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CHAPTER TWENTY

A NAME FROM THE PAST

JOSIAH

By Wednesday morning, I had accepted that the investigation into Harvey Sinclair’s murder would advance in inches rather than miles. We knew the $15,000 check had been presented through Harborstone Community Credit Union, but we still needed the transaction records to identify the person who deposited it. The bank footage showed the man who had argued with Harvey, and the threatening text offered another possible lead. I was waiting for the phone company to respond to the warrant, with more questions than answers.

My phone rang while I was reviewing the latest reports. The caller was following up on the request for phone records, and I sat forward as he explained what the company had found. The number associated with the threatening message was registered to a business account belonging to an investment firm in Washington, D.C. That gave us somewhere to look, but the account registration alone didn’t identify who had sent the message.

“Can you tell me who was assigned that number at the time?” I asked.

“That information isn’t included in the records we’ve provided. You’ll need to direct the appropriate legal request to the account holder.”

I thanked him and ended the call. Since the firm was outside Maryland, I’d need to work with the state’s attorney’s office and the relevant authorities to obtain its records. I requested the name of the employee assigned the number at the time, along with any records that might establish whether it had been used to contact Harvey.

It was frustrating to have another lead held up by paperwork, but I wasn’t willing to cut corners. The message referred to something from twenty years ago, and I needed to know who was behind it before I could decide what it meant.

I also checked on the request for Harvey’s bank records. Daniel Samuels confirmed that the relevant transaction information was being preserved while the formal process continued, but he couldn’t disclose the presenter’s identity over the phone. I thanked him and returned to my reports, reminding myself that a delay wasn’t evidence of obstruction. The people involved had obligations to follow, just as I did.

Around lunchtime, I managed to escape the office long enough to get coffee at Dixie’s. I hadn’t planned to stay, but Max was seated at a table near the window with a notebook open beside his mug. He looked up when I came in, and his face brightened into a smile that hit me harder than it should have. For a moment, the weight of the case seemed to lift. I was simply glad to see him, glad he was there, and even gladder when he shifted his notebook aside as though making room for me was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sheriff,” he said, closing the notebook. “Have you come to arrest me for the crime of drinking coffee without you?”

“I’d need a very compelling case. How much coffee are we talking about?”

“Enough to establish a pattern of suspicious behavior.”

I ordered my coffee and joined him, unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth. Max’s eyes lingered on my face, and his own smile softened, becoming less teasing and more personal. I wondered if he could see how happy I was to have stumbled across him. I hoped he could. I’d spent too many years convincing myself that I could live without the small, ordinary moments we used to share, and now that I had one, I didn’t want to waste it pretending I felt nothing.

The familiar banter made the conversation easy, but beneath it lay everything we still hadn’t resolved. Max was looking at me with a warmth I hadn’t expected to see so soon, yet there was a measure of caution in the way he held himself, as though he were allowing himself to enjoy my company while keeping one hand on the door. I couldn’t blame him. I’d been the one to leave, and it was up to me to prove that being glad to see him was more than a passing feeling.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m alright. The book is progressing in fits and starts, and Sylvester has decided that my laptop belongs to him. I suspect he’s trying to negotiate a larger share of the household budget.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He’s also taken to sleeping on the clean laundry. I’m beginning to think he’s doing it deliberately.”

“Cats have a remarkable talent for identifying the things that will annoy us most.”

Max laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in my chest. I’d missed that laugh. I’d missed the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was genuinely amused, and the little shake of his head when he thought something was ridiculous. I had no right to take any of it for granted, but for these few minutes, I could simply enjoy being the person sitting across from him.

Then he studied me over the rim of his mug. “How are you doing? And don’t give me the sheriff’s version where everything is fine and you’re simply waiting for the next report.”

I could have offered him the usual answer, but he’d asked me a direct question, and I’d promised myself I wouldn’t keep hiding behind convenient half-truths.

“I’m tired,” I admitted. “We’ve made progress on the threatening message and Harvey’s check, but I’m still waiting for the records that might tell us who was involved. I don’t have anything conclusive yet.”

Max nodded, taking care not to push for details I couldn’t share. “But you’re following both leads.”

“I am. I just wish I could tell you more.”

“I’d rather you tell me what you can than promise me answers you don’t have.” His expression softened. “I know you have a job to do, Josiah. I don’t expect you to hand me evidence or tell me things you’re not allowed to discuss.”

The understanding in his voice made me feel both grateful and ashamed. Max wasn’t asking for special treatment. He was asking me to be honest with him, and after the way I’d left him years ago, that was hardly an unreasonable request.

“I know,” I said. “And I’m trying to be better about making time for you. I don’t want every conversation we have to revolve around the case.”