CHAPTER 22
Chapter Title: Breadcrumbs
Kathy
By the time I left Janet Rivera’s law office, the late afternoon was already swallowing the horizon. A soft lavender hue bled across the rooftops, fading into streaks of molten copper where the sun slipped lower, the light fractured by the jutting masts of boats docked a few streets over. Crisfield’s air had that sticky, briny heaviness that clung to your skin and made every movement feel like wading through warm water. The cicadas buzzed lazily in the background—nature’s static—and a hush had settled over the neighborhood like the last act of a long play, where the stagehands were already packing up behind the curtain.
I was running late. Thirty minutes to five, and Ace would be here soon. The thought tightened something low in my chest—not nerves, not quite, but the prickling awareness of being watched, weighed, judged. I grabbed the paper bag with the dress I’d picked up from Emma’s shop and stepped out of my car, only to remember—with a wince—that I’d forgotten to stop at the drugstore for deodorant. Between the Miami heat and Crisfield’s humidity, my crisp white button-down now sported two dark, betraying crescents under my arms. Not exactly the impression I wanted to make when Ace Ryder—charismatic, sharp-eyed, and far too observant—arrived.
But before I could reach the front door of Kimberly’s house, my attention snagged.
There it was again.
A paper grocery bag, sitting neatly on the step—its placement deliberate, like it had been centered with care. A folded note taped to the front, the tape edges smoothed down with a kind of precision that made my skin prickle.
My stomach tightened.
This was the second time.
I scanned the street, my gaze darting from parked cars to curtained windows. Two doors down, a sedan reversed out of a driveway. A jogger passed, earbuds in, ponytail swinging, paying me no more mind than the cracked sidewalk beneath her sneakers. But there was no shadow ducking behind a tree. No figure crouching in the hedges. Whoever was doing this had a rhythm—one that avoided my line of sight. They knew my movements. They knew when I’d be gone, when I'd return.
Or at least, when I wasn't watching.
I crouched and lifted the bag. Its weight was oddly balanced, neither too light nor too heavy, like it had been assembled with care. My gaze swept the neighboring yards again, lingering on the far corner where the street bent into shadows. Nothing. But the longer I stood there, the more it felt like someone was waiting for me to move.
I slipped the spare key Jo had given me into the lock. The familiar click was followed by the hush of Kimberly's quiet house—a silence that felt less like peace and more like a held breath.
Everything in the living room was exactly as I’d left it: cushions fluffed, mail stacked on the end table, curtains half-open to the fading light.
Then I saw the coffee table.
The file.
Chief Morgan’s folder. Wide open, its pages splayed like an exposed wound.
“Shit.”
I crossed the room in two strides, snapping it shut. From the street, anyone walking by—or delivering mysterious groceries—could’ve seen it. That was the danger of open secrets: you never knew who was looking until it was too late.
I slipped the file and my notebook onto the kitchen shelf, tucking them next to The Art of French Pastry. Cookbooks were the perfect disguise—nobody would bother flipping through recipes when searching for hidden truths.
The grocery bag and my dress went on the counter. My fingers hesitated on the taped note before tearing it free.
There are dresses in the closet you can use. Feel at home. And don’t forget to bring your checkbook.
I frowned. Dresses in the closet? Whoever wrote this had seen me at Emma’s shop, picking out the dress now sitting on the counter. And a checkbook? For what? A payment, a bribe, a threat?
I opened the bag. Inside was a cosmetic kit, a bottle of Katy Perry’s Mad Love perfume, razors, lotion, nude nail polish, a travel-sized deodorant, and—strangest of all—a bottle of sweet tea. My exact brand, down to the label.
The deodorant, though, made my pulse skip.
Ace? Could he have left this? But that would mean he knew things about me he had no business knowing—details I hadn’t shared, preferences I hadn’t voiced. Or someone was feeding him information. Someone who’d been watching me closely.
I moved through the house, yanking curtains shut in every room until the only light was the harsh, clinical glare of the kitchen overhead. The shadows retreated, but the unease didn’t.
In my rush to get here from Miami, I’d packed light: clothes, underwear, my laptop. No toiletries, no extras. And somehow, whoever left this bag knew exactly what I hadn’t brought. My eyes flicked to my duffel bag in the corner. It looked untouched, but looks could lie. I unzipped it, rifling through the contents. Everything was there—folded, undisturbed. But the feeling of violation lingered, like a fingerprint smudged on glass.
I grabbed my phone and dialed.
“Davis,” I said when he picked up, cutting past pleasantries. “I need a team to install surveillance. Front and back of Kimberly’s house. Discreet.”
A pause. “What's going on, Hastings?”
“This is the second time I’ve had a grocery bag dropped off. Both with notes.”
