The air in the Vance family’s boathouse smelled of sea salt, diesel, and old money. Outside, the Atlantic pushed against the rocky coastline that surrounded the structure, but inside, the water was as still as a held breath.

Chief Derek Landly stood by the rolling garage door, his uniform crisp despite the humidity. Across from him, Captain Silas Vance was cleaning a winch with a rag that looked older than Derek’s career.

"I didn't see you at the council briefing this morning, Silas," Derek said, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal.

Silas didn't look up. "That’s because there wasn't a briefing, Chief. There was a PowerPoint presentation by that fellow Williams. I don't care much for slides. Especially when they’re about 'budgetary transparency' in a town that’s run just fine on handshakes for over a century."

"George Williams is the Mayor," Derek reminded him, though the title felt thin even as he said it. "He’s asking questions about the dredging permits near the old marsh line. Specifically, why the depth charts don't match the historical records."

Silas finally stopped scrubbing. He looked at Derek with eyes the color of a winter sea—cold and unreadable. "George Williams is a bit more than a guest in this town, Derek. He’s a resident with a six-year hobby. You, on the other hand? You’re the help. Expensive help, but help nonetheless."

Derek took a step forward, the gravel crunching under his boots. "Well the help found a trunk in that marsh yesterday, Silas. It wasn't full of historical records. It was full of the body of a girl who disappeared more than ten years ago when I was still in working in New York for the BCI."

The silence that followed was heavy. Silas tossed the greasy rag onto a workbench. He walked over to a small cedar chest, poured two fingers of amber liquid into a glass, and didn't offer one to Derek.

"Heaven is a brand, Chief," Silas said softly. "People come here to forget the world is a rot-filled place. They pay a premium for the illusion of safety. If you go digging up bones in the middle of tourist season, you aren't just hurting the Finley's or the Beaumont's. You’re killing the town."

"I’m doing my job," Derek snapped.

"Your job is to keep the peace," Silas countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "The Board met this morning at the club. Without the 'Mayor.' We decided that the girl in that trunk was a runaway from somewhere up north. A tragedy, surely, but not a local matter. The Hallways are processing the remains now. I expect the paperwork will be on your desk by morning, labeled as an accidental drowning."

"I haven't even sent the DNA to the state lab yet. You’re deliberately short cutting the law."

Silas took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on the dark water beneath the floorboards of the pier. "The lab in Harris is backed up six months, Derek. Don't waste their time. Take the win. Keep your pension. And tell your wife to stop asking the Beaumont's about the 1994 census records. It’s making people... uncomfortable."

Silas turned his back, ending the conversation. "Close the door on your way out, Chief. The salt air ruins the machinery."

Derek stood in the shadows of the boathouse, the weight of the badge on his chest feeling like a lead sinker. He realized then that in the town of Heaven, the law didn't belong to the police—it belonged to the people who owned the dirt.