

I moved deeper into the house, taking in details that screamed wrongness. Books pulled partway off shelves. Cabinetdoors left open a crack. The throw pillows on the couch sat at odd angles, as if they’d been lifted and replaced.

“Someone’s been in here.” My voice came out tight. “They went through his things.”

Peyton’s eyes went wide. “Like at that Galef guy’s place?”

Without answering, I herded Peyton back onto the porch, not wanting to contaminate any prospective evidence. Then I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“This is Bree Cartwright. Someone has broken into my grandfather’s house.” I gave the address.

“Is there any sign that the perpetrator is still on the premises?”

The house definitely felt empty, but I hadn’t looked. “None obvious. We’re still outside.”

“Officers are being dispatched to your location. Please remain outside the residence.”

I hung up the phone and texted Ford with shaking hands.

Bree:Someone searched Pop’s house. Police coming.

His response was immediate.

Ford:On my way.

“Should we… should we look around outside?” Peyton asked. “See if they left anything?”

I shook my head. “Better let the police handle that. Though I doubt they’ll find much.” Whoever had done this had been careful, methodical. They’d either known exactly what they were doing or had been able to take their time, so as to leave little trace.

The question was—what the hell had they been looking for?

That was the same question Office Chris Shelton had after he’d cleared the house.

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