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“An argument and an omission aren't exactly proof of murder.”

“No, they aren't. But they are reasons to establish what happened rather than assume everything is innocent.” He paused, considering how to explain the rest without giving me more information than I needed. “She admitted they met recently. She'd left that out because she didn't want the town speculating about why she was still seeing her ex-husband. She also admitted they argued, but her explanation is consistent with what we've been able to verify so far.”

“So she's not a suspect anymore?”

“I wouldn't put it quite that way. We're not going to label someone guilty because a relationship ended badly or because they're reluctant to discuss private matters. At this point, the evidence doesn't support the idea that she killed Harvey.” His expression grew more thoughtful. “But she did tell us something we need to follow up on.”

I closed my notebook. “What happened?”

“Once she realized we weren't going to accept vague answers about their last meeting, she explained what they'd argued about. Harvey had been in contact with Owen Price, and she believed he was trying to force Owen to do something. She said Harvey was angry enough to threaten him.”

I sat back, letting the information settle. Owen's family's loss of their marine repair business had already given us a possible connection to the waterfront redevelopment, but that was a grievance rooted in the past. A recent threat changed the shape of the question. It suggested that whatever had happened twenty years ago might still be affecting the people involved.

“What exactly did Harvey say to him?”

“She wasn't present for the conversation, so she couldn't give us the words. She learned about it afterward, when Harvey told her they'd had a disagreement. She remembered him saying Owen had something to answer for, and that he wasn't going to let him get away with it.” Josiah tapped his notebook with one finger. “At first, she thought it was another business dispute. But when I asked why she'd been so upset about the argument she'd witnessed, she told me Harvey had seemed frightened as well as angry. That was what made her remember it.”

“Frightened?” I repeated. “Of Owen?”

“That's what we need to establish. She couldn't say whether Harvey was afraid of Owen himself or of what might happen if whatever they were arguing about came out. She only remembered that he kept looking over his shoulder and seemed preoccupied for the rest of the evening.”

I thought about the message I'd seen on Harvey's phone. You should've left it buried twenty years ago. Until now, I'd been treating it as a possible link to the redevelopment, but it could have meant something else entirely. If Harvey had threatened Owen recently, perhaps he'd been trying to force him to reveal an old secret. Or perhaps Owen had sent the message to warn Harvey away from something he was determined to expose. Both possibilities made sense, and neither was enough to tell us who had killed him.

“Do you think Owen sent the message?” I asked.

“I don't know, and neither do you.” Josiah's tone was firm but not unkind. “We have a reason to ask him questions, not a reason to accuse him. We need to establish what happened between them, whether the threat was made, and what it had to do with the old redevelopment. Until then, Owen is someone we need to speak with, not someone we've decided is guilty.”

I nodded, chastened. It was easy to see how the pieces might fit together when I arranged them in my head, but I knew how misleading that could be. A man whose family had lost its business might have resented Harvey. A man who'd been threatened might have had a reason to confront him. Neither fact proved that he had killed him, and I wasn't going to make the mistake of confusing a promising theory with the truth.

“I'm glad you told me,” I said. “I'll keep listening, but I won't go asking questions about Owen.”

“Thank you.” Josiah's expression softened. “I mean it, Max. I know you're good at spotting connections, and I know people talk to you. That's why I agreed to let you pass along what you hear. But I need you safe, and I need the information you bring me to be as reliable as possible. If you start digging on your own, you could put yourself in danger and make it harder for us to find out what really happened.”

The sincerity in his voice left me with no clever answer. I wanted to tell him that I understood, that I wasn't trying to make his job harder, and that his concern mattered more to me than he probably realized. Instead, I settled for a quiet, “I know. I'll be careful.”

He held my gaze for a moment before looking back at his notes. I couldn't tell whether he believed me, but I hoped he did. I was beginning to understand that if we were going to rebuild anything between us, it would have to start with small promises kept rather than grand declarations. For now, that meant respecting the boundaries he'd set, even when my curiosity threatened to push me past them.

I gathered my folder and stood. “I'll let you get back to work.”

“Max?” I turned toward him. “Thanks for telling me what you heard this morning. And for the record. You've given us somewhere to start.”

The gratitude in his voice was simple and sincere, and it warmed me more than any flirtation could have. “You're welcome.”

I left the office with Owen's name on my mind and the uneasy sense that we were getting closer to something dangerous. Harvey's ex-wife hadn't given us a clear answer about his murder, but what she'd told us had given the sheriff another lead to follow. The old redevelopment was beginning to look less like an isolated business dispute and more like a secret that had survived long enough to hurt people in the present.

Outside, the air had turned cool, and I drew my jacket closer as I headed toward the store. The message on Harvey's phone kept coming back to me, along with the question of what had happened twenty years ago. I still didn't know who had killed him, but I knew what I needed to do next: pass along anything relevant I'd heard, leave the investigation to Josiah and his deputies, and take care of the small, ordinary responsibilities that kept life from becoming entirely about death and secrets. For now, that included making sure Sylvester had dinner.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ONE PROBLEM AT A TIME

Max

By Tuesday morning, I had almost convinced myself that life might return to something resembling normal. Harvey Sinclair was still dead, the sheriff was still investigating, and I still had no idea what had happened twenty years ago that someone thought was worth threatening him over. But I had managed to write several paragraphs the previous evening, and Sylvester had spent most of the night asleep in his bed rather than trying to convince me that my own pillow belonged to him. I was choosing to consider both developments encouraging.

I was pouring coffee when someone knocked at the front door. Sylvester lifted his head from the kitchen chair, decided the interruption was unlikely to involve food, and promptly put it back down. I glanced at the clock on the microwave, wondering who would be calling so early, then carried my mug with me as I went to answer it.

My neighbor, Carol Smedley, stood on the porch with a small suitcase beside her and a cardboard box balanced in her arms. She was bundled in a cardigan despite the mild weather, her silver hair neatly arranged, and she had the bright, slightly apologetic expression of someone who had arrived with news and intended to deliver it before I could escape. “Morning, Max. Have you got a minute?”