I studied the woman’s face. She had kind eyes and a look that suggested she wasn’t someone you messed with. For a second, I almost felt like she was looking right back at me.
A knock on the door made me jump. My hand instinctively reached for where my sidearm usually was before I remembered I wasn’t on duty. I peered through the window. An older man stood on the porch holding a casserole dish.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” he called out.
I opened the door cautiously.
“It’s Captain Whitmore. Who are you?”
He gave a warm smile.
“Name’s Jack Reynolds. I live two cabins down. Marine Corps, retired. Your father asked me to check in when the time came. He said you might need a friend out here.”
Marine Corps. That explained the straight posture and the haircut still sharp at 70.
