CHAPTER 17
Chapter Title: Coral Thread
Kathy
Emma Morgan’s boutique, Coral Thread, was a carefully curated slice of coastal charm, nestled on a quiet street in Crisfield where the salty tang of the Chesapeake Bay lingered in the air. The shop smelled like lavender and cedarwood, a soft and deliberate fragrance that suggested calm, order, and a hint of wealth. It was the kind of scent that lingered on your clothes, wrapping you in a fleeting illusion of effortless elegance. A vintage record player spun a crackling Billie Holiday tune behind the counter, its mournful notes weaving through the space, giving the shop an old-soul charm that clashed with the modern linen displays and silk blouses swaying gently in the breeze of a ceiling fan. The fan’s blades whirred softly, stirring the air just enough to make the delicate fabrics ripple like water under moonlight.
It was quaint. Too quaint. The kind of quaint that felt like a performance, a stage set for secrets to hide behind.
A young woman with wavy, shoulder-length brown hair sat behind the pale wood counter, her bohemian beige top slipping off one shoulder, revealing a sliver of sun-warmed skin. Her frayed denim shorts exposed long, tanned legs, one foot propped casually on the rungs of her stool, her coral-painted toes catching the light. She was barefoot, a pen tucked between her lips as she chewed absently, her attention consumed by her phone’s glowing screen, an AirPod nestled in one ear. A scattering of freckles dusted the ridge of her nose, and her eyes—though cast downward—were the same striking gray as Chief Morgan’s. The resemblance was unmistakable, like a fingerprint left in plain sight.
Although Chief Morgan failed to mention Emma was his daughter, he should have known I’d find out eventually. The omission felt deliberate, a small but calculated move in whatever game he was playing. But whether he’d warned her about me was the real question. Judging by the way she was glued to her screen, her posture relaxed and unguarded, I was betting he hadn’t. If he had, she wouldn’t be here alone—and she sure as hell wouldn’t be this relaxed. Her nonchalance was either ignorance or arrogance, and I intended to find out which.
The shop’s bell chimed as I pushed open the glass door, the sound sharp and bright against the low hum of Billie Holiday’s voice.
Emma didn’t look up. She simply pulled the pen from her mouth and said in a singsong voice, “Everything is twenty percent off. Fourth of July sale.” Her tone was practiced, the kind of automatic greeting that came from hours of repetition, but it lacked warmth. She was going through the motions, her attention still tethered to her phone.
I said nothing. Let her believe I was just another customer. Let her keep underestimating me. The less she suspected, the more she’d reveal.
I drifted over to a rack of sundresses near the front window, my movements slow and deliberate, mimicking the aimless browsing of a tourist in search of something breezy and beautiful. The dresses hung in neat rows, their colors a soft palette of summer—cotton florals in blush and sage, pastel linens that whispered of lazy afternoons by the water. My fingers brushed past the fabrics, their textures cool and smooth against my skin, until I found it—a white spaghetti-strap midi dress with a delicate crochet lace trim. It looked light and feminine, innocent even, the kind of dress that could make you disappear into a crowd or stand out in the right light. I imagined pairing it with the beige cardigan I’d packed, the combination softening my edges, making me look like I belonged in this sleepy bayside town.
I checked the tag. My size.
Lifting it from the rack, I stepped in front of a nearby floor-length mirror, its ornate frame catching the early afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. I held the dress up to myself, tilting my head as I studied my reflection. The fabric shimmered subtly, catching the light in a way that made me look almost… soft. It wasn’t me—not the real me, the one who carried a badge and a gun and a decade’s worth of scars—but it would do. It was perfect for pretending I belonged here, for slipping into the role of someone unthreatening, someone who didn’t ask hard questions.
“Dressing room’s in the back,” Emma called lazily, finally glancing up from her phone. Her voice was casual, but there was a slight edge to it, as if she’d just registered my presence.
She froze.
Her brow furrowed, her gray eyes narrowing slightly as they met mine in the mirror’s reflection. “I’m sorry. This may sound weird, but… have we met?” Her tone was cautious now, the singsong lilt gone. I shook my head slowly, keeping my expression neutral. “I don’t think so. This is my first time in Crisfield.”
“You look oddly familiar,” she said, cocking her head slightly, her gaze lingering on my face. “Like I’ve seen you before…”
“I don’t have a twin,” I replied smoothly, turning to face her with a faint smile. “But maybe a doppelgänger? Or a sister who resembles me?” The words were light, but I watched her closely, searching for any flicker of recognition, any sign that she knew more than she was letting on.
A flicker of something—uncertainty or doubt—passed through her face, but she smiled politely and nodded, the gesture a little too quick. “Well, try it on. It looks like it’ll fit great. And if it needs altering, I do that in-house. No extra charge.” Her voice was back to its practiced cheer, but there was a tightness in it now, a subtle shift that told me she was on guard.
Inside the dressing room, a small space lined with soft cream curtains and a single wooden chair, I slipped the dress on. It flowed easily over my hips, the fabric cool against my skin, catching the light in a way that made me look almost… fragile. It wasn’t me. But it would do. I smoothed the skirt, studying myself in the narrow mirror. The dress was a costume, a way to blend in, to make people like Emma let their guard down. I adjusted the straps, noting how the lace trim framed my collarbone, and for a moment, I let myself imagine Kimberly standing here, trying on something similar, her bright smile masking whatever weight she carried. The thought tightened my chest, but I pushed it aside. Focus.
I returned to the counter, the dress draped over my arm. I noticed her phone and the AirPod in her ear were gone. She must have set them aside, perhaps to focus on me, or to hide something. The shift felt significant, a small tell that she was preparing herself, bracing for what might come next. “I’ll take it.”
I placed my credit card on the counter, the plastic clicking softly against the pale wood. Emma swiped it casually, her movements automatic, then froze as the name printed on the screen came into focus.
“Katherine Hastings…” she read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. Slowly, she raised her gaze, her gray eyes locking onto mine with a mix of shock and something else—fear, maybe, or guilt. “Any chance you’re related to a Kimberly Hastings?”
“My sister,” I said calmly, sliding my credentials across the counter. “Special Agent Katherine Hastings, FBI. I need you to answer a few questions.”