SHADOW’S COLLISION

SHADOW ISLAND SERIES: BOOK NINETEEN

MARY STONE

LORI RHODES

Copyright © 2025 by Mary Stone Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Created with Vellum

For the firefighters…

The ones who charge into the flames when everyone else is running out. The ones who risk everything to save lives, even when the odds are against them. The ones who don’t just fight fire—but fight for the people caught in it. Your courage is the reason so many have a second chance, including me. This one's for you.

DESCRIPTION

Some trials are fought in court. Others burn everything down.

Sheriff Rebecca West knows she’s being watched. She’s seen the same car parked along the road—always at a distance, always watching. Even more concerning, the man with damning evidence against the senator tied to her parents’ deaths claims he’s being followed too.

Something’s very wrong…again.

But she doesn’t have time to worry about all that because she’s staring at a blazing inferno on the shores of Shadow Island—where a boat sits perched atop a car, both engulfed in flames. The wreck is baffling. The boat must have hit land at full speed, launching into the parking lot before exploding. But why didn’t it slow down? And more chillingly—why is the man at the helm already dead, stabbed before the crash?

This isn’t just an accident. It’s a message.

With half the puzzle pieces missing and the other half reduced to ash, Rebecca and her team must fight fire with fire, all while watching her back as the past closes in. Because a cornered man with nothing left to lose isn’t just the most dangerous thing on the planet—he won’t go down alone. He’ll take everyone with him.

Shadow’s Collision, the nineteenth installment of the Shadow Island Series by Mary Stone and Lori Rhodes, will make you think twice about disturbing the peace.

1

Benton Meek’s line went taut, the rod bending in earnest as another striped bass fought for freedom. Hands seasoned by years of wrestling with nature’s aquatic acrobats, he worked the reel with a practiced ease. The vastness of the ocean around him seemed to shrink, honing his world down to the singular battle between man and fish.

The twenty-foot fishing boat he’d borrowed from his brother-in-law rocked gently on the open sea, its white hull bobbing like a lone gull amid the swells. In all the world, there was nowhere he’d rather be right now.

This fishing expedition was just the escape he needed from Richmond’s unrelenting bustle, even if yesterday’s haul had been lackluster at best. His sister and her husband had shared in the disappointment. Melissa’s and Ricky’s lines had hung limp in the water, as empty as their coolers. The only thing they’d caught was a serious case of wind-burned skin from the mid-December chill.

But today was different. He’d left his sister’s cozy Ocean City home before dawn, the Sunday morning sky still painted with hues of gray. Melissa, uninterested in another day on the water, was still soundly asleep, while Ricky had departed for the bank he managed, citing reports he had to run before opening on Monday.

A gut feeling steered Benton southward this morning, away from the familiar waters they’d trawled the day before. Having an onboard GPS made him confident in the detour into unknown territory.

His hunch proved fruitful. The bass were plentiful, leaping from the depths in a silver dance. Every time he shifted his course south, his catch grew. The fish were practically begging him to catch them.

Just like this one.

Hauling the nearly five pounder onto his boat, Benton wiped sweat from his brow. It had put up a good ole fight and was definitely a keeper.

The sun climbed higher, beating down upon Benton as he persisted, the calluses on his palms a testament to hours spent gripping the rod. Beneath the brim of his weathered hat, he scanned the undulating surface for signs of the next challenge, hoping to outdo the size of the fish currently swimming in the live well. Each time he caught one, he kept only the larger of the two, making sure not to exceed the legal limit of a single fish.

There was rhythm in this solitude, a soothing monotony in the cast and retrieve, the splash and struggle.

The growl of Benton’s stomach broke the tranquil silence as he drifted in blissful serenity. His sandwich in the cooler, a simple ham-and-cheese on rye, beckoned him. A reward for the morning’s efforts beneath the unyielding winter sun. But eating it out on the water, with the wind still blasting him, wasn’t appealing.

A midsize island lay nearby. Shadow Island. He could pay to tie up his boat there. He’d probably find restaurants within walking distance of the dock—something more appetizing than his basic sandwich. But as he steered closer to shore, he didn’t spot any establishments on this side of the island offering shade or protection from the wind.

As he headed back out to open waters and considered his options, a sliver of land emerged from the blue expanse ahead. The island lay cradled by the waves, an oasis of greenery that seemed to whisper promises of shade and comfort. Benton rubbed his hands together. Why pay for docking if he could tie up somewhere for free?

Engaging the engine once again, Benton guided his boat closer to this tiny island to get a good look.

If nothing else, the trees there would serve as a good barrier against the wind and sun, allowing him to enjoy his meal in peace. Shadows played across the water as the vessel edged closer to the calm island.

A small inlet, shaped by the hands of time and tide, offered itself as the perfect haven for someone wanting an easy respite. Benton adjusted his course, steering the boat toward the coast with quiet anticipation. The tranquility of the scene was profound. The only sound, aside from the soft rumbling of the boat motor, was the soft lapping of waves against the boat’s side, punctuated by the occasional cry of a distant seabird.

But as the boat cut through the water, nearing the inlet’s embrace, Benton noticed an unnatural intrusion to the idyllic natural setting. Signs were staked firmly into the ground and nailed to trees at differing heights. Their bold letters spelled out a clear message.

No Trespassing.

Annoyance gnawed at him. The presence of these signs, stark against the landscape, was like a personal affront, a barrier to the simple pleasure he and other boaters sought. A safe, comfortable place to dock without the worry of tides or currents. Instead, the wooden signs were inhospitable. Rude, even.

He mulled over the situation, rationalizing his next move. “Usually signs like this are meant for poachers or litterers. I’m just looking for a place to eat, not to cause any harm.”

It wasn’t hard to convince himself that the owners of the island, whoever they were, would understand his benign intentions. Surely, they couldn’t begrudge a lone fisherman his brief sojourn.

“I won’t stay long. I won’t even go deep into the island. And I’ll make sure to leave no trace.” He made a pact with himself on behalf of whoever had put up the signs.

With his conscience assuaged, Benton eased the throttle and guided the vessel toward the inlet’s north-facing curves. His stomach rumbled with hunger, and his feet were eager to touch down on the shady shore.

Benton’s boots sank into the coarse sand as he hauled his brother-in-law’s boat ashore, careful to avoid scratching the hull as the gentle lap of waves helped his efforts in increments. The island seemed to hold its breath, a stillness that was almost sacred. He adjusted his hat, squinting at the glare off the water. Despite his stated intentions, he reasoned it would be a good idea to scout the immediate area before tucking into his much-anticipated meal.

After all, if he’d come ashore on a wildlife refuge, wild animals might be prowling nearby. If not…well, would it be so bad if he made himself cozy and napped for a few hours before starting the long boat ride north to his sister’s place in Maryland?

A light breeze teased the edges of his coat as he ambled along the shore, curiosity drawing him toward the natural rise of the land. Each step carried him farther from the safety of his boat, the solitude of the ocean replaced by an uneasy quietude that clung to the foliage and rocks like dew.

As he crested the slope, Benton paused, his gaze landing on an unexpected sight. On the south side of the island, a house was nestled unassumingly in the distance with a view of the ocean beyond it. Its windows and solar panels on the roof reflected the sun’s piercing rays.

“Maybe this is a private island and not a wildlife refuge.”

Crap. No trespassing signs in Virginia were often accompanied by angry landowners with shotguns.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes were watching him from the glass panes of the home in the distance. With a twinge of regret, he turned on his heel, deciding it best to make his retreat. The last thing he wanted was a heated confrontation.

Mid-stride, he heard a rustle, a whisper of movement that set his every nerve on edge. He jogged down the slope, hopping lightly to quicken his step, expecting to find perhaps a squirrel or a curious raccoon disturbed by his presence.

Instead, a bearded man with bare feet burst from the underbrush, his expression twisted in either rage or madness. He wore a long-sleeve denim shirt and ratty jeans. His yellowed teeth were bared in a snarl.

Benton’s breath hitched in his throat, a primal alarm screaming through his veins.

“Wait…” Benton choked on his feeble attempt to reason his way out of this. Stumbling back, he tripped over his own feet in his attempt to get away from the wild man.

The stranger’s arm swung wide, a glint of metal catching the sunlight as it arced through the air. A smell of unwashed flesh assaulted Benton as he dodged the strike.

The blade’s deadly point curved at its tip, and the redwood grain of the handle showed bright between the man’s mud-stained fingers. Benton ducked, but with the wild-eyed man blocking his escape, there was no way out.

Benton had always considered himself fairly nimble for a larger man, as evidenced by his speed and dexterity on the basketball court in weekend pickup games. But as the sandy ground suctioned his heavy boots, he found himself struggling to avoid the thrusts.

He had no weapon of any kind on him, nothing to swat away the attacks or return a blow. Nothing that would buy him enough time to scramble back onto the boat. He danced backward, trying to stay out of range of the knife, but the bearded man closed the distance faster than Benton could move.

He tried to keep track of the blade, but with a blur of silver, a sharp pain exploded in Benton’s chest. The force of the blow drove him backward, knocking him off his feet. He collapsed, his back meeting the earth with a jarring impact that expelled the air from his lungs.

Realization hit him as hard as the ground. He wasn’t going to make it back to the boat.

Benton managed to lift one shaking hand, trying to ward off the inevitable as blood flowed from his chest. All he could manage was a mere flutter of his fingers, like wounded birds against the onslaught.

The bearded man loomed, his sweat dripping onto Benton. His stench became more powerful as the lunatic crouched next to where Benton lay.

Whoever this man was, he was relentless. His knife plunged into Benton’s chest again and again. With each thrust, the illusion of the island’s tranquility dissolved into a nightmare. Benton’s vision darkened with his sluggish breaths, his pleas for mercy dying before they reached his throat.

In his fading moments, Benton’s thoughts flashed to his sister, his only family. She deserved better than to be left alone, carrying the weight of his absence. That hurt more than the knife. His last breath was a silent apology he could never deliver.

I’m so sorry.

2

Sheriff Rebecca West slid her cruiser to a halt as the Waterman’s Memorial came into view. Though she’d navigated through the perimeter the volunteer firefighters had established, she was still parked at a distance, keeping her SUV out of their way.

A boat, once white, perched on top of a parked car, nose up. Both were engulfed in flames.

The area around the memorial’s parking lot was a flurry of activity as the volunteers, clad in their heavy gear, worked with precision and urgency. From upwind, they aimed high-pressure hoses at the inferno. Thick white foam smothered the fire, hissing and popping as it fought against the heat. Two EMS personnel waited by their ambulance a safe distance away in case they were needed.

“Holy…” Senior Deputy Hoyt Frost was still holding on to the grab bar as he gaped through the windshield at the flames.

Rebecca shook her head to dislodge paranoia that still clung to her like a second skin since Simon Lankford had called her at the station minutes ago, frantic, ranting about how he was being stalked and needed her help. The explosion of this boat had interrupted their call.

Lankford, a former engineer, had been confronted with the same no-win situation as Rebecca’s father. He was faced with only two options. He could either give up his life’s work and allow his water-powered engine to be buried, or he could die. Lankford had chosen life, not realizing that offer had term limits.

It was no wonder former Senator William Morley had crashed into Rebecca’s brain, after talking to Lankford.

While he likely hadn’t done this, Morley represented a different type of explosion in her life. A controlled detonation that had sent shockwaves through everything she thought she knew. He hadn’t just ordered the murder of her parents, he’d manipulated her, playing the role of confidant while she unknowingly investigated him.

And when she’d gotten too close, he’d nearly ended her.

No, she didn’t believe he was responsible—this wasn’t his style. Morley didn’t set fires. He didn’t plant bombs. He worked with lobbyists, corporate fixers, corrupt law enforcement, and killers for hire while staying behind the scenes, letting others dirty their hands while he pulled the strings.

But learning he’d been released on his own damn recognizance clearly had her on edge. She hated that Morley held that power. To haunt her, even when he wasn’t anywhere nearby.

She ground her teeth, forcing her focus back to the more literal inferno in front of her. That was what mattered now. The fire ahead roared, waves of heat rolling off in a gust of wind, scattering sparks and sending a plume of oily smoke billowing toward Rebecca’s SUV.

Focus. Worry about Lankford later.

Waterman’s Memorial was a quarter-acre lot showcasing a large concrete pillar bearing a plaque dedicated to the locals who’d given their lives for their country. People liked to come out to remember loved ones lost to various wars or to spend time somewhere sacred and serene.

On most days, the area was a quiet refuge—a place for reflection by the shoreline, with its rocks, scrubby patches of sand, and rows of benches donated by family members. Today, a boat had somehow ended up on top of one of the cars parked closest to the statue. Gawping bystanders crowded around the established perimeter, turning the usually peaceful park into utter chaos.

“What the hell?” Rebecca worried that even at their current distance, sheltered in her SUV, she and Hoyt might be too close. Heat radiated off the inferno, and the fire crew struggled to yell louder than the crackle of burning fiberglass. She knew their heroic efforts would taint any evidence present, but that was the nature of the job.

Taking a deep breath, she relaxed her grip on the steering wheel, trying to read the scene before her. The blaze was intense, but the dedicated volunteers dousing it with fire foam were already making headway.

“Let’s make sure there’s no immediate threat to civilians.” Rebecca stepped out of the vehicle, the roar of the fire filling her senses. The pervasive smell of smoke wove its way into her uniform and hair—a scent that would linger long after the flames were extinguished.

“Yeah, Boss. On it.” Hoyt squinted at the brightness and heat.

A geyser of black smoke billowed up through the foam from the hoses. Flames twisted and snapped in a violent frenzy, their heat distorting the air.

Rebecca’s eyes watered as they neared the scene. “How the hell did that happen?” She scanned for any sign of life or movement. “Was there a driver onboard the boat or in that car?”

“If there was a driver, let’s hope they were thrown clear.” Hoyt’s expression was grim. “Maybe the boat had some kind of electrical issue. The explosion might have been big enough to throw a boat onto a car. How it could explode, though, I don’t know. This is way out of my wheelhouse, Boss.”

The parking lot was a disaster zone. Debris littered the horseshoe-shaped expanse, and Rebecca’s mind raced, picking out possible immediate dangers.

“I hope the fire doesn’t spread to those other cars. I’m going to see how close I can get and check for any victims.” She held her forearm up to protect her eyes as she approached the fire.

