Page 12 of Archer

He answered on the second ring. “What’s up?”

“I need you to cover the shop. Client wants me there early for a consultation.”

“The jumpy blonde in the big glasses?”

“Yeah.” I’d told him all about her the minute she left. We’d already given some thought to the best way to approach her situation, depending on her reasons for suspecting a stalker.

“Something happen?”

“I don’t know, but she was nervous enough to put me on edge.”

“Good enough. I’ll be there in few.”

I disconnected and pulled up the address she’d sent. 4792 Shore Drive. I forwarded the information to Colton so he could continue to plan for her security.

Now we had an address, he could get a satellite image from internet maps— former real estate listings from the Wayback Machine, a website made that archived data— and I’d soon know the interior layout as well.

I loaded the address into my GPS. Looked like it was part of a stretch of properties I knew well. Big houses lined most of that area, vacation rentals for wealthy tourists who wanted private beach access and million-dollar views.

But the pin dropped on a small cottage set back from the others. Older construction. Maybe a quarter of the size of its neighbors.

I zoomed in on the satellite view. The cottage had been there for decades based on the weathering and the mature landscaping. Everything around it was new money. This place was old Carolina Bay.

I switched to the property records database.

Owner: Martha Lawson.

So “Sarah Miller” was renting. That checked out with what she’d told me. She’d come to Carolina Bay to hide.

I pulled up a search engine and entered the owner’s name along with the town. Her obituary was one of the top results, having been posted in the Carolina Bay Beacon.

Martha Lawson, 78, of Carolina Bay, passed peacefully surrounded by family. Martha was known for her love of music, poetry, and the sea. A private celebration of life was held last weekend at the Center for Culture and Arts.

That was it. No list of surviving family members, children or grandchildren. Just a few generic lines and a request for donations to a local music education fund.

I sat back on the stool and frowned at my phone.

The owner died several months ago, and the property hadn’t changed hands. No record of a deed transfer. So, who was “Sarah Miller” renting from?

Was she squatting? Had she found an empty cottage belonging to a dead woman and decided to hide out there?

That would explain the fake name, and her desperation to avoid giving me any information that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

Who was this woman?

The bell over the door chimed and Colton walked in, truck keys in hand.

“That was fast,” I said.

“I was already on my way here. I got a lead on an apartment for you.” He set a folded piece of paper with an address on the counter. “Owner says you can see it anytime. You just have to call to set it up.”

“Thanks.” I pocketed the note and grabbed my keys. “Knox and Sloane should be back around four. If you need me, text.”

“Got it.” Colton settled onto the stool I’d vacated. “Keep me posted on the new client.”

“Yeah.”

I crossed the parking lot to my truck, eager to assess the situation on Shore Drive. I started the engine and pulled out of the lot, thankful for none of the summer traffic to slow me down.