No Offense: A Novel (Little Bridge Island Book 2)

At first Molly thought John might be having a heart attack. He’d gone a little pale and his breath seemed to quicken as he scrolled through the photos on Elijah’s camera.

“Are you—are you all right?” she asked, wondering if she should run for the emergency defibrillator that the Larsons kept in the kitchen. She’d taken enough job-mandated first-aid courses that she knew how to use it.

She’d just always hoped she’d never need to.

“I’m fine.”

The words came out tonelessly. He hadn’t looked up once from the camera screen.

“That is him, isn’t it?” Molly asked. “Dylan Dakota?”

“That’s him,” John said. His gaze was still glued to the screen. “And my daughter.”

“Yes. I guess Katie and her friends had a little photo shoot for some kind of cheer camp they’re applying to.” What was wrong with him? He looked so strange. “I think Dylan must have been skulking around in a lot of people’s backyards last night before he settled on breaking into Mrs. Tifton’s house. I bet there are other people who probably got footage of him on their home security cameras and maybe weren’t home and don’t even know it yet. I was thinking that if we sent this image over to Meschelle at the Gazette—”

He finally looked up from the screen, and when he did, his blue-eyed gaze was troubled. “I can’t.”

Molly was surprised. “But, John, why not? If Meschelle runs this photo on the front page, everybody will pay attention. It’s super eye-catching. This is much better than running a mug shot of the guy, which I’m sure you must have considered but can’t do because his lawyers would eat you alive. And this is a current photo and shows him in the act. Someone is bound to recognize him and realize that they’ve seen him somewhere around. Then they’ll call in and tell you where you can—”

John pointed at one of the photographs—specifically at Katie, whose hip was thrust out as she blew a provocatively sexy kiss in the direction of the viewer, all while dressed in her very short Snappette skirt and halter top. “That’s my daughter.”

Molly was still confused. “I know, but, John, I’m sure Katie will be happy to help. She’s an outgoing girl. She’ll love the attention.”

“It isn’t that,” John said, staring at her as if she’d gone crazy. “I don’t want that photo of my daughter on the front page of our town newspaper.”

Suddenly, it all became clear—why he was so taken aback by the photos. It wasn’t only the fact that Dylan was lurking around in the background in some of them. No, he was just as disturbed by Katie’s appearance.

But while some of his daughter’s poses were a little suggestive, Molly didn’t think they were shocking. They were the same kinds of photos all the teens she knew were posting online.

Poor Katie. It was hard enough on the kid that her mom had left just as she was hitting her formative teen years and now she was being raised by a single father.

But being raised by the town sheriff? Molly hoped she hadn’t gotten her into too much trouble.

“John, I’m sure Meschelle can have the photo cropped so Katie doesn’t show, or blur her face out, since she’s a minor,” Molly rushed to explain. “There’s no need to mention her name or show her at all.”

He lifted his bottle to take a long swig of beer, staring at the photo and continuing to look pained. “I’ll have to think about this.”

Molly didn’t find this response very reassuring. “Look, I know this must feel very personal to you now. How could it not? Dylan’s trashing my library was very personal to me, too. But we can’t let our personal feelings keep us from doing everything we can to find this guy. I really think letting Meschelle run this photo would—”

He plunked down his bottle loudly enough to cause several of the hotel guests to turn their heads to see what was going on.

“We aren’t going to do anything to find this guy,” he said. “That’s my job.”

Before she could say anything else, he was lifting the camera and turning to leave. “Sorry, but I really better go. I said I’d meet Katie for dinner. This does help.” He waved the camera. “Thank you.”

Molly had a sinking feeling that instead of helping, she’d made everything worse—especially any chance of their having any sort of relationship, romantic or otherwise. She struggled to find something—anything—to say to salvage the situation. “John, I’m sorry. I—”

“No, really,” he said, and managed a tight smile over his shoulder as he strode off. “I mean it.”

Then he was gone.

Molly was certain he hadn’t meant it at all. Sighing, she turned her wounded expression toward Joanne, who was simultaneously sipping a margarita and pretending to be wiping up a spill on an outdoor table nearby, not eavesdropping.

“Did I blow it?” Molly asked her.

“Oh, honey, no.” Joanne was quick to rush to Molly’s side. “He’s just a man, and a protective one at that. Seeing his little girl like that—so close to that fellow he’s been trying to catch for so long—threw him for a loop, is all. And to find out about it from you, of all people!”

“Why is it so bad that he found out about it from me? I was trying to help.”

“Well, of course you were. But he likes you—he brought you flowers, didn’t he? So he wants to look good in front of you. And then you throw it in his face that he can’t even protect his little girl from that piece of lowlife scum—”

“That isn’t what I meant to do at all!”

“Of course you didn’t. Don’t worry about it. As soon as he catches that walking piece of phlegm, it will all blow over, and he’ll be coming back again with flowers to apologize.”

Molly shook her head, thinking of the pain she’d seen in those blue eyes. “I don’t think he will.”

“Oh, come on now. Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, because I wasn’t doing laundry just now. I was using your old computer up at the front desk to download that camera’s memory card. Because I kind of had a feeling he wouldn’t agree to send Meschelle those photos.” Molly shrugged sadly. “So if he doesn’t, I will, Joanne. I have to. I can’t let that guy get away with what he did to the library—not to mention that little baby and her mother!”

Joanne took a long, reflective sip of her margarita. Then, after swallowing, she said, “Well, in that case, you’re right, honey. The sheriff probably won’t be coming back with flowers for you anytime soon.”