“Right behind you.” Hoyt jogged to keep up.

A small crowd had gathered to watch, their faces etched with shock. Locals who should have been enjoying a peaceful Sunday afternoon by the water, not witnessing a potential catastrophe.

“Move farther back!” Rebecca barked in their direction. She kept her focus glued to the blaze but saw them comply in her periphery. Many of the islanders’ lives were closely entwined with boats, and they knew the dangers a fire could bring.

Earlier in the year, she’d seen two boats go up in flames at Dee’s Docks, a case of arson that had taken several twisting turns. The aftermath of the fire on fiberglass hulls had shown how fragile a vessel could be and how quickly it could turn to ash.

And how much fuel these things carry. This is just a small speed boat, though.

Rebecca assessed the ground between the lot and the shore, noting the churned-up rocks and sand—a telling sign of violent impact. The rotor on the engine was a mangled mess, and the drive shaft was twisted as well. A fist-sized divot in the asphalt still had a shine to it, showing where metal had gouged through.

Hoyt’s theory that the boat had been thrown there by an electrical explosion wasn’t looking too likely now. Putting together all the different pieces, Rebecca concluded a different scenario.

The boat must have been going full speed.

If it hit the rocks at top speed, it likely would have launched into the parking lot, the heavy engine slamming down the back end while the front tilted up. She glanced between the rocks and the flaming boat. With the rotor still spinning when it hit the asphalt, that would have kicked the whole craft upward before spearing into the car with its heavier back end.

But why would a boat not slow down as it approached land?

“Anybody see the driver of the boat?” Rebecca bellowed to make herself heard. The bystanders responded with wordless shakes of their heads, retreating farther as the heat intensified.

The driver was unaccounted for, vanished like a specter amid the smoke and chaos.

Rebecca studied the grassy area and asphalt for signs of a survivor.

Sweat beaded on her forehead as she circled the inferno at a safe distance, her arm still raised defensively against the blistering heat. The fire’s roar, mixed with occasional shouts from the volunteer crew, created a chaotic symphony. Flashing lights from the fire trucks and ambulance bounced off the frames of the few cars in the lot.

She stared at the wreckage. I’m missing something important. Unless the driver never made it out of the boat…

Peering through the acrid smoke billowing from the car crushed under the boat, she spotted something draped over the side of the burning vessel. An arm…and a head.

“Victim on board!” She waved her arms to get the attention of the firefighters. Dee Newton, the head of the fire crew and owner of a local dock, turned toward her, his features clouding with concern.

As she ran toward the boat, he yelled at her to stop. But Rebecca knew that from his vantage point on the opposite side, he couldn’t see the body through the thick smoke. Before she could reach the vessel, Dee was by her side.

He spun her around by her elbow. “What the hell are you doing? It isn’t safe.”

“Someone’s on the boat.” She tried to shake free of his grasp, her desire to save the victim stronger than her self-preservation. “There.” She stabbed a finger toward the boat where the arm was still visible.

Dee’s features changed the moment he spotted the victim. “Stay back. I’ve got this.”

He scrambled up the less-consumed side of the vessel, each step a risk even in his firefighting PPE as he navigated the charred car to reach the victim.

Rebecca’s hair wilted and shriveled, blown back by the escaping heat. She took a few steps away from the blaze. The sweat on her arms dried in an instant.

From the opposite side of the boat, Dee’s crew directed a torrent of foam along the bottom of the craft, offering their captain a narrow path to the victim. Though the flames were knocked down by the foam, the built-up heat lingered, and Dee had to move quickly to reach the person—an adult man with red hair.

Grasping the man under the armpits, Dee rolled him onto his back and hauled his limp form over the edge.

Gravity assisted, and Dee and the unmoving man tumbled onto the parking lot pavement. Rebecca rushed to where they fell as one of the other volunteer firefighters, young Stephanie Matlock of the Sandpiper Bank, sprayed down the man’s thick coat and heavy pants, which were still smoldering.

“Shit, Boss!” Hoyt appeared, bending low under the wings of flames that seemed determined to blaze until the fuel feeding them ran empty.

Together, Rebecca and Dee dragged the man away from the immediate threat while Stephanie redirected the firefighters’ efforts. Sand slid beneath their shoes as they hauled the man farther from the inferno, his body leaving a dark imprint on the ash-strewn ground. Once he could, Hoyt leaned down and lifted the victim’s legs. With his help, they hustled the man clear of the blaze.

The stench of singed hair and burning flesh filled Rebecca’s nostrils, turning her stomach. She avoided looking at the man’s face, knowing the damage the fire had done.

“Frost, get EMS over here now.” Rebecca wiped the sweat from her forehead, now far enough away from the blaze to not get singed with the heat.

“On it.” Hoyt straightened and arched his back before jogging over to the ambulance.

She looked down at the man, focusing not on his wounds but on the mystery he represented. Who was he? How did this happen?

A paramedic in a dark-blue uniform sprinted toward them, her chestnut brown hair secured in a tight bun. Rebecca recognized her immediately as Sandra Baker. The woman’s face was set in grim determination.

“Is he breathing?” Baker checked his airway before reaching back to grab an oxygen tank and mask from her partner, Kendric Hayes, as she answered her own question. “No, he’s not.”

Covering the victim’s face with the mask, she checked for a pulse.

Rebecca backed up to give the medical team the space to work, but she stayed close by, observing.

The extent of the victim’s injuries was hidden by his charred coat and shirt dotted with chunks of white foam. With a twist in her gut, Rebecca realized he’d sustained more than just fire damage. The bits of his shirt that hadn’t burned were soaked in dried, crispy flakes of blood, now turned black. His chest was a gruesome canvas of deep, brutal stab wounds.

Baker continued to assess the victim while Hayes raced back to the ambulance and returned pushing a gurney.

They positioned a backboard next to the injured man and safely moved him onto it before strapping him down and lifting him onto the wheeled stretcher.

“We’re taking him to the ambulance where we have more supplies.” Hayes swept his gaze over Rebecca. “Looks like you might need some medical attention too. Why don’t you come over when you get a chance?”

Rebecca nodded as she rose to her feet, watching as they wheeled the man away, hoping they’d be able to revive him. She had a lot of questions for him, and she’d only get answers if he lived.

Hoyt passed the gurney and did a double-take at the wounds on the unconscious form. His eyes met hers, shared knowledge passing between them. This was no accident.

He stopped at her side. “We got lucky the paramedics were on the island. They said they were responding to a false medical alarm when they heard the same boom we did. But they got here before the firefighters, so they couldn’t get anywhere near the wreckage.”

Rebecca stared across the expanse to where the paramedics continued to work in the back of the ambulance. “You saw his chest. You think they can save him?”

“They’ve worked miracles before. Remember when they saved Chester Abel, the guy found washed up on the beach?” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the ambulance. “If anyone can save that guy, I’d put money on them.”

Rebecca stood back, her mind racing through the possibilities even as her heart twisted for the injured man. This wasn’t just a burning wreck. It was a crime scene, and she was determined to unravel the mystery that had unfolded before this boat had crashed onto her island.

3

Rebecca’s heartbeat gradually thumped down to a normal rhythm. With methodical movements, she ran her hands over her arms, checking for burns beneath her uniform. Her skin was singed but not burned, thanks to Dee taking over the rescue.

Hoyt also scrutinized her for injuries. “Looks like you dodged a bullet there, Boss.” He gave her a half smile, an attempt to lighten the mood despite the grimness of the scene.

“Feels more like dodging a fireball.” Rebecca watched the dance of firefighters, dictated by Dee Newton, who called out every step of the choreography. The fire was nearly extinguished, but the scene would remain theirs until they ensured the area was safe. Rebecca wasn’t sure how long that would take, but she knew they had to make sure no flare-ups remained before they’d let anyone closer to investigate.

Which meant she and Hoyt had some time to catch their breaths and drink some of the water Rebecca always kept in the back of the cruisers.

Their attention shifted as a vehicle pulled up—the department’s heavy cruiser, designed to navigate sand. As its lights flashed silently against the smoke-filled afternoon light, the two newest hires, Deputies Viviane Darby and Jake Coffey, emerged. Their expressions reflected a mixture of concern and determination.

Jake gave both Rebecca and Hoyt a nod before moved to the rear of the cruiser, out of sight.

“Any idea yet how this started?” Viviane’s shoulder-length black hair bound up in a bun bounced as she approached, looking them both over.

“No. We arrived after the fireworks. I need someone to canvass the bystanders and get as much information as possible.” Rebecca gestured to the small crowd that stood at a safe distance. “We were preparing to set up some crime scene tape when you pulled up.”

Viviane studied the activity in the back of the ambulance before turning to Rebecca. “You look like hell. Let me guess. You charged in to save someone.” A hint of exasperation found its way into her voice. “I’m just glad I don’t need to loan you a spare shirt this time.”

Rebecca hadn’t forgotten the time she’d had to run into a burning building to pull out a suspect. The burns down her back and arms had been minor, but the itching had driven her up the wall for days. At least this time she hadn’t gotten as close to the flames.

Jake walked up with a sports bottle in hand, shooting a stream of water into his mouth. “We can handle putting up the tape and getting the witness statements while you guys cool down.”

Viviane turned to Jake. “Let’s split up. You start with the tape, then join me in the interviews. Somebody must have seen something.”

As Viviane and Jake started their tasks, Rebecca turned to Hoyt.

Now that her eyes weren’t so dry, she could see what Jake meant. A line crossed Hoyt’s forehead where his hat had been perched. Everything below that was a soft cherry red, while above it was his normal pale peach. And he hadn’t gotten as close to the fire as she had.

While they drained their water bottles, Rebecca observed the activity inside the ambulance, worried that they hadn’t left for the hospital yet. That wasn’t good, meaning their patient wasn’t yet stable enough for transport.

As she watched, Sandra Baker placed a call, and Rebecca also knew what that meant. She was calling medical control to share the situation and receive guidance. Looking grim, Baker shook her head at Hayes.

Shit.

After stopping their efforts, she pulled a sheet over the man’s face.

Rebecca would never get answers from him now.

The acrid scent of extinguished flames and charred metal hung heavy in the air as Rebecca surveyed the aftermath. The firefighters had done their job, dousing the inferno that had consumed the boat and car. It had been an intense fire but confined to a small area. Now a wet blanket of foam lay smothering the remains.

Hydrated and feeling better, Rebecca avoided the ambulances—she didn’t want to be stuck sucking oxygen for half an hour—and made her way over to Dee, who was still calling out orders. Hoyt followed.

“Looks like the boat hit the sedan’s gas tank.” Dee spoke before Rebecca even had to ask a question. “You can’t see it now because that’s where we directed most of the foam, but I saw it when we pulled up. Pretty sure the fire originated there.”

“Did the boat engine tear it up on impact?”

Dee shrugged at her question. “Either way, fuel pooled beneath, and then…” He snapped his fingers near his ear, mimicking the ignition that led to the explosion. “One spark, which could have come from the wreck settling, set it off.”

“Right. We heard it.” Rebecca was always impressed by the locals, with their vast knowledge and their dedication to keeping the island safe. This had been especially true when they’d grown tired of the chaos the Yacht Club had unleashed on their neighbors for years. Instead of looking the other way, now the citizens of Shadow Island offered their assistance whenever asked.

“I’ll be able to tell you more after the foam clears out. But I’d bet the fire was an accident caused by that boat landing on top of the car. The sedan took the brunt of the hit. The boat held up better than I’d have expected, despite the flames and intense heat. Hopefully that helps your investigation.” Someone called out for Dee, and he raised an eyebrow at Rebecca to see if she had any questions for him.

Rebecca thanked him, letting him know that was all she needed.

“The scene’s yours.” The volunteer commander gave her a wave and went to speak with his crew.

After a quick detour to the SUV to grab her camera from the glove compartment, Rebecca put on waders with thick rubber soles.

“Let’s take a look at our driver, shall we?” She headed toward the ambulance.

Hoyt pulled out his notepad while simultaneously maneuvering into a pair of waders himself. After a couple of tripping steps, he fell in behind her.

They hoisted themselves into the back of the ambulance, where the body lay on a gurney. Hayes removed the sheet so Rebecca could look at the body. She edged around the gurney. The fire’s unrelenting kiss had distorted the boater’s features, blistering his skin, but Rebecca cobbled together small bits of who he was.

“Victim’s male, possibly in his mid-thirties, Caucasian, with red hair. He’s roughly five-six or five-seven, based on how much of the stretcher he filled. His clothes suffered damage from the fire and appear to be soaked in blood.”

Hoyt jotted down her observations in his notepad. The two of them jumped out of the ambulance and moved back over to examine the remnants of the boat.

Approaching the vessel from the back, the side closest to the water, was easier than a frontal approach. The tail of the boat and its off-board engine were much closer to the ground than the bow, thanks to it landing with the heavier stern end down.

After slipping on gloves, Rebecca yanked and shoved the boat to test its stability before boarding. It didn’t even shift, having settled deeply into the car melted below it. The fire crew had secured the sedan with chocks behind the wheels to make sure it wouldn’t move in its compromised state.

She pulled herself onto the smashed roof of the wrecked car. The fire chemicals and cool December air had done a bit of work, but heat radiated through the soles of her waders. Before climbing inside the boat, she relayed her observations to Hoyt, who scribbled everything down.

“Interior has heavy coating of fire foam in places, but much of that is sliding toward the rear here. The deck is charred, and there are crimson stains in the grooves of the planks.”

“That makes sense, considering how the man’s shirt looked.”

She poked her head up. “That’s the curious thing. There’s blood here, but not the amount I’d expect, considering how many times he appeared to have been stabbed.”

Hoyt squinted at his notebook. “Maybe he was stabbed after death? Rage does funny things to people.”

He was right, but Kathrine wasn’t sure.

Parts of the interior were curiously untouched by the fire, perhaps shielded by the watercraft’s design. “If we’re assuming he was alive when he was stabbed, he wasn’t at the helm at that time, considering how little blood is there and how many stab wounds he has.” Rebecca bent to look closer at the blood stains. “I doubt he was stabbed in the boat at all. What’s here is likely just seepage from his wounds.”

Unless he was stabbed after death, Rebecca reminded herself. She couldn’t get tunnel vision.

