Page 30 of Christmas Harbor Secrets
Her cheek hit the rug—scratch of fiber, taste of old salt that lived in everything here. Rone’s body covered hers, not crushing, a shelter built of heat and muscle and the precise weight of someone who knew how much pressure a ribcage could take. His uninjured hand pressed her head gently to the floor to keep it from smacking when the boat jolted.
“Don’t move,” he said into her hair, close enough that she felt the words rather than heard them.
Echo’s front claws scrambled, then found purchase. The dog’s snarl shifted to something more surgical—the cutting, rhythmic bark of a trained animal marking target, warning, daring.
Isobel couldn’t see the dot anymore, but she could feel it on her skin like a phantom sunburn. She could feel Rone breathing above her: steady, controlled, the kind of breath that pulled discipline out of chaos by force.
Outside, somewhere beyond the door, something metallic pinged off the piling—small, crisp, terrifyingly casual.
Rone’s weight shifted.
Echo’s bark became a roar.
The world erupted.
Glass shattered overhead in a violent spray. Shards rained like tiny fragments of death.
The sheriff arrived an hour later,not with the cavalry—no sirens, no crime-scene tape, no white-suited techs climbing aboard with tweezers and evidence bags. Just Fletcher, hat in his hand, and a single deputy whose camera clicked in slow, mechanical bursts while the dock baked under a bright, indifferent sun.
Rone stood on the upper deck near the dinghy outside the pilot house and watched Fletcher eye the damage. The pilot house windows wore their new holes like badges—starburst fractures crazed with tiny prisms, sunlight snagging in every edge.
“Feel that cool December breeze up here,” Fletcher said at last, as if a stiff wind had blown through and rearranged curtains. His tone was butter-soft, the kind used on old ladies, drunks, and anyone you didn’t plan to help. “Ms. Isobel good?”
“Define good,” Rone said, and made himself keep the anger out of it. He didn’t need to tell him that Isobel wore a brave face but he knew she was in the head, shaking as she pulled glass from her hair. A fear he kept stomped down threatened to resurface. What had he done? Any bullet could’ve claimed Isobel, and he could’ve done nothing to save her. He needed to get her out of this marina. One way or another.
Echo pressed against his leg—solid, vibrating low, eyes fixed on the dock. If the dog ever learned English, Rone figured the first sentence would bethere’s a problem you’re not addressing.
The deputy leaned around the doorway, snapped three more photos, and scuffed a shoe through a glitter of glass. The sound rang high and mean in Rone’s teeth. He cataloged it, the way he catalogued Fletcher’s hands—spotless—and Fletcher’s eyes—unmoved. The deputy scurried past and down to the cockpit.
“Who called it in?” Fletcher asked.
Rone didn’t answer the worthless question and headed down the exterior ladder to the cockpit to check on the deputy’sprogress. He bent near the exit to the swim platform and let his fingertips travel the deck where he thought he saw something under the carnage. There—caught against a screw head, a hint of brass. He plucked the casing from the grit like a coin out of a fountain. .223, he thought; could be a dozen rifles. Heat had taken the shine off, but the rim was clean enough to give a partial bite of the firing pin.
The deputy lifted his camera, hesitated.
Rone’s palm closed. He slipped the casing into his pocket and straightened, bland.
Fletcher appeared at the salon doorway as if taking the exterior steps would be too much of a bother despite stomping through evidence.
Rone shoved his temper into place and forced himself to remain civil for Isobel’s sake. “You’ll want to canvass. Somebody saw a shooter. The shore, not dock.”
Fletcher’s mouth made a sympathetic shape his eyes didn’t join. “We’ll look into it.” He turned to his deputy. “Get a few angles for me of the outside of the boat. then you’re done. Folks got work to do. No need to make a production.”
Rone pictured the words typed on a dead report: Officer spoke to parties. No further action. He pictured the men he’d known who lived in the space between law and leverage, and how their smiles always looked like Fletcher’s when they thought time would do their cleanup for them.
He thought to ask Fletcher if he cared about the people of this town or just the votes from the criminals in his pocket. There were rumors of a surf business laundering money that had popped up six stores after the hurricane, one across the street from another. Or the fact that the funding came through for the elementary school to be rebuilt, but then it was determined it wasn’t needed. So many interesting situations on this sleepy island town that no one bothered to check on; it made aperfect hideout for those looking to work quietly in the shadows.
“You might want to leave the boat for a few days,” Fletcher added, aiming concern like a weapon. “Let things cool down. I can have a patrol increase pass-bys.”
“You’ve increased them already,” Rone said mildly. “Election year.”
Fletcher’s teeth flashed; it didn’t reach anywhere that mattered. “You know how it is. Community wants to feel safe. Too many police hanging around makes locals and tourists nervous.”
“I want her to be safe.”
“Course you do.” Fletcher tipped his hat at the broken window. “You can’t help yourself.”
He disembarked. The deputy trailed, still clicking, still careful not to capture anything that couldn’t be filed under unlucky.