“Creepy neighbor?” His tone sharpened.
“No. Too specific. They know things about me they shouldn’t.”
“You think you’re being watched?”
“I think they’ve been watching for a while.”
He exhaled. “You need backup?”
“No. Just cameras. I need to see who’s doing this.”
“What was in the bag?”
“A cosmetic kit. Perfume. Deodorant. Sweet tea—my brand."
“Well,” he said, a dry edge to his voice, “maybe they’re hinting at your BO.”
“Davis.”
He chuckled once, then sobered. “I’ll send a team tomorrow morning. Disguised as a local cable company.”
“Good. And tell Chen I still haven’t gotten the data from Kimberly’s phone records.” It was a lie, but Davis didn’t need to know my interest in Senator Williamson’s son.
“I’ll light a fire under him. Anything else?”
“Yes. The note was signed.”
“Signed how?”
“Not with a name. With the name of a certain place in town. Lace and Timber—"
I flipped the note over, expecting the same mark as last time. But instead of Lace and Timber, a deep navy emblem was stamped into the bottom corner.
Crisfield Crown Yacht Club.
My pulse slowed, then sharpened. First, the specialty grocery store. Now, the yacht club. These weren’t random. They were breadcrumbs,
leading somewhere—or to someone.
“I think our mysterious grocery fairy is local,” I said.
“Or works there,” Davis countered. “I’ve heard of Lace and Timber. Want me to pull their surveillance?”
“Yes. And cross-check staff at that location. I want names.”
“Done. You want prints off the notes?"
“Yes. And if you get a match, I want them in my lap before I sit down for lunch tomorrow.”
“No problem. Look at the bright side, Hastings—”
“There is no bright side.”
He sighed. “Fine. Expect the team tomorrow.”
I hung up, setting the phone down with deliberate care. The grocery bag sat on the counter, its contents arranged with an eerie precision, like a still life waiting to be photographed. I unscrewed the sweet tea bottle and poured it over ice, the cubes clinking too loudly in the silence. The first sip was sweet, familiar, almost intimate. Whoever left this didn’t just know my brand—they knew me. My habits. My oversights. My tastes.
Somewhere in this sleepy coastal town, someone was mapping my life, one quiet gesture at a time. Tracking what I bought, what I forgot, what I needed. It was a pattern, a trail. But was it leading me to answers—or into a trap I wouldn’t see until the door had already slammed shut?
I couldn’t shake the thought of Ace Ryder. His easy smile, his too-keen eyes, the way he seemed to know more than he let on. He’d been circling me since I arrived in Crisfield, always a step too close, his questions too pointed. Was he the one leaving these bags? Or was he just a piece of the puzzle, a distraction from whoever was pulling the strings?
My phone buzzed, jarring me. Chen.
"Davis called me, Hastings," Chen greeted me, irritation lacing his voice. "Kimberly's phone records?"
“I had to lie,” I admitted, keeping my voice low. “I didn’t want him knowing I’m digging into Senator Williamson’s son. You got anything for me yet?”
"I've only found school records from Crisfield High. Still searching universities," he muttered,
the faint click of his keyboard punctuating his words.
“Salisbury U,” I said, tossing him a lead. “His cousin, Emma Morgan, said Henry earned his degree there. Political science.”
“That narrows it down.” More clicking. “Yeah, I’ve got records for a Henry Williamson III at Salisbury.”
That caught me off guard. I’d half-expected Emma to be lying about her cousin’s credentials. “What about Emma herself? Emma Louise Morgan. Did she graduate from Salisbury too?”
A pause. “Yeah, she’s here. Emma Louise Morgan, graduated same year as Henry. I’ll need time to pull their full records. Anything else?”
“I want to know if Emma Morgan has made any trips to New York City in the past eight years. Her and Henry both.”
"New York City, huh?" Chen yawned, the sound crackling through the line. "I'll call you when I've found something."
“Go home, Chen. Get some rest. But before you do, send me the file from Crisfield High.”
"Sure thing," he said and hung up.
I set the phone down and leaned against the counter, staring at the grocery bag.
The bags, the notes, the yacht club—they were pieces of a larger picture, but the edges weren’t coming together yet. I’d visit Crisfield High tomorrow, dig through their yearbooks, see if Henry or Emma left any traces I could follow. Maybe there’d be a photo, a club, a connection to Lace and Timber or the yacht club. Maybe something that explained why someone was leaving me these carefully curated gifts.
I took another sip of the tea, its sweetness cloying now. It wasn’t just a drink—it was a message. Someone was telling me they knew me, inside and out. And in a town like Crisfield, where everyone knew everyone, that kind of knowledge was a weapon.
I wasn’t sure yet if I was the hunter or the hunted. But I’d find out. Even if it meant following the trail straight into the dark.