Hoyt continued to scribble. “That would mean he was attacked before the boat crashed. But how did he end up here?”

“Good question.” She straightened, contemplating the vessel with a creased brow. It was a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing and the other half scorched beyond recognition. And she had to find a path to step along without tainting anything.

“You think someone started the boat and sent it on its way?” Hoyt’s eyebrows were raised high. “Even if the man was unconscious or dead, if the throttle was in position, the boat would keep moving until it ran out of gas or ran into something. And once it finally crashed, he must have just slammed forward.”

“Right. It’s a miracle he wasn’t thrown out of it.” The rubber soles of Rebecca’s waders squeaked against the foamy deck. Her hands hovered over surfaces as if they might reveal secrets to the touch. She found a latch very close to the bloodstained portion of the deck and opened it.

Inside, a single fish floated belly-up. Rebecca reached in and lifted it out.

“That’s a striped bass.” Hoyt offered his expertise from years of living on the island and fishing its waters. “Let me climb up and take a look.” He followed her same path, his movements deliberate and eyes keen beneath furrowed brows. “Looks like he just had that one. That’s the legal limit, so he wasn’t a poacher.”

“If he wasn’t poaching, that takes away one motive.” Rebecca replaced the fish while the pieces of the larger puzzle scattered in her mind.

Hoyt closed the cooler before continuing the search. “The boat’s name is burned off the back, but there should be a registration card onboard somewhere. It’s required by law.”

After a methodical inspection of the rest of the craft, he rested his hand on a plastic sleeve tucked within a storage compartment. He pulled out a Maryland registration card, holding it up for Rebecca to see. “Got it.”

“Richard Solomon,” Rebecca read the name aloud as Hoyt punched the details into his phone.

“Ocean City, Maryland.” He glanced up from his device. “That’s about 130 nautical miles from here.”

Rebecca’s mind raced, connecting dots. “Quite a trip for a fishing jaunt.”

“Not really. You’re just used to seeing us puttering around the island. But that’s because we already live where the fishing’s good. Other places, they’ve got to travel and chase the fish.” Hoyt shrugged. “I’ve logged more miles just drifting circles around the island.”

This was outside Katherin’s realm of expertise. “Let’s see if this Richard Solomon matches our guy.” She wanted to be sure they were following the right leads.

After climbing down from the wreckage and moving back to her SUV, she accessed the police database by way of her onboard laptop, pulling up Solomon’s driver’s license.

The image that loaded showed a man with a tanned face framed by a short brown buzz cut—a stark contrast to the charred figure on the stretcher. Rebecca scrutinized the height listed on the ID. Solomon was listed at six feet tall.

“Doesn’t match. Our John Doe is roughly half a foot shorter, so he can’t be Solomon.”

“The key was still in the ignition.” Hoyt pushed back his hat to wipe his forehead before securing it again.

“Might have been borrowed or stolen. Let’s reach out to Solomon to see if he knows who was on his boat.” Rebecca pulled out her phone to snap a photo of the registration card.

“Hey, Boss!” Viviane’s urgent tone cut through the hum of the idling fire trucks.

Rebecca turned to find Viviane striding toward her, followed by a middle-aged man with dark hair and paint on his hands. The rookie deputy’s eyes held a spark Rebecca recognized all too well. She had learned something significant.

“Found a witness.” Viviane panted slightly from her brisk jog over. “He’s got a photo.”

“Excellent.” Rebecca removed her gloves and tucked them into her pocket. “Show me.”

Their witness fidgeted, clasping and unclasping his hands around his phone. His eyes flicked to Rebecca, and in them, she saw the jittery energy that often came with witnessing something unexpected.

“I saw the boat coming in fast. Way too fast.” The man’s words tumbled out in a rush. “Something didn’t feel right, so I snapped some pictures.”

“May I?” Rebecca extended her hand, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of anticipation. Any piece of evidence could be the linchpin in their investigation.

“Sure.” The man passed her the phone with a trembling hand.

Rebecca squinted at the small glowing screen, trying to make sense of the grainy image that showed the boat—a mere blur against the water—speeding toward the shore. The sun’s glare on the waves obscured much of the view.

“Can’t make out much here,” Rebecca murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. “The image is too small on this screen.”

“Sorry.” The man scratched the back of his neck. “I can email them to you. Maybe you can zoom in, enhance them on a bigger screen like a monitor?”

“That would be great. My eyes are still scratchy from the fire, and I’m not seeing clearly. I really appreciate your help. Please send them to Deputy Darby’s email address.” Rebecca smiled, trying not to sound too critical of the evidence this man had managed to gather for them.

“Yeah, sure.” He bobbed his head. “That was really brave of you and the firefighters to rush to save that guy. I hope he makes it. Are you okay?” His fingers were already moving to forward the photos as Viviane recited her email address.

“Thanks. I’m fine. Just a little dried out.” Rebecca was grateful he hadn’t seen the paramedics cover the victim’s face with a sheet.

With how badly burned he was, they might need DNA to identify him. But Rebecca wasn’t about to wait that long to continue her investigation. Whoever killed him had also used his body and boat as a projectile that had damaged her island and put its residents at serious risk. She wouldn’t let anyone get away with that.

4

The crunch of tires on asphalt announced another arrival, and Rebecca turned to watch the medical examiner’s van pull into the chaotic aftermath of sea vehicle versus land vehicle. Dr. Bailey Flynn wore an expression of clinical curiosity. As she walked toward the ambulance, Rebecca fell into step beside her.

“West, you look like hell.” Bailey eyed Rebecca’s uniform that bore the marks of the inferno. “What happened?”

“Boat crashed into the shore, launched, and landed on a car. The boat and car were both engulfed in flames.” Rebecca’s voice was hoarse from the smoke and fumes. “I got too close before Dee Newton rushed in to pull the victim out. Did the paramedics call you?”

“They did. They spent more than thirty minutes working on him, but they couldn’t get a return of spontaneous circulation. He had no electrical activity on the heart monitor, and his carbon dioxide levels were too low. They called medical control, and the doctor approved cessation of care.”

Rebecca didn’t have the energy to care that she’d been right.

Though Bailey’s answer was heavy on technical details, Rebecca knew the M.E. was as impacted by each death as she was. Stopping by the side of the ambulance, Bailey greeted the two paramedics. “Mind if we take a look?”

Baker and her partner hopped out of the back. “Suit yourself. We’ll be nearby if you have any questions.”

Bailey climbed into the ambulance and sat beside the victim. With gloved hands, she gently turned the head to examine it, her movements deft and practiced. “I’m sorry your efforts were in vain. But you really should be more careful. I’d hate to see you end up on my table someday.”

That was a nightmare Rebecca preferred to avoid at all costs. She shifted uncomfortably and joined the medical examiner on the other side of the gurney. “Through all the smoke, I didn’t know if he was dead or alive.”

“Understandable,” Bailey conceded, removing the sheet so she could perform her preliminary examination. “You’re a sheriff. It’s in your DNA to help people.”

Rebecca desperately wanted to change the subject. Somehow, it had never occurred to her that one day Bailey might have to cut open her corpse. “Stab wounds or fire?”

“Let’s see.” Bailey pried open the victim’s mouth, covered in blisters and char. “No burns inside the mouth. No telltale signs that he inhaled any of the smoke. That means he was already dead when the fire started. He has multiple stab wounds to his torso, but that one,” she pointed to his chest, “is close enough to have hit the heart. Take it all together, and it reads like he bled out before the fire started.”

“Small blessings.” Rebecca was glad for that silver lining. Whoever did this couldn’t have predicted the fire that occurred when the boat crashed, meaning they weren’t trying to cover up the murder with fire. More likely, they were banking on the boat getting lost at sea instead of hitting land.

“Exactly.” Bailey pulled back the man’s shirt. Her gloved fingers traced the ragged edges of each wound with clinical precision. “Large blade. These stab wounds are deep.” She looked up at Rebecca, the late-afternoon light glinting off her glasses. “Whoever did this was in a frenzy. See how the wounds are all over his torso? Like they didn’t give him a chance to react.”

“Any defensive wounds?” Rebecca had looked at the hands but hadn’t noticed any.

“None that I can see here. They might show up later, after the corpse has cooled off.” Bailey shook her head slowly and rolled the body to the side, checking the back. “But nothing on the back. Attacker came from the front, but no signs of a fight. It doesn’t add up.”

Rebecca’s mind raced. An attack without resistance suggested surprise or overpowering force. Or perhaps the victim was asleep. “You’ll let me know after you’ve done a full autopsy?”

“Of course.” Bailey signaled to her assistants, who were bringing over plastic sheeting and a body bag. “Let’s get him back to the lab.”

Rebecca exited the ambulance, watching as the medical examiner and her team transferred the victim. Once more, she glanced at the dissipating smoke and the lingering emergency crew. Answers might not be apparent now, but she’d find them, no matter how deep she had to dig.

On the opposite side of the memorial, water lapped gently against the shore, an eerie contrast to the violence that had unfolded.

“Was he alone?” Bailey’s question broke through Rebecca’s thoughts.

“No one else was found.” Rebecca crossed her arms, her mind already sifting through scenarios.

Bailey raised an eyebrow. “A dead man at the helm? That’s…odd.” She scribbled something in her notepad.

“Odd is just the start of it. A witness happened to get a picture of the boat approaching, but I won’t be able to get a good look at it ’til I’m back at the station.” Rebecca glanced at the police tape fluttering in the breeze. “The registration came back to a Richard Solomon, but his description doesn’t match our victim.”

“Sounds like you’ve got yourself a bit of a mystery. I’ll let you know when I get any information that might help.” The body bag disappeared into the back of the coroner’s van, and the doors closed with a resonant thud that echoed off the water.

“Thanks, Bailey. And I’ll let you know if we identify him some other way.”

“Sounds good. I don’t like having a John Doe. I’d much rather have them packed off so their family can mourn their loss instead of looking for someone who’s never coming home.” Bailey turned to her waiting vehicle. With the ambulance now empty, the paramedics secured their supplies before falling in line behind the medical examiner’s wagon.

Rebecca watched them drive off as Jake’s voice cut through the air.

“Hey, Sheriff! We found something.”

She swung around. “What is it?”

“A GPS unit.” He held up a charred device, its screen cracked and body warped by heat. “Looks like it took a beating in the fire, but it might still have something useful.”

“Get it over to the Virginia Bureau of Investigation. See if they can salvage any data.” She surveyed the scene and her people still methodically canvassing the area, looking for anything they could use as evidence. The foam had mostly dissipated, but she didn’t want to ruin evidence by rushing things. “I’m going to take Frost and Darby back to the station to try to track down who our victim was. I need you to hold down the fort here until the tow trucks and CSI arrive.”

“Got it, Sheriff.” Jake nodded and dropped the GPS unit into an evidence bucket.

Rebecca strode back to her cruiser, her footsteps determined. If the VBI could retrieve data from the ruined GPS, the information would be invaluable. But she needed to thoroughly examine the photographs of the burning boat careening toward Shadow Island. Those images could prove just as important.

5

Hoyt ruffled his hair, letting the breeze cool his scalp before shoving his hat back on and following his boss into the station. He really wished she would stop putting herself in dangerous situations, like running toward a burning car. But he knew that would only happen when dangerous situations stopped occurring.

He glanced at the memorial picture of his best friend hanging on the wall and couldn’t stop a wistful smile. Alden Wallace, the former sheriff who’d died in the line of duty, would have done the same thing. So would Darian Hudson, whose portrait hung next to Alden’s. And that was why Hoyt always had Rebecca’s back when she walked into the flames to protect people.

“Darby, check the registration card again. Get me anything you can find on our Mr. Richard Solomon.” Rebecca handed out orders to the deputies following her into the bullpen as they all returned from the southern tip of the island. “Frost, pull up the picture the bystander sent us. See if you can zoom in and enhance the image.”

“Yeah, Boss.” Hoyt cleared his throat as he dropped into his chair. His long, thin legs flew forward as he spun his chair around to face his desk. It had already been a long day, and it wasn’t over yet. He was getting too old for this shit. Not that inhaling fumes was ever easy. He’d be blowing black boogers for the next couple days.

Viviane settled at her desk, racing her slender fingers across the keyboard as she pulled up the necessary databases. The glow from the computer screen cast shadows across her russet-brown eyes.

Rebecca disappeared into the locker room and returned moments later with a soot-free face.

Hoyt sighed and went through the steps to sign in to his computer.

“Richard Solomon.” Viviane coughed before she continued to read aloud. The smoke must have gotten to her too. “Thirty-six, works at Three Oaks Bank in Ocean City. Clean record, no priors. And no reports of his boat being stolen.” She glanced back at Rebecca, a question in her eyes.

“Give him a call.” The boss fiddled with the drawers in the kitchenette where they kept the tea bags.

Hoyt opened the email Viviane had shared to the common server and found the photo.

Dialing the number they had on file for Richard Solomon, Viviane put the phone on speaker so they all could hear the ringing echo through the room. It went unanswered, trailing into the empty cadence of a computer-generated default voicemail message and a mechanical beep.

Viviane ended the call, checked the number, and dialed again. The same recorded message reverberated through the speaker. Exchanging another glance with Rebecca, she left a brief message before hanging up. “Now what?”

“Let’s loop in Ocean City PD.” Rebecca handed a cup of tea to Viviane, who took it with a nod of thanks as she punched in the second number. “Maybe they can get ahold of Solomon in person.” They waited for the line to connect, and Rebecca handed another cup of tea to Hoyt.

He grunted his thanks. Mint tea wasn’t usually his “cup of tea,” but it helped clear out the sinuses. He silently chuckled at his own joke.

The call connected on the second ring. “Ocean City Police Department. Sergeant Matthews speaking.”

“Sergeant, this is Sheriff Rebecca West, Shadow Island Sheriff’s Office. We’ve got a situation involving a boat registered in your city to one Richard Solomon. We tried calling the number we have listed for him but didn’t get an answer. Can you send someone to talk to him? Unfortunately, his vessel was involved in a fatality over here.” Rebecca read the case number.

“Understood, Sheriff. I’ll get someone on that as soon as we can.”

Hoyt knew that was police speak for “once we have a minute to spare, but don’t hold your breath.” He zoomed in and out of the series of photos from the witness, hoping to find something they could use.

