Chapter One

The crash of the front door reverberated down the street like a gunshot as Hunter McCay retreated from the battlefield of his once-peaceful home. Late November air bit his heated cheeks as he stormed down the porch steps. His breath burst out in angry puffs that lingered before fading into the midmorning air.

Even the freaking weather was extra frosty for this time of year. Figured. His own home hadn’t been much warmer.

“Can’t even survive one damn holiday without drama,” he muttered, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets as he approached his aging Ford. Hunter didn’t look at the house, knowing Melinda was probably watching him through the window as he climbed behind the wheel.

At the turn of the key, the vehicle groaned and sputtered to life. Much like Hunter, the truck was weary from years of use and abuse but still mostly functional.

As he navigated through the familiar streets of his small town, a carousel of unwelcome memories spun in his mind. Thanksgiving, a time for gratitude, had soured under the weight of his in-laws’ visit.

Even now. Turkey Day had been four freaking days ago.

Hunter reckoned his mother-in-law deserved most of the blame. Tracking him incessantly with her hawklike gaze, Tamora sought every opportunity to remind him of his past failures. She kept him pinned under a microscope in his own damn home.

Drunk. Loser. Can’t hold down a job. Always broke.

Her labels clung to him like the stale scent of liquor on a bar floor. He winced, recalling how her eyes judged him over her wine glass, which seemed never to be empty despite her own lectures about sobriety. Her taunting offers for him to “just have one” echoed in his ears.

And his wife hadn’t offered a single word in his defense. Melinda had expected him to sit there and take it. “You know how Mama is.” That was all she’d said last night as they got into bed.

But Melinda would never tell her mother to behave, even though she had demanded Hunter grow and change. And he’d done so. For them. So they could have a better life together.

“Over two years sober.” He spoke the words as a mantra to shield against the sting of hypocrisy. “Seven hundred forty-one days.” In his pocket rested two one-year coins, reminding him how far he’d come.

Not that it mattered to the she-beast Melinda called a mother.

Though Tamora was a guest in his home, she acted like Hunter was the unwelcome one there. But like a good husband, he’d sat and smiled through the gibes. Not wanting any drama or fights, he’d just laughed them off.

But there were moments, like this morning, when his tongue betrayed him with a sharp retort, unleashing the pent-up resentment simmering just beneath the surface. Melinda, usually the peacemaker, had taken Tamora’s side, and their spat had erupted into a full-blown quarrel.

“Everything was fine until I opened my big mouth.” Hunter shook his head as he made a sharp right turn. “Maybe I shouldn’t have called her Lucifer when Melinda said Tamora was an angel, but dammit, the joke was right there.”

The craving, like an old enemy, crept up on him. It was subtle at first but grew more insistent. A drink would numb the edges of this reality, but he couldn’t surrender to the temptation. Not now. Not after all he’d worked for.

He shivered, not just from the cold but from the nagging desire for something to fill the void. Not the case full of weak wine his in-laws had brought with them either. Something heavier. Hoppier. And refreshing. He licked his lips. A beer would be so good right now. Maybe with a shot of Irish whiskey dropped in…

Hunter tightened his grip on the steering wheel, reminding himself he was the one in control of his actions.

Ice cream.

Such a substitute was childish, perhaps, but one that held no judgment or expectations. It was just cold and creamy and soothing. And more importantly, nonalcoholic.

And so he found himself pulling into the parking lot of I Scream You Scream, the local ice cream parlor that promised a momentary escape with its sweet concoctions.

A bell above the door jingled as he entered, announcing his presence to the empty shop. Though his mind was still a storm of regret and hurt, he found himself comforted by the familiar smell of fresh-baked waffle cones.

“Morning, sir.” The kid behind the counter was a young man with a warm smile that reached his eyes. “Cold day for ice cream, ain’t it?”

Hunter forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Yeah, well, figured I’d treat myself to something sweet. Been one of those weeks.”

“Say no more. I know just what you mean.” The kid smiled as if he did know, but this innocent pup had no clue the kind of pain a mother-in-law could bring. “What’ll it be?

Hunter glanced at the kid’s name tag. “Sea salt caramel, please, Paulo. In a waffle cone.” He made the choice without hesitation. It was a flavor entwined with memories of innocence and joy for him.

As a child, Hunter had been a clumsy boy, always skinning his knee or scraping an elbow. Against his father’s complaints that desserts were making him “soft,” his mother would take him to the ice cream shop and treat him to a waffle cone to make him feel better. The special times he’d spent with her took on a magical quality compared to the forced familial exposure to his mother-in-law.

“Coming right up.” With smooth, practiced movements, Paulo slid on a pair of disposable gloves before opening the freezer case.

Hunter watched, a temporary voyeur to his own life, as the kid used two paddles to cut the ice cream free from the bucket and flip it onto a slab of cold marble. Though the ice cream here was delicious, what kept him coming back was watching the preparation.

The kid flipped the two metal paddles face down, using them to chop apart the pale-brown-and-white ice cream. He added chunks of caramel to the mix and stirred until everything was well combined. Finally, he rolled the ice cream into balls and scooped them into a paper-wrapped waffle cone.

