Another man, accompanied by deputies, walked over to the vandalized tent. He was average height, heavyset, dressed in a polo and pleated khakis, and his hair and goatee were black as coal. It was hard to tell at a distance, but I thought maybe he was older—something about the way he moved. He said something to the deputies, who in turn said something to the men, who let the tent fall. The deputies spread the tent flat on the sand, clearly preparing to take pictures of the damage.

“Who’s that?” Indira asked.

West dropped into his seat again. “Gerry Webb.”

“How do you know that?” Deputy Bobby asked.

“Because he tried to pick me up last night,” West answered. He adjusted the hardhat and gave a rakish grin. “While you were in the restroom.”

Deputy Bobby looked like he might be thinking a few words you wouldn’t find in most dictionaries.

“He’s a real estate developer,” West continued. “And he must be a good one, because the watch he was wearing cost over a hundred thousand dollars.”

“He’s the one that’s building the planned community on the other side of Klikamuks,” Millie said. “Do you know how much he’s going to charge? A million dollars for a house. And that’s not even one of the houses on the waterfront. And they’re going to have a marina and a bunch of new restaurants and—”

“Wait, a marina?” Fox squinted. “Isn’t the surf camp on the other side of Klikamuks? Gremlins and Gruntlings, or whatever it’s called?”

“Gremlins and Grommets,” Deputy Bobby said drily. “And yes, that’s where it is. I don’t know the details, but Jen said she worked something out with him.”

“Who’s Jen?” I asked.

Before Deputy Bobby could answer, Keme trotted up.

“Oh my God, Keme, are you all right?” Millie scrambled over to inspect him. She stood close to him. She touched him. She was wearing perfume. And God help that poor boy, he was wearing a wetsuit.

I gave Deputy Bobby a telepathic nudge and a meaningful look.

He almost laughed. “He’s fine, Millie. We’ve got to get in the lineup, or we’re going to miss the best sets.” With a slap to Keme’s shoulder, he added, “Come on,” and then he headed down toward the water.

Keme detached himself from Millie as gracefully as a seventeen-year-old boy can.

We settled into our seats, enjoying coffee and hot chocolate and cake (cranberry upside-down) and cookies (pumpkin cheesecake, which yes, can be turned into a cookie). The wind picked up again, stiff with the brine and carrying a hint of surf wax and what I thought might have been recreational, uh, substances. A fair portion of that seemed to be coming from Fox. Once Deputy Bobby and Keme had their boots and hoods on, they collected their boards. Keme’s gear looked piecemeal—probably assembled from castoffs or whatever he’d been able to score cheap. Deputy Bobby’s on the other hand, looked expensive. It made me think of the rotation of expensive sneakers he liked to wear—another layer in the enigma that was Deputy Bobby.

True to Deputy Bobby’s prediction, there were a lot of surfers waiting in the lineup. But it was a beautiful day, and the waves were plentiful, and we watched (and Millie cheered) as Deputy Bobby and Keme slowly worked their way forward.

“I’m kind of sad we’ll miss it,” West said.

I glanced over.

“The new development,” he said. “It sounds like exactly what Hastings Rock needs—a breath of fresh air, new money, new people.”

Because Deputy Bobby and West were moving; that’s what he didn’t have to say. West had told me they were moving. It had been one of the first things he’d said after he and Deputy Bobby had gotten engaged. They were moving to Portland. They were moving away.

“Are you sure you can help load the truck next week?” West’s question broke through my thoughts. “Bobby said you don’t mind, but I know it’s a pain—”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, I’ll be happy to help. Do you need help packing?”

“We’re almost done, actually. Thank God I was able to talk Bobby into using his leave—can you believe he wanted to work right up until we left?”

I could, in fact. Because not only was Deputy Bobby very good at his job, but he also loved his job. It was part of who he was. Or maybe just who I thought he was. I had a hard time picturing him away from Hastings Rock. What would he do in Portland? Who would he be?

West’s silence jarred a response out of me: “Fox said they’d help too—”

“Absolutely not,” Fox said without looking up from their phone.

“I’ll help,” Millie said. “Dash, we could make it a RACE! And we could see how many boxes we can carry at one time. AND we could see who can pick up the heaviest box! West, are you sad you’re moving? Are your parents sad? Are you going to miss Hastings Rock? We’re going to miss you SO much! I’m probably going to cry when you and Bobby drive away. Oh my God, I think I’m going to cry right NOW!”

Indira patted her on the shoulder. “I already told Bobby I’ll bring sandwiches and sweet tea. It’s going to be a long day. And I’ll pack you something for the road, too.”

“It’s only a couple of hours,” West said with a smile, but he patted Millie’s shoulder as she wiped her eyes. “Hey, don’t cry. We’ll come back to visit all the time.”

Millie sniffled and nodded and said, “And we’ll come visit YOU!”

Maybe it was the sudden ear-blast, but West didn’t look quite so happy about that prospect.

I almost said, You don’t have to move, and then nobody will have to visit anybody, but my phone buzzed (and my better judgment got hold of me). My dad’s name appeared on the screen. (Jonny Dane, the Talon Maverick series.) A call from my dad was—well, unusual was putting it politely. My dad’s focus was on my mom’s books, on his books, and on his guns, and not necessarily in that order. I answered.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey, Dashiell. How’s it going?”

“Uh, good. How are you?”

“Good, good. Listen, I’ve got a great opportunity. St. Martin’s asked me to edit an anthology—crime fiction geared toward men, you know? And I thought it’d be perfect for you.”

“For me?”

“How’s that story going, the one with the PI?”

He meant Will Gower, a character who had lived in my head for as long as I could remember. (That sounded better than calling him my imaginary friend.) In various incarnations, Will Gower had been a hard-nosed police officer, a hard-nosed FBI profiler, and a hard-nosed private investigator. He’d also been a Victorian bobby, a social worker, and a deckhand on an Alaskan shrimping boat—you get the idea.

“Uh, good?”

“Great, great. Send it over. We’ve got to get moving on this.”

“Well, it’s not quite, um, ready. A hundred percent, I mean.”

Dad was silent.

“It’s almost done,” I said. “It’s so close.”

Millie patted my shoulder. Fox snorted offensively. Indira started unpacking one of the slices of cake.

“I can finish it up?” It was a miserable-sounding question. “Next week?”

“Dashiell,” he finally said—and it held an unbearable amount of parental long-suffering.

Fortunately, at that moment Deputy Bobby and Keme started paddling out to catch the next set.