He studied the pictures for a few moments, trying to determine the witness’s location when he’d snapped the pictures. The parking lot was sloped down and to the south so rainwater would drain. The witness must have been up the gentle incline near the lot. All the photos were from an elevated vantage point, and Hoyt was glad he’d been in a safe zone. It truly was a miracle that more of his fellow islanders hadn’t died today.

The boat was the only thing in the picture. No one was visible on board as it hit the sand. Hoyt sipped the tea, letting it soothe his sore throat. The next picture showed the front sliding along rocks. Several more showed the craft going more vertical, until the outboard motor gearbox hit the pavement. Then it launched through the air toward the few parked cars in the lot.

The next few pictures showed a macabre puppet show as the corpse flew from the back of the boat to the front. The boat was nearly on top of the car before the series of photographs ended.

He swallowed another sip of tea, thinking Bailey would like to see this. “Hey, Boss. Come take a look. This photo seems to show it the best.” He pointed to the helm in the blown-up picture. The wheel was unmanned, an eerie absence where the driver should have been.

Rebecca leaned closer, smelling faintly of mint from the tea. “Victim clearly wasn’t driving the boat. Bailey thought he was dead by the time the fire started. So he may have been unconscious or already dead before he even got close to shore.”

“Seems that way.” Hoyt held the steaming cup of tea under his nose, hoping the vapor would relieve his sinuses. “And no other boats are around. No one’s in the water. So it doesn’t seem likely someone was on board, stabbed him, then bailed out.” He shifted the picture in every direction possible, showing the ocean was undisturbed except for the vessel’s wake.

Rebecca’s eyes narrowed as she inspected the picture.

“There’s an island in the background.” Hoyt pointed at the partially obscured silhouette that loomed behind the boat. “That’s Deerskin Island. The tiny one just south of us.”

“Deerskin?” Rebecca wrinkled her nose, and Hoyt couldn’t blame her.

“Right. Sounds creepy, doesn’t it? It’s pretty stark, even by our standards.” Viviane tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and leaned over to look at the picture. “Never understood why they call it that.”

“Deer swim over there, usually at the start of hunting season. You’ll sometimes see pregnant does head over too. It’s a safe place for them to lay low.” Deer swimming in the ocean wasn’t the weirdest thing Hoyt had ever seen, but it made his top-hundred list at least.

“Is there anything behind it? Or around it?”

Hoyt shook his head. “That’s the last spit of land before open ocean. Behind that is Africa.”

Rebecca chewed her lip for a moment. He could practically hear the gears in her head turning. “Can you send this set of pictures and the crime scene sketches to Rhonda’s team? I want to know where that boat came from. They’ve got analysts for this kind of thing. Right now, we’re going to focus on the island we have in line-of-sight.”

“You got it, Boss.” Hoyt pecked at the keyboard, putting all the information together.

“Isn’t it a private island?” Rebecca tapped her fingers on her paper cup.

“Has been for years now.” He took a sip of his tea, wetting his throat. “Used to be just another piece of untouched nature until someone decided to build a fortress of solitude on it.”

Rebecca’s brow furrowed. “How does a person even manage out there? No power lines, no water pipes…”

Viviane held her hand up, almost as if she were in a classroom. “No idea how many amenities the inhabitant has, but it would have to be mostly off the grid. That would mean they don’t use public utilities. Solar panels, rainwater collection, satellite internet if you’re lucky. It’s not easy, but some people value their privacy over convenience.”

“He could be a hunter if he’s living off the grid, right?” Rebecca looked between Hoyt and Viviane.

“In theory, yeah.” Hoyt lifted one shoulder. “I mean, there’re plenty of deer there as long as he isn’t overhunting.”

“Privacy to the point of isolation.” Rebecca’s gaze returned to the photo, where the boat seemed to be racing away from the island.

“It’s not just known for the deer. It’s also prime fishing territory. The locals know the waters are teeming with striped bass like the one we found in the cooler.” Hoyt paused, his mind rambling back to easier times. “My boys and I used to spend my off days on the shoreline there, but that was more than ten years ago.”

“Before it got purchased?” Rebecca’s forehead scrunched up, and he knew she was putting the pieces together.

“Yep. It had to be someone really rich. That house was up and finished in months. It’s all ‘keep out’ and ‘no trespassing’ signs now.” He gestured vaguely with his hands, suggesting the signs that had sprouted up like unwelcoming flowers. “I only fish in the nearby waters these days. Don’t step foot on the island itself.”

“I remember when the house was built.” Viviane chewed on the edge of her paper cup just like he’d seen her do when she was a kid. “Loads of construction boats headed to Deerskin when I was working dispatch. Building supplies, mostly. Made quite a stir among the island’s gossips. We got more than a few calls complaining about it.”

Rebecca finished her tea and set the cup down. “Do either of you know who owns the island?”

“Belongs to a corporation that belongs to a corporation that…” Viviane waved her hand, indicating it kept going on like that. “I didn’t bother looking deeper after seeing all those layers of ownership. No idea who really owns it, and I’ve never seen a person there since the last construction crew left. I boated around it afterward out of curiosity, so I know there’s a dock. And a house. But I couldn’t even tell you for sure that anyone actually lives on the island.”

“Given the calm seas today, it’s likely the boat set off from there. Looks like we might need to pay Deerskin Island a visit.” Hoyt started to stand, but Rebecca waved him off.

“Unfriendly territory is bad enough in daylight. Let’s not tempt fate by showing up there after dark.” She glanced through the window at the dimming mid-December sky.

“Tomorrow, then.” Hoyt sighed, more than happy to postpone the trip.

“Tonight, I’ll dig into who owns Deerskin Island.” Rebecca tapped her fingers against her chin. “Maybe I can get ahold of them and arrange a meeting.”

It was a long shot, but it was always better to have permission. And if they couldn’t secure an invite, at least they’d have daylight and backup. Hoyt drank the rest of his tea, watching his boss over the rim of his cup. He knew Rebecca wouldn’t sleep until she solved this case.

The problem was, on Shadow Island, another case was always right around the corner.

6

Rebecca sank into the plush cushions of her living room couch, the fabric cool against her skin as she stroked the silky fur of Humphrey, her one-year-old chocolate lab.

She’d been in love with his original owner, Ryker Sawyer. When she arrived on the island in the spring, a romantic relationship hadn’t been on her radar. But she couldn’t deny she’d truly loved the boy she first met as a child, back when her family spent their summers here.

In her heart, she held on to the belief that Ryker loved her, too, in spite of his traitorous actions against her and her deputies. She was normally a good judge of character, and she clung to the idea that Ryker was a good person trapped in a horrible situation. His final act had been to try to save Rebecca.

All that remained from that relationship was the devoted and vigilant pup snuggling next to her. Well, him and her memories of the good times she’d shared with Ryker.

The dog’s eyes were half closed in contentment, his tail thumping rhythmically whenever Rebecca’s hand paused too long. The laptop balanced on her knees displayed a satellite image of Deerskin Island, a blob of green amid the churning blue. So far, her research had been fruitful.

The deed to Deerskin Island was buried under the layers Viviane had mentioned, but Rebecca eventually found it. Five years ago, the entire island was purchased by one Saul Nielson. Nielson was from the kind of wealth that reverberated through generations. Rebecca knew the type. The Nielsons had their hands deep in the finance industry, shaping economies with the flick of a pen.

Yet Nielson didn’t fit the mold. He was a black sheep who apparently found little comfort in the golden fleece of his family’s empire.

Rebecca grew more curious as she clicked through headlines and scanned grainy photos from decades past. Nielson had to be in his late fifties now, but the fiery gaze of his youth stared back at her from the screen. An environmental activist in the early nineties, he was no stranger to handcuffs and protest banners, a constant presence at demonstrations that often teetered on the edge of chaos.

“Activist…” Rebecca scoffed under her breath as she read on. The word seemed far too tame to describe the actions of a young Saul Nielson. At thirty, he crossed the line from activist into criminal, deliberately setting fire to an oil executive’s house. Five years in prison was the price for Nielson’s attempt to rage against the fossil fuel industry, a stint that should have carried a harsher sentence, considering what he really was.

“The man’s an ecoterrorist, but his fancy lawyers got him off with a slap on the wrist.”

Humphrey lifted his head, sensing the shift in Rebecca’s mood. His chocolate-brown eyes met hers in silent inquiry before he settled back down.

Rebecca gave him a reassuring pat, her mind churning with the implications of Nielson’s violent history. She leaned back, piecing together the fragments of Saul Nielson’s life into a coherent picture—one that might explain why a dead man with a single fish in his cooler would be worth killing.

“Money talks.”

The weight of the Nielson fortune was apparent even in the sterile language of court documents. It was no secret that wealth could pry open prison doors years ahead of schedule and keep reporters out of court proceedings.

Delving briefly into his parents’ profiles, she noted their financial clout with a mix of distaste and resignation. The purchase of Deerskin Island barely registered as a blip against the backdrop of their vast assets.

“Off the grid or above the law?” Rebecca posed the question to Humphrey, who responded with a soft snort from his spot on the couch.

Humphrey didn’t care for people with too much money and too few morals, like Ryker and his family. Rebecca scratched him behind the ears, eliciting a happy sigh. A flicker of a branch swaying against the window caught her attention. She blinked, refocusing on her task.

In the five years since Nielson had bought the island, he’d made requests for privacy that were scattered throughout the articles Rebecca found. Most sources lacked credibility, but the man’s desire to distance himself from society was clear.

If zealotry had pushed him to firebomb a house over ideological differences, where might solitude have led him?

“Isolation breeds…what, exactly?” Rebecca drummed her fingers on the keyboard, pondering the psyche of a man who once saw arson as justifiable activism. Her gaze drifted to the map she’d pulled up in a different tab. The satellite picture was older than it should have been. It showed no house on the island, even though Hoyt and Viviane said it had been built five years ago.

The clock ticked on. Speculation wouldn’t suffice. They needed to head over to Deerskin Island themselves. Nielson had no listed phone numbers as far as Rebecca could tell. The one on the building permit belonged to the corporation that technically owned the island. They wouldn’t be able to call Nielson personally before heading out to the private residence.

When they did go, Rebecca planned to take plenty of pictures along the way.

A chill in the air seeped through the walls of her coastal home, prompting a shiver that ran deeper than just the cold. It was a physical echo of the unease that had settled in her bones. Though she’d lived in this home for a little more than a month, she still felt edgy at the oddest moments.

She’d signed up with a security company that had installed sensors on the doors and windows. Anytime one was opened, she was notified by an app on her phone. Despite the added layer of security, she remained apprehensive.

Rebecca pushed herself off the couch with a sigh and padded toward the kitchen, determined to find some small comfort in the onyx embrace of a coffee stout.

As she reached into the fridge, the cool light spilled out onto the hardwood floors, casting long shadows that played tricks on her eyes. Bottle in hand, she nudged the door shut and turned back toward the living room.

Passing by the window, Rebecca glimpsed a fleeting movement outside. She paused, peering through the blinds.

A car sat parked under the halo of a streetlight a few houses down. Frowning, Rebecca leaned closer to the glass while keeping her body concealed by the wall, trying to discern any recognizable features of the vehicle. The backlighting from the lamp obscured its make and model, leaving it as nothing more than an ominous silhouette lurking in the suburban twilight.

She couldn’t shake the feeling of a watchful eye upon her. Could this be one of Morley’s people? Her gut twisted at the thought. Before she’d had to cut their conversation short, Lankford claimed he was being followed.

And now this was happening. Was it just a coincidence?

She chided herself for jumping to conclusions. Paranoia was another hazardous pitfall in her profession.

Could be nothing. She took a sip of beer, trying to calm her brain back to rationality. In the weeks since she’d moved in, she’d made a concerted effort to get to know her neighbors. Maybe the Hendersons finally traded in that old clunker or the Thompsons had company. It was the season for holiday parties.

Despite her attempts at reassuring herself, the discomfort lodged itself firmly between her shoulder blades, stubbornly immune to reason. With a brisk motion borne of both caution and a desire for privacy, Rebecca drew the blinds shut and tugged sharply on the blackout curtains until they met in the middle, sealing away the night and its potential secrets.

“Better safe than sorry.” She took a long swig of her beer, allowing the rich bitterness to ground her. Now that she was shielded from the unknown entity outside, she was steadier.

She had work to do, leads to follow, a victim to identify, and a reclusive eco-warrior to interview. Morley, if he was up to something, would have to wait.

7

Early morning light peeked through Rebecca’s bedroom curtains, spreading a mellow glow across the room that did little to rouse her from her slumber. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic breathing of Humphrey, her loyal bed warmer, who lay sprawled on the end of the bed by her feet.

With a yawn and the ache of muscles weary from yesterday’s work, Rebecca pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She’d been lucky to avoid any burns, but the whole ordeal left her feeling run-down. Her feet met the cool hardwood, triggering an alertness that had become second nature.

Somewhere in the room was the fluffy rug she’d bought and placed there, but Humphrey’s nightly patrols tended to kick it out of its spot while she slept. Which meant she could always tell when her pup had had a restless night. In the short time she’d had him, she’d grown accustomed to Humphrey’s nocturnal activities, and they no longer disturbed her sleep.

Looking down at the floor, she realized last night must have been a doozy. Not only was he still sleeping after she’d gotten up and started moving around, but the rug was nowhere to be seen.

She was stretching away the remnants of sleep when a nagging memory from the night before caused her to pause. Without bothering to fetch a robe or slippers, she approached the window, pushing aside the curtain with a cautious hand.

Her bedroom window showed the street where the car had been parked last night. The neighborhood outside looked as peaceful as any other Monday morning in their small island community. But there, a few houses down, a car she didn’t recognize was parked under an oak tree across the street. It was in a different spot than last night, but still with a good view of her home.

While she wasn’t positive it was the same car, the basic shape matched what she’d seen in the dark. She craned her neck this way and that but couldn’t make out the license plate numbers on the front. “Still, it only moved a short distance. That has to mean something. An overnight guest wouldn’t move their legally parked car.”

Would they?

Humphrey stirred at her voice, his tail thumping against the bed frame as he awaited the day’s first commands. But Rebecca was focused on the vehicle.

The car sat idly, its dark form standing out from all the other cars parked on the street. While Rebecca couldn’t see any exhaust coming from the rear of the car, she knew it had been running recently because the windows were free of frost. And she was certain someone was sitting very still in the driver’s seat.