“Regular or extra caramel today?” Wisely, Paulo was already reaching for the generous bottle of thick amber sauce.

“Extra.” A smile tugged at Hunter’s lips despite the morning’s upheaval. “Gotta drown the sorrows somehow, right?”

“Ah, the healing power of sugar.” Paulo doused the creamy swirls in a warm cascade of caramel before finishing with a flourish of sea salt flakes. The crystalline grains twinkled like tiny stars atop the velvety dessert. “Here you go.” He handed over the masterpiece. “Enjoy, my friend.”

“Thanks.” Hunter passed over his card, paid, and found a booth. The seat backs were no taller than the table, so he didn’t feel confined in the quiet corner. Positioning himself so he could stare out the front door, he watched as the gray clouds of late fall slipped silently overhead.

With no other customers in the shop, Paulo disappeared into the back of the store, leaving Hunter with only piped-in Muzak for company.

Like many of the stores on the island, the ice cream parlor’s soundtrack had shifted to playing Christmas carols. They were like a harbinger of his monster-in-law’s return in less than a month. But for right now, Hunter could sit and relax.

With each lick, the sweet familiarity of childhood washed over Hunter, bringing forth memories untainted by judgment or failure. Ice cream melted on his tongue, the perfect balance of salt and sugar speaking of simpler times.

Hunter closed his eyes, savoring the moment, his thoughts a whirlpool of nostalgia and longing. As a child, he’d cherished the extra time and undivided attention he’d gotten to have with his mom on ice cream trips. Seated now at the same little café table where she’d listened to stories of his misadventures and cooed over his latest injury, he gobbled down his cone, intent on not leaving a single crumb behind. His argument with Melinda and Tamora faded to a distant echo, overshadowed by the rush spreading through him.

“Damn, this is good.” A contented sigh escaped his lips. Maybe this is all I needed. The weight of adulthood seemed to lift with each indulgent mouthful.

As he continued to eat, Hunter’s euphoria swelled, surpassing any ordinary satisfaction food could provide. It coursed through his veins like a heady drug, potent and sweetly intoxicating. He couldn’t get enough, and he went from licking the ice cream to taking increasingly bigger bites.

A resulting cold headache didn’t matter. He wanted more. Needed more.

But a twinge of concern pierced the haze of bliss. It’s…it’s too much.

He took a deep breath, attempting to ground himself and slow down. Yet the pleasant sensation only grew, enveloping him in an embrace that promised escape from all his burdens. Before he knew it, he was licking the last crumbs of the waffle cone from his fingers. Just like he’d done as a child.

Hunter realized his heart had slowed dramatically, the beats echoing in his ears like a drum in the void. The warm and fuzzy tendrils of joy that had initially cocooned him began tightening, constricting, morphing into a burgeoning panic that overshadowed the sweetness of the caramel.

“Hey…” He choked as he tried to speak. His throat compressed, cutting his words out of existence before they could form.

When Hunter raised his hand, a feeble attempt to signal for help, his arm betrayed him, its movements sluggish, uncoordinated. At some point, Paulo had returned and busied himself with tasks behind the counter. But he remained oblivious to Hunter’s desperation to get his attention.

Come on, come on, Hunter urged himself, fighting against the invisible force pressing down upon him. Just open your mouth. Make a noise.

“Please…I…” His voice cracked, the sound dissipating into the air, unheard. The cashier continued wiping away imaginary streaks on the glass case housing tubs of vibrant ice cream.

A laugh bubbled up from within Hunter, incongruous and chilling. It wasn’t a reaction he expected at the edge of oblivion, but only a single, hollow chuckle at the absurdity escaped him. Here he was, having a medical emergency in an ice cream parlor, the taste of nostalgia turning bitter on his tongue. All to keep himself out of a bar. To prove his mother-in-law wrong. To make his wife proud.

His vision blurred, the edges of the world softening and darkening. Melinda. A surge of regret cascaded over him. I should’ve been better. For you.

Around him, the parlor receded, replaced by a montage of memories—his wedding day, the first sober anniversary, the fights, the making up. Each image flickered faster than the last, a life reduced to snapshots.

“Help…me…” This time, a mere breath escaped his lips, his plea lost under the din of holiday music.

Chapter Two

Fentanyl.

Sheriff Rebecca West ground her teeth together at the very idea of such a vicious and deadly drug finding its way into her jurisdiction.

But when Elliot Ping, their dispatcher, had called her at home to tell her of a possible fentanyl overdose at a local establishment, Rebecca hadn’t been too surprised that the national epidemic had reached her shores.

“He died from ingesting fentanyl. They think the fentanyl was in the ice cream.”

This island had a history of drug problems, but most of that traced back to the Yacht Club, aka the Aqua Mafia among locals. Until recently, the group of rich psychopaths had treated the coastal waters around Shadow Island like their own private playground, hiding their activities in the dark of night on yachts larger than most people’s houses.

Rebecca and her team of deputies had put an end to the Yacht Club. She’d also arrested several of their associates and accomplices along the way. The cleanup should have made the small town of Shadow Island safer, but so far, things hadn’t calmed down.

