Page 29 of Doyle

But maybe true love wasn’tsafe.

She had Penny to blame for that thought, but she didn’t want to stir up the past, so she made a sound of agreement. “Mm-hmm.”

“So, what are you going to do about the lost equipment?”

“I’m going to buy it back.”

A beat. “Really?”

“What’s a trust fund for if you can’t use it to ransom medical equipment from the local brutes?”

She though Penelope might chuckle, agree with her, but?—

“This Sebold guy sounds dangerous.”

“He just wants money. And I have money. Maybe it’s time to start using it.”

“I just think you need to let Stein—or even Doyle—handle this, Tia.”

“Listen. Doyle is... he’s a little impulsive. Follows his ‘gut.’” She finger quoted the last word, even though Penelope couldn’t see her. “I need someone who can keep their cool.”

In the chicken yard, the rooster crowed.

“Just don’t get in over your head.”

“I’ve got this,” Tia said, and finished her coffee. “How’s the new podcast season going?”

“I’m working on the story of a serial killer in Alaska. Boo gave me the deets—he’s been at it for about twenty years, and they just recently caught him.”

“So, no more unsolved mysteries for you?”

“Trying to figure out if Conrad is going to propose now that the Blue Ox season is over is enough mystery for me.”

Tia laughed. “And?”

“He’s acting a little weird. And he’s about the worst secret keeper. But you’ll be the first to know.” Her voice changed as if she’d just picked up the phone. “Be careful, Tia. You don’t have anything to prove.”

Tia refused to argue with her. But indeed, she had everything to prove, probably mostly to herself.

She wasn’t going to be a woman who let fear rule her life.

“Love you, Pen.” Tia hung up, finished her coffee, then returned her mug to the kitchen. It smelled of the cinnamon and nutmeg Rosa had added to the porridge. Now Rosa poured johnnycakes onto a griddle, the oil sizzling.

“Those smell good.”

“I pulled fresh honey from the bees out back.” She pointed to a jar with a honeycomb inside. “Have a cake.”

Tia slathered a hot johnnycake with the honey, folded it, and came over to Rosa, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “You spoil us.”

Rosa patted her arm. “Don’t do anything rash, Miss Tia. Remember, the Lord will fight for you.”

Oh.Clearly her voice had carried. “Maybe he already has.”Hello, trust fund.She gave Rosa a squeeze, let her go, and headed upstairs. She grabbed her fanny pack and passport, sunglasses, then went to the garage.

Grabbing one of the old dented scooters, she wheeled it out and took off for town.

The wharf woke early, fishermen heading out to sea in the predawn hours, and now a few already unloaded their catch onto the docks, spraying off the decks of their small fishing trawlers, others weighing their haul. The scent of fish and brine rose, along with the salt of the sea. She motored down the cobblestones of Main Street. A few shops had opened, and the scent of accras—salted cod made into fritters and fried—stirred in the breeze. She parked in the shade of a palm tree and went across the street to the bank.

Knocking, she spotted Neville Moreau, bank president, inside. She waved, and he came over and unlocked the door.

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