“Let’s see what they’re up to, boy.”

Humphrey responded with eager anticipation, his claws clicking on the wooden floor as he followed her movements.

Rebecca knew better than to jump into action without a plan. Whoever was in that car might be watching her just as intently, waiting for a misstep. She needed to be smart and subtle. Thankfully, she had the best partner for that kind of work.

“You ready for your morning walk?”

Humphrey froze, his ears perking up immediately. He usually got breakfast first, but he was still a puppy who loved getting out in the morning to run off the energy he’d built up during the night.

Yes, that was innocuous enough. A daily routine that wouldn’t raise suspicion. She’d be just another resident of Shadow Island taking her dog for his exercise. Nothing to see here.

“Come on, Humphrey. We’re not going to the beach today. Let’s go down the sidewalk.” Pulling on leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, she crawled under the bed. She had to push the rug out of the way to get to her gun safe and recover the Springfield Armory 1911 that served as her service weapon and her personal concealed carry.

Her sneakers lived next to the door to minimize sand getting dragged into the house. Stepping into those, she fastened her holster with her gun around her waist before pulling on her coat and grabbing Humphrey’s leash.

The dog wagged his tail furiously, sensing adventure. Once the leash was clipped, he wiggled with impatience as she opened the door.

“Okay, let’s go!”

They stepped out onto the porch, the morning chill causing Rebecca to pull her coat tighter around her. She breathed in deeply, tasting the salt in the air that drifted from the surrounding sea, letting it sharpen her senses as she strolled down the street. Every step was measured, every casual glance calculated. The art of observation was a skill honed by years in the Bureau, and now, more than ever, she needed it to serve her well.

Humphrey pulled slightly on the leash, his nose twitching with the scents of the waking neighborhood. Rebecca allowed herself a small smile at his enthusiasm. He was her confidant, her partner in all things, even if he didn’t know the gravity of their seemingly leisurely walk.

As they neared the car, the engine came to life, a low purr that broke the silence of the morning. Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her pace even, her expression neutral. The car moved, and she prepared herself for whatever came next.

“Easy, boy.” She used Humphrey’s excited tug on the leash as a pretext to halt. The black Hyundai Sonata’s windows were tinted just enough to obscure her view of the driver as they executed a smooth U-turn. Rebecca’s pulse quickened, yet she forced herself to stand still, watching as the car pulled away.

In that fleeting moment, the sun glanced off the back of the vehicle, and Rebecca caught a partial reflection of the license plate. Not enough to read it all, but the distinctive red, white, and blue tag was unmistakable. A D.C. plate.

“Come on, boy.” They turned around and headed back to the house. A black Hyundai Sonata from D.C. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The chocolate lab wagged his tail, just as excited to go back to the house as he had been to leave it. As they retraced their steps, Rebecca fished her phone from the pocket of her jacket, keeping a firm grip on Humphrey’s leash with her other hand.

“Hey, Boss. What’s up?” Hoyt’s greeting was almost sacrilegiously cheery this early in the morning.

“Have you seen any unfamiliar D.C. plates on the island lately?” She kept her tone even while navigating Humphrey past a particularly interesting hydrant.

“No. Why?”

“I spotted a black Hyundai Sonata with D.C. tags parked near my house this morning, and I think it was there last night too. It took off when I got close. I couldn’t get the full plate, but something about it isn’t sitting right with me.” She recited the part of the plate she did see.

“Watching your house?” Hoyt’s question held a note of concern. “I’d say that doesn’t sit right. You think Morley’s keeping tabs on you?”

“Could be.” Rebecca veered through her front yard and up to her porch, taking the most direct route. “Maybe trying to see if I know more than I should.”

“But you’ve got the USB somewhere safe. Right?”

She could imagine the lines furrowing his brow.

“It’s secure.”

Secure felt like an understatement. It was now in a safety deposit box two hours away, there were self-destruct encryptions on key files, and she was pretty sure the device itself was fire- and waterproof. She didn’t even know what was fully contained on the thing, but it was clearly worth protecting.

Yet, for all its security, it was only a USB drive, and Morley probably wouldn’t have a problem cracking it with all of his available resources.

Considering Morley’s reach, caution was her constant ally. With today’s tech, the Sonata could have parked on the next street over, behind a house, and still be listening in. “Let’s not talk details over the phone.”

“I’m already at the station.” Hoyt seemed to catch on to her wariness. “We can talk when you get here.”

8

After returning the phone to its cradle, Hoyt rose from his worn desk chair, the creak of the material a familiar sound in the quiet morning. He strolled to the communal coffee maker, pouring himself a cup of the dark brew. Trent Locke, the deputy who worked third shift and actually seemed to enjoy the odd hours, didn’t drink coffee most of the time, so Hoyt came into the station early to make it.

Elliot’s warm greeting broke through Hoyt’s thoughts, and he looked up. Viviane pushed through the half door that led to the bullpen, paused to talk to Elliot, and headed for her desk.

“Morning, Darby.” He’d known her since she was a child and had watched her grow into the role, first as a dispatcher and now as a fine deputy.

“Morning, Frost. How’re things so far? Anything new yet?” Viviane settled into her desk, pulling off her winter coat.

“Rebecca thinks Morley has eyes on the island.” Hoyt leaned against the edge of her desk, his statement hanging heavy in the air.

Viviane’s fingers stilled mid-type as she was signing in to her computer, and she turned her face to him. “Why does she think that?”

“A car was parked by her house all night. Still there this morning. Just watching. D.C. plates.” Hoyt sipped his coffee in an effort to seem unconcerned.

“Damn.” The gravity in her voice deflated her usual optimism. Hoyt knew Viviane shared his worries about their boss. She and Rebecca were more than just sheriff and deputy. They had developed a deep friendship that seemed to grow stronger by the day. “Do you think something went down with his criminal case or something? Why’s he bothering the boss?”

Hoyt would have paid a bunch of money to know the answer to that question. “I think something with Morley’s case would have made the news. But with his reach, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got people everywhere.”

He relayed what Rebecca had shared with him about the unnerving phone call from Simon Lankford, the engineer who had given her a USB filled with information about Morley’s decades of political abuse and criminal activities.

“She can’t prove anything because he wouldn’t even tell the boss where he was, but she said he sounded scared out of his mind. And certain someone was coming for him.” Hoyt’s jaw tightened. “Now she has a car sitting outside her house. That’s no coincidence. And as far as I know, she hasn’t heard back from Lankford after they were interrupted yesterday.”

Viviane absorbed the information, her expression showing her increasing horror. “You mean…?”

“I’m worried Morley wanted to silence Lankford.” The implication was clear as daylight. They were dealing with a predator hiding in the trappings of wealth and influence. Something they weren’t unfamiliar with on Shadow Island.

“Jeez, Hoyt.” Viviane breathed out, her body tense. “We can’t just sit on our hands. Rebecca’s out there, and she could be next.”

“Rebecca’s smart. She knows how to handle herself. And she’s already on her way in.” Hoyt returned to his chair, cradling his coffee. “Still, we need to watch her back. Make sure she stays safe.”

“Safe? That’s not enough!” Viviane clenched her hands into fists on top of her desk, papers crinkling beneath her grip. “We need to be on the offensive. We can’t just play defense with someone like Morley. We all heard what Rebecca told us about what he’s done to her and her family.”

Not long ago, Rebecca had come clean with her deputies about how Senator Morley ordered her parents’ murder and the murder of a reporter who’d been investigating their deaths. The whole mess had come to a head in a parking garage in D.C., where Rebecca had nearly been killed. After being released from the hospital, she quit the FBI and moved to the island to decide what her future held. But even there she couldn’t escape Morley’s tentacles.

“And what do you propose we do? Chase down every suspicious car?” He hated how impotent he sounded. “Say we even manage to catch them and prove they’re Morley’s people. Then what? Rebecca’s holding on to a ticking time bomb of evidence but doesn’t know how to use it. Who even has enough power to make a difference? And who isn’t either in Morley’s pocket or too scared to cross him?”

Viviane’s eyes flashed, and she stood so abruptly, her chair rolled backward. “This kind of thinking is exactly why the Yacht Club got away with their schemes for years.” She jabbed a finger toward him, her eyes alight. “Rebecca didn’t accept that narrative. She dug in and brought them down. And now, when she needs us, we can’t fall back on doing things the same way we used to.” Her voice shook. “I refuse to lose her the same way we lost Wallace.”

The words hit Hoyt with the force of a physical blow, stirring the coals of guilt that never quite stopped smoldering. “I’m not giving up.” He set his cup down and straightened his back. “I’ll do anything to help the boss. I just…” He trailed off, rubbing his temple as if to smooth away the frustration. “After the Yacht Club, I promised myself I’d never let something like that happen again. But this…it’s bigger than all of us. And way out of our jurisdiction too.”

“Then we start by not letting it overwhelm us.” Viviane leaned over the corner of his desk, the urgency clear in her posture. “We can’t control everything, but we’re not helpless. We have to believe our part makes a difference. Even if all we can do is arrest people for stalking Rebecca. We can harass the shit out of them until they know without a shadow of a doubt that they’re not welcome on Shadow Island.”

Viviane stamped her foot for good measure, but her words had already wormed their way into Hoyt’s heart and brain. He didn’t need any more reasons to do something.

“All right. We’ll figure this out. We always do.” Hoyt met her insistent gaze. Complacency was no longer an option. “I’ve learned enough to know I should follow Rebecca’s lead. She’s the North Star in this mess. We align with her and navigate through.”

“I’m what now?” Rebecca strode into the station, blinking in confusion.

Viviane giggled at Hoyt being caught. “The North Star. The biggest, brightest one that leads sailors home.”

Hoyt’s cheeks warmed. He was way more comfortable giving his boss a hard time than complimenting her.

“Is it okay if I just pretend I understand that?” Rebecca headed straight for the coffee maker as if this were any other day at work. “Have we heard from the Ocean City police or the boat owner yet?” She glossed right over the awkwardness, and Hoyt was only too happy to follow her lead.

“Not a word. Locke and Coffey continued trying all yesterday evening and last night. I was considering heading out there today to have a face-to-face with the owner before you called.”

Rebecca’s phone buzzed. She took a look at the screen. “It’s the staties. Maybe they have our trajectory.” She answered the phone, putting it on speaker. “Sheriff West.”

“Sheriff, this is Trooper Hollywood with the State Police.” Viviane snickered and Hoyt flicked her on the arm to stay quiet. “You’re looking for probable trajectories, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve sent an email explaining the analysis in more detail, but the long and short of it is that considering the boat’s general direction, rate of acceleration, the tides, and currents over the past forty-eight hours, it looks like an island known as Deerskin is the most likely physical launch point.”

The whole team exchanged glances, everyone taking this information in.

“You’re sure?” Rebecca’s brow was furrowed.

“As sure as I can be. Your other options are the boat steering in from the open ocean, which is possible, but definitely harder to investigate. And I don’t think the pattern of currents supports it. Or it could’ve come from Africa, but there’s too much fuel left in the tank for that to be a real possibility.”

Hoyt bit back a laugh. He’d said the same thing about Africa.

Rebecca thanked Hollywood the Analyst, ended the call, and turned to the team. “Ocean City can wait.” Rebecca pulled off her coat and draped it over a chair. “Deerskin Island is our priority. It seems it’s the only land mass between us and Africa.”

“He did say the open ocean was an option, Boss.”

“We’ll start with the most probable and work our way to anywhere, how about that? We need to see what’s happening on the ground. If we see where the vessel came from, we might be able to ID our guy and get to the bottom of this whole mess.”

“Understood.” Hoyt wondered how Rebecca could shift so easily from worrying about Morley to business as usual. “You think we’ll get a welcoming committee?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Rebecca shook her head. “We need to be prepared for anything. That’s why it’s all hands on deck for this and why we’re waiting to visit the boat owner. Do we still have access to your friend’s boat? The one we used last summer for the smuggling case?”

“Probably.” Hoyt tried to remember if Silas was in town this week. “If not, I’ll find us something else.”

“Good.” Rebecca tapped a finger on her steaming travel mug, her gaze slightly unfocused as she thought. “I’ll let Rhonda know we’re heading to Deerskin. It falls under Virginia State Police jurisdiction, after all. And I need to remember to requisition a proper boat for the department. Meg Darby would approve it, I’m sure. She’s worked here before and knows an island station needs a boat to be fully capable.”

Hoyt was pleased that Rebecca planned to call Special Agent Rhonda Lettinger. The more eyes on the case, the better.

“Until then, let’s see if Silas can do us a favor.” Hoyt reached for the phone.

“And I’ll write the requisition form and send it right over.” Viviane grinned and batted her eyes. “I’m sure the head of the Select Board won’t say no to her favorite child.”

Rebecca laughed. “You’re Meg’s only child.”

“Which makes it especially easy to be her favorite.” Viviane gave her shoulders a little shimmy as she typed on her keyboard.

Hoyt laughed. “And her biggest⁠—”

“Accomplishment.” Viviane whipped a finger at him. “That’s what you were going to say. Right?”

“Right.” Hoyt was glad that the morning’s drama hadn’t ruined the day. Still, Viviane was right, and he meant what he’d said. He’d do everything he could to make sure Rebecca didn’t follow in the same footsteps as their last sheriff.

He’d attended too many funerals for coworkers already.

9

Sea spray dusted Rebecca’s face as the speedboat cut through the waves toward Deerskin Island. She clenched the railing with frozen fingers, the roar of the engine a constant thrumming in her ears. They were already halfway to Deerskin Island on their borrowed boat, and she’d just finished filling in her crew on what she’d learned about the property owner, Saul Nielson.

Hoyt sat at the helm of the bouncing vessel, scanning the horizon. Viviane was sitting across from her, also holding on to the rail.

A weighted silence settled over them. For a moment, she wondered if they’d been too absorbed by the vastness around them to fully grasp the implications of an ecoterrorist living on the island. “Any questions?” The ocean seemed to try to swallow her words.

Viviane’s eyes narrowed into slits before meeting Rebecca’s gaze. “I’ve got one. Why didn’t you tell me about Simon Lankford’s call?”

