“I want to know—”

“Go inside,” Deputy Bobby said, “or you’re going to get arrested.”

I wasn’t sure he’d arrest me, not really. But I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t either.

Inside, that odor was stronger. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The shelter had a simple layout: a storage area with hooks and lockers, where lifeguards must have stored gear and supplies; an ancient desk, with a discolored spot to suggest where once, I suspected, a two-way radio had been bolted; in the corner, a dusty cooler with the name GUS spelled out in duct tape on one side; and a ladder that led up to the observation deck. A bare light bulb hung overhead, but it was off, and with the shutters closed against the day’s bone-white light, the inside of the shelter was dark.

Deputy Bobby stepped in behind me and shut the door. Then it was really dark. And really quiet. Deputy Bobby’s breathing wasn’t exactly agitated. But it wasn’t relaxed, either. My own breathing probably sounded like Road Runner after giving Coyote a run for his money. Deputy Bobby’s silhouette moved slightly—shifting his weight, I thought. Sand rasped and crunched underfoot.

“I have every right to be up there,” I said. It was important to start strong—and to avoid the slightly more complicated question of if I actually did have every right, or if I might have, just a wee bit, been doing some light trespassing. “And you should be happy—”

“I should be happy?”

The thing about Deputy Bobby is that he rarely raised his voice. His tone didn’t even change that much. If you didn’t know him very well, you could have heard that question and thought it was the same way somebody would have asked if he should take out the trash, or if he should stop and pick up groceries on the way home. If you did know him, though—

“Okay, I understand you’re upset, but—”

“Be quiet.”

“—I actually think the sheriff is making a big mistake—”

Deputy Bobby held up his hand. “Stop.”

“—and if you’ll let me explain—”

“Dash.” His voice was a low crack. “Stop talking.”

The sting came a moment later: a flush rising in my face, an airiness in my head. I thought of the night before. How I’d stood there, letting Gerry paw at me. Well, being paralyzed by my own anxiety once a week seemed like more than enough, so I started for the door.

“Hold on—” Deputy Bobby began.

I shook my head.

He still hadn’t moved, but that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t stop me; I knew him well enough for that.

And then my foot came down on something hard and round. A marble—that was my one, instantaneous thought before my foot flew out from under me, and I fell.

Deputy Bobby caught me, of course. It probably wasn’t easy, since I’m a few inches taller than him, and Indira has cookbook after cookbook of just cakes. But Deputy Bobby was also very strong. I was aware of that strength as my brain caught up with my body: the powerful lines of his arms wrapped around me; the hint of saltwater and sweat and a clean, masculine fragrance that was probably his deodorant; the warmth of him. I hadn’t realized, until right then, how cold I was.

“Let me—” I began.

“Please be quiet,” he whispered.

And then the sounds filtered through the chaos inside my head: voices—indistinct, but, I thought, male; the tread of footsteps through sand; the crackle of a radio.

I could feel Deputy Bobby’s question. My face was still pressed into his shoulder, but I nodded.

The voices came closer, although the words remained indistinct. Deputy Bobby tensed. His whole body seemed like it was worked in iron, and I was suddenly, dangerously aware of him, like the flicker of a flame inside me, a fire that was still trying to catch. I thought maybe it would be a good idea (for everybody) if I put a little distance between us, but when I tried to move, Deputy Bobby let out a vexed breath and tightened his grip.

Oh. My. God.

After what must have been an eternity, the voices moved back the way they had come. Deputy Bobby didn’t relax until the rolling thunder of the waves had completely swallowed them. Then he whispered, “I’m going to let you down now.”

I nodded into his shoulder again, and he eased me to the floor. Aside from being a bit sandy, the floorboards were smooth from decades of use. I was having a hard time looking Deputy Bobby in the face, so I focused on his knees and said, “Thanks. I didn’t—I didn’t understand why you were telling me to be quiet.” And then I felt like I had to add, “Obviously.”

And in a tone that could have meant anything, he said, “Obviously.”

He sat crisscross opposite me. The gloom of the shelter made it hard to pick out the expression on his face. Then a smile gleamed, and he held up something that glinted in the weak light. He pressed it into my hand, his fingers sparking against mine and then gone again. Whatever it was, it was cool and round and felt like glass.

“A marble?” I said, which was still the only thing I could come up with, even though I could tell this was too big to be one.

“Japanese fishing float.” His tone still could have meant anything. “They used them to keep the tops of their nets afloat.”

“Oh.” And because that had to be the lamest mouth-sound any mouth had ever mouthed, I managed to top myself by saying, “Um.”

For some reason, that made Deputy Bobby laugh, and his real grin—the big, goofy one—flashed out.

“Well, I’m still processing!”

That made him laugh harder. He had a nice laugh; it wasn’t something I heard often. I decided the best, most mature, most adult response to that sound, which I could never get enough of, was to be slightly offended.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said. “Were those guys from the surf camp?”

“Those were deputies.”

“Because Jen called them and said I was trespassing.”

“You were trespassing.”

“Whose side are you on here? Hey, wait! Does that mean you weren’t going to arrest me?”

“What?”

“When we got here.” I gestured to the door. “You said, ‘Get inside, or I’ll arrest your skinny white butt right now.’”

“I never said that. And of course I wouldn’t arrest you.” He considered that. “Have you paid all your parking tickets?”

“Rude!”

“What were you doing on that cliff?”

“Inspecting. Investigating. Detecting.”

“Like Will Gower?” he asked drily.

Definitely like Will Gower, I thought, although I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Will Gower didn’t take guff from anybody. He was a cynical private investigator with a bad case of white knight syndrome. He was an honest cop who nevertheless played by his own rules. In one disastrous attempt, he’d been a whalebone corsetier with a thirst for revenge (and whale bones). (A corsetier, by the way, is a person who makes corsets, which, let me tell you, typing Person who makes corsets profession into Google was one of the more surreal experiences of my life.)

“Do you know what I found up there?” I asked.