In some ways, they’d gotten worse, because of media attention following the downfall of the elite criminals.

As she raced her SUV down the road, Rebecca replayed her earlier phone call with Meg Darby, chair of the Select Board, retired police dispatcher, mother of Rebecca’s youngest deputy, and, most importantly, Rebecca’s friend.

It hadn’t been a good conversation. Meg had called to warn her about the recent slew of news articles slandering her. “Rebecca…you know how this place works,” Meg had warned, her voice a cocktail of concern and irritation. “People love to gossip, and right now, you’re prime pickings.”

Meg was usually right, but the faithlessness, however small or unfounded, still gnawed at Rebecca. Who believed the lies, and who still trusted her?

For more than a year, she’d struggled to relearn how to trust people. And just when she’d begun to make progress, her ex-boyfriend had betrayed her. Not by cheating on her or anything normal like that.

No. As part of a criminal conspiracy, Ryker Sawyer had only dated her to gather intel on her and the cases she pursued. And he had actively conspired with the people trying to murder her.

After that, her trust issues had cratered. She’d rented a cottage on the island so she could work on putting her past in her rearview mirror. Senator Morley, the FBI, her parents’ deaths, and Calvin Steel, the boyfriend who’d abandoned her as she went through the hardest point in her life. Each of them had their own role in the stranglehold on her as she tried to move forward.

Rebecca maneuvered the SUV through the narrow streets of the island, the engine a low purr against the quaint backdrop of seaside cottages and charming shops. She noted the way heads turned as she passed—furtive glances that flicked away just as quickly, like candle flames snuffed out in a sudden draft.

These sly sideways glances followed by frowns and troubled faces were new. A marked departure from the cheery smiles and waves she’d gotten after assuming the role of interim sheriff following the on-the-job death of Sheriff Alden Wallace, her predecessor. The shift left Rebecca feeling more like a monkey on exhibit.

She’d sworn an oath to serve and protect this community, and she’d put her life on the line to uphold that oath. After everything—the late nights, the close calls, the hospital visits, getting shot, rope burned, and almost blown up, and watching her deputies lay down their lives—anyone questioning her integrity ground salt into those still-raw wounds.

Not even a month had passed since she’d won the election by a landslide, for god’s sake. But doubts were like weeds, creeping into the garden no matter how many times you pulled them out.

Rebecca had never craved the spotlight. The thought of her name gaining notoriety, whether as a beacon of justice or the subject of a scandal, left a bitter taste in her mouth. She wanted to believe most people on the island saw her as their diligent protector first and anything else a distant second.

“Damn tabloids.” She engaged her turn signal as she waited for the light to change. “Couldn’t get their stories about the murder victims at the cemetery, so now they’re coming after me.”

She knew that. Of course she knew that. But resentment for the media circus still tightened her hands on the steering wheel.

In the quiet moments between taking statements, securing areas, chasing leads, and cuffing criminals, Rebecca’s heart ached for a confidant. Viviane was her friend, but she was also one of her deputies. Technically one of her employees. Which meant Rebecca couldn’t really talk to Viviane’s mother, Meg, either.

What she needed was not a deputy, not a peer in uniform, but someone who could see Rebecca West, the woman, rather than Sheriff West, the community leader. Someone like Ryker, whose memory still clung to her like the briny air of the island, whose treachery had cut deeper than any headline ever could.

Dammit.

The scar Ryker had left on her heart hadn’t fully healed—would it ever?—and she hated herself for feeling such emptiness without him. The man who’d betrayed her trust. She needed to not think of him every time she felt lonely or sad.

She still remembered him as that sweet, gangly boy she’d played with on vacation. The one who silently endured torture and abuse from his parents, who molded him into the kind of monster capable of the things he’d done to her.

Rebecca pulled into the lot of I Scream You Scream, the pastel facade of the parlor a jarring contrast to the gravity of her visit. Whimsical blues and pinks that usually evoked the joy of summertime treats now clashed with the flashing red-and-blue lights of a cruiser and ambulance parked in front of the doors.

After parking at an angle, Rebecca stepped out, adjusting the fit of her duty belt, the weight of her service weapon a familiar presence at her hip. The parlor’s glass front door stood propped open, a bell just inside the frame tinkling a forlorn tune in the sea breeze.

Inside, a pair of medics knelt on the floor of the parlor. A tanned young man with dark hair stood near them, pressing his hands hard against his mouth and chin, as if trying to quiet himself.

Rebecca had seen that expression too many times in recent months. Shock and pain, the violent loss of innocence as someone beheld a dead body. At least this time the victim wasn’t a young woman killed by her own high school classmates, the disturbing case she had closed only a few days earlier. Though, as she recalled from the case notes, this poor young man was one of the last people to see that girl alive too.

Talk about a streak of bad luck. Rebecca let out a measured breath, pulling her shoulders back in a posture befitting the island’s sheriff.

Now wasn’t the time to dissect her loneliness. She had a community to serve, a reputation to maintain, and a truth to uncover. Rebecca lifted her chin and prepared herself to confront her newest case head-on.