Annoyance pricked at Rebecca, an unfamiliar itch when dealing with Viviane. “Because it only happened yesterday, moments before the boat exploded. I haven’t had time to tell anyone about it. I’m assuming Hoyt told you. He only knew about it because we rode to the scene together. We’ve had our hands full since then.”

“I’m not questioning your judgment, but I think we all need to know if one of our own is in danger.” Viviane frowned and looked to Hoyt, who nodded. “If Morley is going after Lankford, he could come for you next.”

Rebecca searched her friend’s face, seeing the worry etched there. She sighed. “You’re right.”

Viviane pulled her hat down tighter on her head, fighting against the wind that continually tried to pull it off. “So between Lankford’s freaked-out phone call about being stalked and the car outside your house this morning, you think Morley’s hunting for the USB?”

Rebecca nodded once, sharp and resolute. “That’s what I’m assuming. They shouldn’t even know I’m connected to Lankford, not unless they know about the USB and that he visited me. Lankford said he wasn’t followed when he came to see me. But he could have been wrong.”

“And it’s secure? The thumb drive. Where is it?”

“It was at the station.” Rebecca scanned the horizon before settling her focus back on Viviane. No one was close enough to overhear them now, especially over the roar of the boat’s engine. “But since the break-in orchestrated by the Sawyers proved even our station wasn’t secure, I moved it. It’s in a safety deposit box in a bank in Norfolk.”

“Norfolk?” Viviane’s surprise was evident, even over the roar of the engine.

“Yep. Seemed the best bet.” Rebecca ran her hand over her face, realizing what a relief it was to finally share this information with someone else. “The USB is booby-trapped. Lankford designed some kind of encryption or something so if you try to guess the passcode, the drive erases. But honestly, I don’t even trust that safeguard. Not with Morley’s reach. He could hire a hacker and get the information. And that is why it’s safest off the island where no one would expect it to be.”

“Why not Sandpiper Bank here, though?” Hoyt asked from behind the steering wheel, his deep voice carrying over the ocean breeze.

“Too obvious.” Rebecca didn’t have the heart to tell him that she wasn’t sure who she could fully trust on the island. “Banks are plentiful in Norfolk, and they have no reason to look for it there. If they’re hunting for it here, then we’ve already outmaneuvered them.”

Hoyt grunted in agreement, and Rebecca sensed the cogs turning in Viviane’s head as she processed the strategy. They understood the stakes. This wasn’t just about hiding evidence. It was about protecting it from corruption, both digital and human.

“Boss, do you know anyone who can even act on the material in the thumb drive if we did present it?” Hoyt’s brow creased with concern.

She felt the weight of his question like an anchor pulling her back down. “Honestly, no. I mean, I don’t even know what’s on it. I couldn’t get past the encryption.” Rebecca couldn’t keep the hopeless weariness from seeping in.

Viviane shifted, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “So what do we do?”

“I don’t know yet. The extent of this…it could go higher than we think. Lankford and my dad were all focused on clean energy. Morley seemed interested in what my father was doing but then he killed Dad. So I’m thinking Morley was playing both ends of the energy spectrum.”

Viviane took a deep breath. “Like, he kept your dad on friendly terms to keep tabs on him? So you think Morley was always working for people in traditional energy resources?”

“It makes sense.” Hoyt rubbed at the space between his eyebrows, as if he were trying to erase the complications from his head. “There’s billions of dollars at stake for them if green energy takes over. Morley would’ve lost a lot of funds if your dad’s invention made it to the public.”

Rebecca gritted her teeth. She wished she had more answers. “Morley bought all of my dad’s information. What the hell could be on this USB?”

“Maybe we take it to the director of the FBI? Or the secretary of Homeland Security?” Viviane seemed doubtful even as she pitched the idea.

“Those are both political positions, and I don’t know those people personally. I don’t know who would be in favor of what’s on that USB or who would try to suppress it.”

“So they’re powerful, but you don’t know if they can be trusted.” Viviane’s statement was so soft it was nearly a question.

“I don’t know that they aren’t involved with Morley.” Rebecca’s shoulders slumped. “I haven’t had time to go through everything. The unencrypted files had so many names. Most of them seem to be nobodies, just low-level people who don’t have anything to do with Morley. Others are political sharks. Some are politicians. And not all are American.”

“That’s a lot more complicated than I thought it was.” Hoyt slowed the boat, curving around the southeast side of the island. Everything on land seemed serene, just a sparsely wooded area, with nothing to hide.

“Maybe once I get a handle on who all is involved, I can find someone to work on the USB. But until then…”

They continued in silence, each lost in their thoughts, until the speedboat rounded the southern tip of Deerskin Island. This secluded part, hidden from view from Shadow Island, held its own charm. Trees crowded the shore, their branches reaching out as if to shelter weary travelers.

“Cut the engine.” Rebecca had detected a shadow moving through the trees.

Hoyt complied, and the boat slowed to a gentle glide.

Through a break in the foliage, the house materialized against a backdrop of trees hardly taller than it was. A dock stretched out into the water. At the end of it stood a bearded man, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the approaching boat.

The barrel of a gun gleamed dully in the dim light.

Rebecca instinctively moved her hand to rest on her own holstered weapon. Without turning to Hoyt and Viviane, she murmured, “Shotgun,” as the boat drifted closer and closer to the dock.

10

The boat slowed to a halt as it neared the weathered dock, where a larger vessel that looked like a bare-bones version of a pleasure craft bobbed in the choppy water. Rebecca stood at the prow, feet planted and back straight despite the rocking of the small craft beneath her. She held her badge above her head so the man with the gun could see it easily.

The man hadn’t yet raised the shotgun’s barrel, and open carry of a weapon on personal property wasn’t illegal. He wasn’t even all that threatening, just standing there, watching them approach. Still, Rebecca remained alert. She nodded slightly to Viviane, who shifted closer, awaiting orders.

“Run the boat registration,” Rebecca whispered.

Viviane stepped behind Rebecca again. Then she discreetly tapped at her phone, accessing the database without drawing attention.

Rebecca watched the solitary figure. He was barefoot with a tangle of gray hair, and his grip on the shotgun was as unyielding as the set of his jaw. His beard was so thick and untamed that Rebecca couldn’t see enough of his face to tell if she was talking to Saul Nielson or not.

“Sir, I’m the sheriff from Shadow Island, here as part of an official investigation.” She noted the flicker of wariness that crossed the man’s face. “Could you state your name for us?”

“That’s not a police boat.” The man shifted his weight, the wooden boards of the dock creaking under his dirty feet. He offered no name, just a silent challenge lingering in the space between them.

Rebecca kept her distance, respecting the boundary the unspoken refusal had created. When dealing with armed individuals, she knew to prioritize safety and de-escalation. Forcing a laugh, she nodded. “You’re right. It’s not. My office is small. Half of my staff is right in front of you. We don’t have a boat of our own and had to borrow one from a friend to come talk to you.”

“Mind telling me why you’re here?” The man’s voice was gruff, as if he didn’t have occasion to use it very often.

“Yesterday afternoon, a boat originating from this vicinity crashed onto the shore of Shadow Island.” Rebecca pointed in that direction.

He didn’t turn, didn’t look. He kept his full attention locked on them as he stood only a few feet away from where they drifted in the shallow water by his dock.

Hoyt was stock still at the helm, his hands resting on the steering wheel, easily visible to the man.

“Aboard that vessel, we found a man. He was murdered. Stabbed multiple times⁠—”

“What does that have to do with me?” He jerked his chin, his suspicion palpable.

Viviane tilted her head slightly. “What do you mean by that, sir?” Her question hung heavy, laced with the kind of sarcastic undertone that only those who knew her well could detect.

“Wasn’t me. I’m right here. And that’s my boat right there.” He used his elbow to point at it, but his gun didn’t shift a millimeter. “So what does some dead guy on your island have to do with me on mine?”

Rebecca held her temper in check. “Sir, we’re trying to piece together a timeline, track movements, and identify the victim. Like I said, the boat came from this direction. Do you know anything about it? Did you see a boat here yesterday?”

The man studied them, assessing, calculating.

Rebecca held her breath, waiting for the walls of stubborn silence to break.

Finally, he spoke. “People stop here sometimes. I put up signs to try to keep them away. But they show up anyway. And they bring their filth with them. Those assholes are ruining my island.”

Rebecca’s stance remained unwavering. “So you’re saying people come here uninvited?” She gave a subtle nod to Viviane to get her attention again.

“Sometimes, yeah.” The man who was likely Saul Nielson shifted his grip on the shotgun. “They don’t respect private property. Those damn speedboats cut through the water like knives, scaring off the wildlife…and peace.”

“What sort of problems are these boaters causing you specifically?” Rebecca noticed the lines of discomfort etching deeper into his weathered face. The shotgun seemed like a foreign object in his hands. She leaned closer, the prow serving as a boundary between them.

“Problems?” Nielson’s voice rose, a tempest brewing beneath the surface. “They poison the waters, chase away the fish, and shatter my solitude with their damn engines. The wakes from their boats lap against the shore, eroding it.” He gestured wildly to the island around him, where the evidence of erosion was visible even from the dock.

Rebecca tilted her head, feigning sympathy. “If you can confirm you’re Saul Nielson, the owner of this property, I can probably help you with your concerns.”

He rolled his eyes, reaching into his back pocket. Rebecca stiffened. But the man merely pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to show his license. “I’m Saul Nielson, owner of this property, yes. And I should be the only person setting foot here.”

“Is that why you moved out here? To escape such nuisances?” Rebecca strained to read the license. The man in the photo had a lot less gray but still appeared to be the same person.

He nodded, a simple jerk of the head, but it spoke volumes to Rebecca. It confirmed her theory that Saul Nielson was a hermit and fiercely protective of the isolation he had cultivated. And what would that isolation have driven him to do? The dilapidated state of a dock that couldn’t be more than five years old was just another testament to his detachment from the world beyond these waters.

“Understandable.” Rebecca placed the badge back on her belt. “We found striped bass in the victim’s boat. You see anyone around here fishing for bass?”

Nielson’s laugh was a harsh bark. “Yeah.” He spat into the water with scorn. “Everyone’s after the damn bass. They’re gonna fish ’em all to extinction if they keep it up.” His gaze swept over the water, his eyes narrowing. “Humans never know when to stop. Overfishing, destroying ecosystems. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

Rebecca noted the way he gripped the shotgun a little looser now, though his anger was evident.

“Well, we have no desire to disrupt your way of life here. Or to disturb the fish. We’re simply trying to solve a murder.” She waited, but he didn’t seem to care about the dead man, so she tried a different tactic. “The boat crashed on our shore and started a fire. That caused considerable damage. It also polluted the air and water around it. We want to catch whoever did that. Our interests align more than you might think.”

“Is that right?” His skepticism was plain in the furrows of his brow.

“Yes, it is. We both want to prevent unnecessary death and destruction.” Rebecca gave the man an airy smile. “May we have a look around your island? The person responsible might have passed through here without you knowing.” She waved her hand at the forest behind him. “They could even be hiding on your island. You said the signs don’t keep people from trespassing. And if we catch them, they won’t be able to bother you again. Neither will we once this is over.”

Nielson shifted his weight, his bare feet scraping against the weathered wood of the dock. “No.” His voice had a steely edge. “This is my land. You want to snoop around? Get a warrant. Otherwise, stay off my island.”

Rebecca dropped her smile and regarded the bearded recluse with a mix of frustration and curiosity. “Were you here yesterday afternoon, sir?”

His laugh was a low rumble. “I’m always here. Day in, day out. This is my home and my sanctuary. I only leave the island when I need to get supplies. And that doesn’t happen often.” He gestured to the docked boat.

It had nothing more than a helm in the center with a couple of folding seats and a roof big enough to provide a bit of shade for the pilot. The front and back of the vessel were empty, with not even an extra seat. Just inset rings that could be used for tie-downs. Dead leaves curled up on the deck, and the railings that ringed the boat were dull from constant exposure.

Rebecca looked back and forth between the boat and the man, letting his words settle heavily into her mind. It was clear he had no intention of aiding their investigation. She maintained her professional composure, though she suspected her eyes betrayed her disappointment as she held his gaze for a moment longer, searching for any flicker of concession.

He was an unyielding rock amid the ceaseless tide.

She gave a curt nod, acknowledging the boundary he set. “Understood, Mr. Nielson. Just be careful out here. And if you think of anything that might help our case, give us a call.” Her offer dangled between them, an olive branch extended into a gale.

His scoff cut through any attempt at camaraderie. “I’ve been living just fine on my own, without any meddling. And I plan to keep it that way.” His disdain for outside interference was as tangible as the shotgun in his grip.

Rebecca signaled Hoyt to take them away from the dock as she took a seat at the stern. “Let’s take a circle around the island.”

As the engine of their boat rumbled to life, backing them away from the island and its armed inhabitant, she took one last look at the isolated figure on the dock, the solitary guardian of his austere sanctuary. He stood stock-still, watching them as they passed the edge of the island, until Rebecca’s view of him disappeared behind the trees.

There was nothing to see along the eastern and southern sides of the small island. Sandy beaches gave way to grassier shorelines along the western edge. The taller grass grew out of grayish mud.

“Wait.” Rebecca stood, setting the boat wobbling beneath them.

“Boats don’t have brakes, Boss.” But Hoyt pulled back on the throttle.

They all followed Rebecca’s pointing finger to a patch of grass that had been broken and bent over. The blades seemed to have been ripped from the muddy ground. “Could that have been caused by someone launching a boat?”

Hoyt shrugged. “Could be. Could be a couple animals got into a tangle.”

“A couple human animals.” Rebecca stared at the disturbed vegetation. Then she broke away and turned that intense stare to Hoyt. “Can you line up the rear of this boat with that section of ground?”

In answer, Hoyt steered them in a couple circles, making Rebecca’s stomach clench. But he finally lined up the stern with the general angle. Rebecca ignored the back of the boat, though, and focused on the bow—rather, what was in front of the bow.

The shadowy shape of Shadow Island.

“It came from here.” Between this detail and Trooper Hollywood’s assessment, Rebecca was sure of it.

“Boss.” Viviane held her phone out, showing Rebecca what she’d found. “The registration checks out. The boat’s registered to Nielson. Everything matches.”

“Figures.” He was the rightful owner of the land, and they had no right to intrude. Especially since they couldn’t say for certain that the crashed boat had even come from Deerskin Island.

