The day had dawned bright blue with golden sunshine and crisp air. It was probably a little too cool to drive with the top down, but Jessica had no doubt it would be down. It was fun to watch Thorn be lighthearted and excited about something. Normally, being an investigator for the Major Crimes Unit for the State of Maine kept him busy and mired in a world of mostly dark and murky undertones. But today was not that day.

Tracer was not going to be happy. Normally when she and Thorn went for a drive, they took the Range Rover, laid the back seats down and added an inflatable cushion as well as blankets so in essence Tracer would have a couch on wheels. She never understood why he got so excited to go for a ride—he was usually asleep before they got out of town.

But today had been reserved for a drive down on the Old Coast Road in the vintage Ferrari roadster with a picnic basket full of Sudie’s delicious food. Thorn was going to finally get to take the vintage roadster out and see what it could do.

Jessica had dressed casually with her hair pulled back. Thorn took her hand and the basket and used his shoulder to push through the back door. Tracer bounded past them, barking happily and wagging his tail in a kind of helicopter motion.

“Is it wrong to feel bad that we’re not taking him?” asked Thorn who was the latest human to come under Tracer’s commanding spell.

“We can take him if you want, but either we take the Range Rover and you drive, or I drive the Ferrari and you hold him in your lap.”

“Hear that, Tracer? She won’t be even vaguely uncomfortable…”

“Do not start that,” she laughed. “‘Vaguely uncomfortable’ doesn’t even begin to describe holding seventy plus pounds of basset in my lap for an extended car ride.”

Thorn released her hand to open the door to the garage. “Wait,” he told Tracer.

‘Boof,’ was the basset’s reply.

“I know, buddy, sucks to be you, but we’ll stop and get you an apology burger,” he promised.

Helping her into the car and then stowing the picnic basket into the trunk, Thorn athletically jumped into the car, hitting the garage door opening device he’d wired into the dash so that only a small button showed. It was one of the small, almost imperceptible cosmetic improvements he’d made to the vehicle.

Backing out onto the narrow lane that bordered the back of the property, Thorn put the car in gear and began to make his way into town and then to the open road. As they left the town of Badger’s Drift behind, Thorn began to pick up speed, moving through all four gears with ease and an effortless efficiency.

“You’ve been tinkering with the motor again,” she said, smiling. “This car has never run so well.”

“I find tinkering with things relaxing. So many times, despite my best efforts and a successful conviction, I still can’t make things right for the victims or those who are grieving.”

“But it helps. You know it does. What you do is vitally important and helps people find closure and ultimately peace.”

“Being with a writer has its perks, especially with her always knowing the right words to say.”

At this time of day and on this stretch of road, it was a little lonely but that meant they had it all to themselves. Driving past the land that had once been the proposed site of a resort and casino, Jessica smiled.

“That’s a good thing you and Barbie did. I can’t believe how much they’ve been able to restore the land so quickly.”

“I know. Every time we ask for volunteers, we’re just inundated. I was really proud of Selma when she stepped forward, told her story and demanded that the Council revisit the approval of the development plan. That part of the coast has such a fragile ecosystem.”

“It took guts to do that, but as quickly as it got voted down, you have to wonder how many others Martin and Thompson blackmailed.”

“Well, Thompson was killed, and I think Martin was lucky to escape the same fate.”

Thorn laughed. “He was pretty much tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail.”

“As well he should have been.”

“You know,” chuckled Thorn, “for a sleepy, peaceful, little coastal town in Maine, you people sure are a bloodthirsty lot.”

“I hate to remind you, but you’re one of us now.”

“I know, and I’m good with that,” he said, reaching over to take her hand and squeeze it.

“Not that I mind, because I don’t, but what possessed you to buy that hunk of junk sitting in the garage?”

“Do not speak ill of the 1932 Cadillac V12 Convertible Coupe, henceforth to be known as the Tracermobile.”

“The what?”

“Tracermobile. We both love vintage roadsters. Neither the Cobra nor the Ferrari have a backseat, and the Cadillac, although not technically a roadster, does. It’ll be gorgeous when I’m finished with it, and Tracer thinks it was the best idea I’ve had since moving in.”

She shook her head; he wasn’t wrong.