They needed more evidence, and they needed to ID their victim.

11

The hum of the speedboat’s engine faded into the distance, and I could finally hear my own ragged breaths. Off they went, the sheriff and her band of clueless deputies, slicing through the water like a shark chasing its prey.

Their wake rippled through to my island. It was a personal violation that set my teeth on edge. They’d invaded my sanctuary, poking around with their questions and their badges as if they had any right. As if they couldn’t read all the signs letting them know they were not welcome.

“Damn them.” I watched the confident posture of the woman at the stern, her blond ponytail whipping in the wind. They thought they were so smart, coming after me in their little speedboat. After the message I sent? How did they not get it? My fingers twitched with the urge to make them understand, once and for all.

The boat I sent was just another weapon. That was all these machines were. Semis, cars, speedboats. Glossy, roaring, and just waiting to tear through flesh and bone. People thought they were the ones in power.

But we didn’t control the machines. It was the other way around. We made them, and we were forced to shape our world to them—roads, bridges, waterways designated with buoys—and form our society around them and their needs, not ours.

These machines…they turned us into monsters who killed, destroyed, and polluted without a second thought. All to make it easier on the vehicles of our own demise.

I’d come out here to escape the poison of civilization, to cleanse myself of the filth we created for the machines, which created even more filth in a never-ending cycle.

But no matter how far you ran, they came after you. The cops—they were supposed to protect, to serve. Ha! They were no saviors. They were mercenaries in uniform, no different from the inconsiderate pricks who churned the waters with their yachts, indifferent to the delicate life below.

“Supposed to be helping people.” I spat into the sand. “Cops are a joke.”

I turned my back to the receding boat, anger simmering in my belly. They thought they could corner me, hound me into submission? They had another think coming. I’d show them what happened when they tried to trap something wild and desperate. They didn’t get it now, but they would. They damn sure would.

They thought they were invincible, shielded behind their badges and laws. But those didn’t apply here. Not on my turf. They’d been warned, but they had no idea what kind of beast they were waking.

I’d make sure the next lesson stuck. It would be etched in blood and wreckage. They’d learn, even if I had to drag them down into the depths of the sea myself. This island was my castle, my fortress, my sanctuary, and I would not let it be breached.

I dusted off the sand clinging to my skin. Actions spoke louder than any verbal warning, and mine would scream.

12

The reflective glass door of the sheriff’s station closed softly behind Rebecca. Shadow Island’s station was a relic of simpler times, the clean white walls and musty scent a quaint contrast to the modern crimes encroaching on their small community.

“Well, that was a waste. People who don’t let us help them clear their names still confuse me.” She strode past Trent’s empty desk. Rebecca didn’t like the sight of unoccupied spaces. It reminded her that she’d already lost too many people. Even though all desks were assigned at the moment, she had to shake off the afterimages of Darian Hudson and Greg Abner moving through this bullpen.

She understood why an average Joe might refuse to let police check their property, worrying that cops would try to pin something on them without considering context.

But Nielson was rich, and he’d gone through the system before and been treated with kid gloves, so he shouldn’t have the same worries others might. Then again, perhaps his time behind bars had made him suspicious of anyone in a uniform.

And most people in his position didn’t feel the need to patrol their property carrying shotguns either.

“Preaching to the choir.” Viviane sounded even more annoyed. Her eyes held that familiar spark of contempt she’d had for Longfellow and Vale, corrupt administrators of the island who’d been killed by criminals.

Hoyt grunted in agreement, trailing them like a looming storm cloud.

Jake glanced up as they filed in but didn’t say anything, listening to their complaints while he continued to scroll through documents on his computer.

As the coffee maker sputtered out the last of its current brew, Rebecca poured herself a cup. The bitter aroma filled the air, not nearly strong enough to mask the stench of wasted time. Saul Nielson’s stonewalling had cost them precious hours.

“All right, folks.” Rebecca set her mug on a stack of reports left on the kitchenette countertop, leaning back against the edge and crossing her arms. “We need fresh thinking on this. Let’s brainstorm. Nielson might not be our guy, but why the hell wouldn’t he want us to check around his island for a possible intruder who was behind the killing?”

“Because he’s an idiot?” Viviane blurted, gesturing animatedly as she spoke. “I mean, seriously. A murderer might be traipsing through his private island kingdom, and he’s what? Indifferent? It doesn’t add up. Either that, or he’s so used to his money protecting him that he doesn’t think anyone else would dare intrude.”

“Right?” Rebecca simply didn’t understand what went through some people’s minds. “He’s got more ‘no trespassing’ signs than the Grand Canyon has tourists. You’d think he’d be all about getting justice for a trespasser-turned-victim. Unless,” she paused, letting the implication hang in the air, “he’s the one who killed our victim.”

“There has to be more to it.” Viviane thoughtfully tapped her fingers against her desk. “We need to figure out what’s going on in that hermit’s head. What makes someone give up on society as a whole and turn into a recluse like that?”

“Lots of things. The older I get, I have to admit, the more that way of life appeals to me.” Hoyt slumped in his chair, setting his hat on his desktop. “And we can’t forget he served time in a federal prison. That can make anyone jaded.”

Rebecca sipped her coffee, the warmth spreading through her as the gears in her mind turned. “We can’t lose sight of the facts while we brainstorm. While we have a possible launch spot, it’s just broken grass and some disturbed mud. We have no tangible proof the boat originated from Nielson’s island, and he’s aware of that.” She shifted to stand next to Trent’s empty desk, scanning the faces of her deputies. “Without evidence, we’re at a standstill, even if he is our guy.”

Jake turned to join the group discussion, though he didn’t speak up.

“Nielson’s reaction isn’t out of character for a man in his position.” Hoyt ran a hand through his hair. “The man chose isolation for a reason. He doesn’t just dislike authority. He loathes it. Remember the arson charge? Spent time behind bars because he burned a CEO’s house down. It takes a specific kind of person to choose fire as their weapon.”

“Point taken. Hermit and arsonist are a bad combo. People like that hate authority, and I needed to know if he’d gone over the edge into anarchy. I don’t think he’s that far yet. But today’s meeting did not reassure me that he’s not looking over that edge into the abyss.” Rebecca rubbed her temples as the stress of the case gnawed at her. “Anarchists have no rules except their twisted morals that only they understand.”

Jake lifted his chin. “Sounds like now would be a good time to give you guys a bit of news, then. I just got off the phone with the boat’s owner, Richard Soloman of Ocean City, Maryland. It wasn’t stolen but was borrowed by his brother-in-law, who was visiting over the weekend. I let him know we found a body on his boat.”

Hoyt leaned forward. “What⁠—?”

Jake held up a hand. “They’re both avid fishermen and often go out together. But yesterday Richard needed to go in to work to wrap something up before the week started. So the brother-in-law went out on his own. Richard sounded pretty broken up about what happened to his brother-in-law and blamed himself for not going with him, thinking maybe he would have been able to save him somehow.”

“We can’t be sure yet that the victim is his brother-in-law, but we can pass the information on to Bailey. What’s the brother-in-law’s name?” Rebecca leaned in closer.

“Benton Meek. Here’s a photo from the system.” Jake leaned to the side and turned his monitor so Viviane and Hoyt could see his screen, displaying a DMV result with Meek’s photograph and basic information.

Rebecca studied the face staring back at her—a possible match, but the explosion had charred more than just the boat. The man’s features had been badly burned and blistered, making visual identification impossible.

On a positive note, Benton Meek had red hair and a beard, which matched their victim. He was also five-seven.

“According to Richard, Meek took the boat out alone yesterday for a full day of fishing. That’s why he wasn’t listed as missing. They didn’t expect to see him until this morning.”

“Good work.” A circumstantial identification of their victim was a fragile thread in the complex tapestry of their case, but it was something to tug on nonetheless. “Could be him, but we need confirmation. I want every detail on him. Friends, habits, anything that paints a clearer picture. Since he was from Virginia, he might have stopped to pick up a local buddy on his way down from Maryland.”

“Will do.” Jake was already typing away, the clack of keys punctuating the quiet resolve filling the room.

Rebecca pulled her phone out and dialed the medical examiner’s number. The line buzzed once before Bailey picked up, sounding very professional.

“Bailey, it’s West.”

Bailey’s tone changed from professional to personal as she laughed. “Oh, hey, West. I didn’t look at the caller ID. I was just about to call you.”

“Does that mean you have something for me?” Two pieces of good news would be enough to chase away the bad mood Saul Nielson had put her in.

“I’ve got the autopsy results for you. You’re going to want to see this.” A slight pause followed. “Did you have something for me too?”

“A possible identity of our victim. I’ll have Coffey send the details over to you now, but his name might be Benton Meeks.” She looked pointedly at Jake, who nodded and started typing.

“Much appreciated. I always like to know whose guts I’m weighing and measuring. It makes for less hassle when it comes to paperwork.”

Paperwork. Right. As if that were the hard part of her job. Rebecca rubbed her forehead.

“All right, I’ll be there soon.” She hung up without turning, knowing her deputy would be listening to every word. “Viviane, we’re heading to Coastal Ridge.”

Viviane pushed her chair back. “Ready when you are.”

“Hold the fort down, gentlemen. We’ll be back as soon as we can.” Rebecca headed for the door with Viviane right behind her. “After we talk to Bailey, we’re going north to have a chat with Richard Solomon. If Benton Meek is our victim, then Solomon’s our best bet for unraveling how his brother-in-law ended up dead on our island.”

13

The tires on the sheriff’s SUV hummed against the slick, weather-beaten asphalt. Rebecca gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening with each unfamiliar car that passed them on the bridge leading away from Shadow Island.

Beside her, Viviane sat with an alertness that belied her rookie status, scanning the passing scenery.

“Keep your eyes peeled for a black Hyundai Sonata.” Rebecca’s voice was edged with a tension she couldn’t quite mask.

“I have been all day.” Viviane’s tone was a mix of curiosity and concern. “And you think it’s the same one as the one outside your house last night?”

“Yep, but I couldn’t be sure.” The image of the car was seared into Rebecca’s memory, but every vehicle seemed to cast a shadow of suspicion now.

“Rebecca.”

Viviane’s use of her first name let Rebecca know not to expect a work question, and she looked over at her friend. “Yeah?”

Viviane’s forehead was wrinkled with concern and confusion. “Why do you think Morley’s people haven’t tried to take you out? I mean, they have Lankford scared to death. We know he’s not above killing. So why not stage another ‘accident’ for you? Or a home intrusion or any of the other things he’s done before? He set you up for an ambush in that parking garage, so he’s capable.”

Rebecca’s jaw tightened at the mention of the parking garage. That night had haunted her dreams since she’d woken up in the hospital afterward. She’d also had to relearn how to use her arm, and she’d started training on left-handed shooting after being rendered helpless when her right arm was out of commission.

Just thinking about the first time she met Senator William Morley in person made the scars on her shoulder itch.

Senator Morley’s name had popped up a few times in her research into her father’s work, but he had always been under the radar. Whenever she’d spotted his name, it was usually in defense of her father. He’d been something of a friend to her dad when he’d started making a name for himself at Overhill Reed.

The gun in her hands felt deadlier. Aiming at a corporate exec or well-paid lobbyist was one thing—but pointing an armed weapon at a U.S. Senator was the type of headline that went international.

“Senator Morley?”

“Yes, that’s right.” He didn’t even seem surprised by her presence or by the weapon in her hand. It’s a trap. “I’d very much like to speak with you, but the gun is making me have second thoughts.”

Not lowering the weapon even a fraction, she nodded toward the driver, who now stood by the hood of the sedan. “Who’s in the other car?”

The senator smiled in an almost grandfatherly way. “A gentleman who will be selling me everything you presented to the media. The photocopies, the recordings, your father’s hand-drawn blueprints, the contacts…all of it.”

Why was he telling her this?

Was he really so certain that he was untouchable that he didn’t care what she knew?

She shifted her attention to the Honda. “How did they get it?”

“Well, you know as well as I do how easily the press lets things out. You think this is the first time important materials have been sold to the highest bidder? I had this gentleman purchase it for me just to keep my name out of it.”

“And what will you do with it?”

She never learned the answer because the shooting started right after that, and Rebecca had gone down with a bullet in her shoulder. Only the fact that her boss, SAC David Scott, had followed her had saved her ass that night.

Simon Lankford had been bought off before they’d needed to resort to violence. But his conscience had gotten the best of him after he learned about what happened to Rebecca and her family.

Then he’d shown up out of the blue with a thumb drive loaded with evidence that apparently could be used to put not only former Senator Morley in prison but also several of his coconspirators. Names Rebecca had never been able to tie to the murders that had left her an orphan with a destroyed career.

“They might try to take me out still.” Her gaze flicked to the rearview mirror . “But they’re probably holding back because they don’t know where I’ve stashed the evidence. If I’m gone, so is their only lead.”

“Could they have followed you to the bank when you opened the safe deposit box?” Viviane’s question pierced the heart of Rebecca’s simmering anxiety.

“It’s possible.” Rebecca replayed the day she’d slipped the evidence into a safety deposit box. She’d tried to be so careful. No one seemed to have spotted her. “Hopefully I stashed the drive before they knew they had a problem.”

“I hope you’re right. But it sounds risky all around.” Viviane stared straight ahead, but Rebecca heard the worried undertone in her voice.

“Risk comes with the badge. And with doing the right thing.” Rebecca glanced at Viviane, who met her look with a stoic nod.

They both knew what happened when good people did nothing. It only emboldened those who did evil. The Yacht Club had proven that. And those who weren’t originally involved could become collateral damage, the same way so many—including Viviane’s mother—had.

“Let’s focus on the case we’re working on and our stabbing victim.” Rebecca pushed aside the tangle of possibilities. “We’ll cross the rest of these bridges when we get to them.” She smiled as the SUV’s tires bumped over the last joint of the bridge connecting Shadow Island to the mainland and Coastal Ridge.

“Got it, Boss.” Viviane gave her an exaggerated wink, her sense of humor momentarily surfacing, a brief respite from the weight of their grim errand.

The hospital loomed ahead as Rebecca navigated toward the rear entrance. She couldn’t help fixating on each black sedan they passed, but she kept her hands steady on the steering wheel.

“Rebecca?” Viviane’s voice carried a hesitance that drew Rebecca’s attention. The deputy’s eyes held a question that seemed to wrestle with itself before being voiced.

“Spit it out, Vi.”

Viviane took a deep breath. “If they did decide to…you know, take you out, wouldn’t that just bury the evidence for good? I mean, if it’s locked away and only you know about it…”

The weight of that question settled on Rebecca’s shoulders.

She wasn’t the only one who knew about it. After setting up the deposit box, she’d sent a copy of the key to Rhonda. She had tucked the key into a Christmas card, then stuck that card in with a bunch of other Christmas cards she was sending so that anyone watching her mail wouldn’t think that much about it. Who used the mail these days except for bills and Christmas cards?

After dropping it in the post office mailbox, she’d immediately regretted putting Rhonda in that position. But she had to trust someone.

Rebecca turned into a parking spot before facing Viviane squarely. “It’s crossed my mind more than once. But there’s no easy alternative. Whoever I tell becomes a target.”

“But couldn’t that be anyone?” Viviane pressed, leaning forward earnestly. “Morley’s people don’t have a clue who you might’ve confided in. They’d be shooting in the dark. And let’s face it. They’ll likely come after us deputies anyway.”

“True.” Rebecca pressed her lips into a thin line. She glanced at the building’s rear entrance, where shadows clung to the edges like guilty secrets. Talking about this in front of the morgue seemed entirely too apropos. “They might assume you all know everything regardless. But that doesn’t make the decision any less dangerous.”

“Risk comes with the badge. And with doing the right thing. We signed up for this knowing what it could mean.” Viviane threw Rebecca’s words right back in her face.

Despite the danger, Rebecca couldn’t help but experience a fresh surge of pride in her rookie deputy…and love for her friend.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Viviane’s loyalty was unwavering, but it was Rebecca’s responsibility to keep her safe, at least as much as she could in this line of work.

They exited the SUV, checking their surroundings as they made their way toward the hospital’s basement entrance. Life was going to be like this for a while, constantly looking over their shoulders.

Does keeping the drive to myself even protect them?

Rebecca cast one last lingering look at the tree line, half expecting to see the glint of a sniper’s scope or the stealthy approach of an assassin. But no one accessed the entrance to the morgue except her and Viviane.

If her colleagues were going to be in this much danger anyway, it made no sense to hide the truth from them.

Right?

With a silent prayer that she was making the right decision, she motioned for her deputy to follow her into the bowels of the hospital.

14

Rebecca and Viviane made their way through the sterile underground corridors of Coastal Ridge Hospital. A glance into the office labeled Bailey Flynn, Medical Examiner revealed only emptiness, its usual occupant having migrated to the chill confines of the morgue.

“Guess Bailey’s still elbows deep in our victim.” Viviane’s gallows humor was a comfort in the macabre setting, where the shadows seemed eager to swallow them whole.

When they pushed open the doors to the morgue and entered, the scent of disinfectant did little to mask the underlying aroma of death. There, in full personal protective equipment, stood Bailey Flynn. She was meticulously stitching up the deceased’s Y-incision with attentiveness that bordered on reverence.

It was too bad she seemed to be dancing to music only she could hear.

“Hey, Bailey.” Rebecca raised her voice and waved her arm to get the M.E.’s attention.

“Rebecca, Viviane.” Bailey pulled off her gloves before tapping on a phone covered in protective plastic. “Sorry, I was listening to music.” She plucked her earbuds out of her ears and tucked them into her pocket. “Come on in. You know the protocols.”

Donning their face shields and gloves, they approached the autopsy table, where the victim’s lifeless form lay. His bloodless skin was marked in places by blisters and burns while other areas appeared untouched. The space around his stab wounds looked the worst.

“Learn anything new?” Bailey’s eyes glinted with professional curiosity and a touch of morbid fascination. “I’m dying to know how a man gets stabbed to death, then pilots a boat and crashes into an island, where his boat catches on fire.” She flicked her fingers upward, mimicking flames while smiling.

“We’re still piecing it together. We hope to learn more when we talk to his sister and brother-in-law after we’re done here.”

“Talk about a bad day.” Viviane considered the body as if the answers might be written on the skin itself. “Bad enough to suffer multiple stab wounds and third-degree burns.”

“Right?” Bailey tied off the last stitch with a twirl of her wrist. “It’s not every day you get a case that reads like a spy novel crossed with a disaster movie. But here we are. I was really hoping you’d already cracked this one wide open.”

“Found anything on your end?” Rebecca contemplated the neatly stitched incisions snaking through the body’s flayed and blistered skin.

“Stabbed five times in the chest.” Bailey nodded, ticking off the points on her fingers. “All with the same blade. Varying depths.”

“Varying depths?” Viviane squinted down at the body as if trying to imagine the scene of the crime.

“That’s normal in a frenzy. The first few stabs weren’t as deep, but based on the angle of entry, I’d say those happened while the victim was standing. Once he fell onto his back, the stabs went deeper because the attacker could use more downward force, and the victim was less mobile.”

“Any idea what kind of knife was used?” Rebecca carefully leaned over the table, peering at the wounds.

“Not exactly. I can tell you it was a six-inch blade, give or take.” Bailey measured the air between her thumb and forefinger. “About an eighth of an inch thick. The cut suggests a hunting knife of some kind. It was sharp with a decent point.”

“Is there anything else that stood out to you? Find any trace materials in the wounds or on the body? Maybe some skin under the fingernails from where he scratched his attacker?” Any detail could be the key to unraveling this puzzle.

“I took samples of the wound sites.” Bailey pointed at the left side of the chest, where the skin was torn by the hunting knife rather than cleanly sliced by the M.E.’s scalpel. “We can hope something shows up under the microscope.”

Viviane’s brows pulled together. “Were you able to confirm our possible ID on him?”

“I was.” Bailey’s expression brightened a shade. “And I didn’t have to wait for dentals either. I went ahead and did a bit of sleuthing of my own before you called and got the results just a few minutes ago. There were no fingerprints in the system, but he had a pacemaker.”

That was a surprise. “According to his driver’s license, he’s only twenty-nine.”

“Unfortunately, a pacemaker isn’t all that unusual.” Bailey gestured toward the body, where a small incision marked the device’s location just below the collarbone. “It was intact, despite the stab wounds. The serial number led me straight to the owner registry. Benton Meek from Richmond. That’s our guy.”

This was good news. “What else did you learn?”

Bailey stripped off her gloves and leaned against the stainless steel table. “He had sick sinus syndrome and third-degree heart block. Basically, his heart’s electrical system was unreliable and wouldn’t always fire the way it should. His pacemaker was there to keep his heart from slowing down or stopping entirely.”

Viviane pulled out her notepad and began jotting the information. “So he had issues keeping a steady rhythm?”

“Exactly. His pacemaker was tracking his heart activity, and I was able to pull the last recorded data. It’s consistent with what we’d expect in an attack like this.” Bailey moved to a tablet on the counter and tapped the screen. “From what I can tell, his heart was normal until about 2:34 p.m. yesterday. That’s when there’s a sudden spike in heart rate, probably from adrenaline the second he realized he was in danger.”

Rebecca exhaled, picturing Benton in those final moments. Maybe running. Trying to escape. His body knowing before his mind fully processed that he was in serious trouble.

“His heart rate climbed fast, up past 160 bpm in a matter of seconds, before dropping erratically, which makes sense. Blood loss and stress. The pacemaker tried to compensate, but at 2:37, his heart activity flatlined. One of the easiest TODs I’ve had to call.”

“Damn.” Viviane pressed a hand to her chest. “It recorded all of that?”

Bailey nodded. “Think of it like a black box in a plane.”

“I didn’t notice any defensive wounds at the scene. Did you find any during your autopsy?” Rebecca looked at the hands and arms, noting the rough patches and blisters.

“Probably. I found quite a few cuts on his forearms. The shallower ones are likely the small cuts a fisher would get from pulling up wet fishing lines in cold weather, but at least one is deep enough to be a defensive wound.”

“Good to know.” Rebecca stepped away from the table. “That’s incredibly helpful. If that’s everything, we’re going to go talk to his next of kin.”

“All right.” Bailey shot her a little salute. “But remember to loop me in once you know what happened.” She waved them off as she picked up her clipboard to make notes.

Rebecca and Viviane peeled off their protective gear and stepped into the corridor. The chill clinging to the underground hallway only deepened as they emerged into the daylight, despite the sun hovering past its peak.

“Let’s see if Mr. and Mrs. Solomon are up for a visit.” Rebecca dialed the number in the file, rolling her neck to stretch the muscles as she prepared for the verbal dance that lay ahead.

Someone answered before the first ring could even finish. “Richard Solomon speaking.” The man sounded slightly breathless.

“Mr. Solomon, this is Sheriff Rebecca West from Shadow Island, Virginia. I’m investigating an incident involving your boat. I need to speak with you and Mrs. Solomon as soon as possible.”

“Of course.” He gasped, and Rebecca could hear what sounded like a sob in the background. When he spoke again, his voice was strained with pain. “Please, come. My wife is here too. We just need to know what happened to Benton after he left.”

“Of course, and thank you, Mr. Solomon.” Rebecca checked her watch. “We should be there by three.” After verifying their address, she disconnected the call.

For a moment, Rebecca and Viviane stood in silence. They knew the next conversation would pry open a family’s world, possibly exposing hidden fractures. With a shared glance, they acknowledged the weight of their task and moved forward to confront the truths that awaited them at the Solomons’ home.

15

Ocean City’s quaint charm was a stark contrast to the grim task at hand. Rebecca maneuvered the SUV through winding streets lined with salt-worn cottages. The occasional Christmas decoration flapped in the breeze. A scent of brine hung thick in the air as she followed the GPS directions to a neighborhood hugging the water’s edge. Viviane sat quietly in the passenger seat.

Rebecca parked in front of a well-maintained two-story house, its shingles bleached by sun and sea spray. She killed the ignition and exchanged a grave look with Viviane before they exited the vehicle and made their approach. The rhythmic crash of distant waves on rocks filled the silence between them.

At their knock, the door swung open to reveal Richard Solomon, his tanned face lined with concern. His buzzed brown hair seemed to be the only part of him prepared for action—his eyes held a weariness that suggested he already knew tragedy had come knocking.

“I’m Sheriff Rebecca West. I talked to you on the phone. And this is Deputy Viviane Darby. May we come in?”

Without a word, Richard stepped aside and ushered them into the living room, where a redheaded woman with freckles sat on an overstuffed couch, surrounded by balled-up tissues. “This is my wife, Melissa.”

Her bloodshot eyes silently pleaded for news.

“Mrs. Solomon, I’m sorry to have to tell you this…” Rebecca believed it important to get straight to the point when it came to breaking terrible news. Keeping loved ones in suspense was simply cruel. “We have identified your brother, Benton Meek, as the victim we pulled off a boat registered to your husband that crashed on Shadow Island in Virginia. He’s dead. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

A strangled sob escaped Melissa as she brought her hands to her mouth, her body trembling. Richard moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, but his own shock was palpable.

“Shadow Island?” Richard’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know that town. How far south did he go?”

“Our island is more than one hundred nautical miles south of here.” Rebecca clasped her hands in front of her. “Do you know if he intended to travel that far?”

Richard shook his head. “He didn’t mention where he was going, but all three of us went out on Saturday and didn’t have much luck. Maybe he just wanted to try a different area? I don’t know.”

“Sheriff.” Melissa peered up at Rebecca with teary eyes. “How did my brother die? I mean…did he suffer?”

Rebecca dreaded moments like this but knew the answers might provide a measure of closure to Benton’s sister. “It appears he was murdered. Stabbed. The boat crash is not what killed him.” She glanced back and forth between Melissa and Richard. “Did Mr. Meek have any enemies? Anyone you can think of who might want to hurt him?”

“Oh, my gosh, no. Nothing like that. Benton loved the outdoors and made friends wherever he went. Fellow fishing enthusiasts or hunters.” Melissa sniffled and reached for another tissue. “He didn’t care about their politics or religion. If they shared his passion, nothing else mattered to him.”

Rebecca wondered how such a person could be attacked and killed. “Has he ever mentioned wanting to fish around any island in our area? We have several, including Little Quell Island and Deerskin Island.” She mentally crossed her fingers, hoping for some glimpse of recognition.

Richard looked at Melissa, who hunched her shoulders.

“Little Quell? Deerskin?” Melissa echoed through her tears, shaking her head. “No, Benton never mentioned any island that I remember. He just went out fishing like he always does.”

Viviane flipped a page in her notepad. “Did he go alone?”

“Like Richard said, we all went fishing together on Saturday. But we didn’t catch anything, and he was disappointed.” Melissa’s voice grew hollow as the emotional shock set in. “On Sunday, Richard needed to work and I just wanted some extra sleep, so he took the boat out alone. He told me he’d find the spot where the fish were biting, even if it took all day.”

“He was still gone when I got home, but I didn’t think much of it.” Richard’s eyes were distant, as if replaying the last moments with his brother-in-law.

Rebecca kept her body language open, hoping to demonstrate a level of patience and concern that had served her well in interviews like this. “I have to ask. Why didn’t you call the police when you didn’t see him this morning?”

Melissa wiped at her eyes, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. “Benton…he had this thing about fishing.” Her fingers twisted and tore a sodden tissue. “He said he wouldn’t return until he was satisfied. He was a bit obsessed. I just thought he got carried away.”

Rebecca tried to keep the disbelief from her expression and out of her voice. “Your boat doesn’t have a cabin, and he was gone overnight.”

“That wouldn’t have stopped him. He only came back on Saturday because I was with them and wanted to come home. Otherwise, he’d have pulled out a blanket and slept on the deck.” A faint blush of embarrassment rose on Melissa’s cheeks. “This morning, when he wasn’t home, we tried calling him but didn’t get an answer.”

Rebecca shifted gears, trying to piece together Meek’s final day. “Do either of you know why he might’ve been so far south of here? Anything that could explain it?”

Richard stared sightlessly. “Benton was impulsive. Always chasing the next big catch. We had no luck near here on Saturday. Maybe he thought he’d have better chances down there.”

“Did he often go off chasing an impulse like that?” Rebecca kept an eye on Richard’s expressive face. It could be great acting, but he looked sincere, as his emotions kept shifting from shock to guilt to sadness.

“Sometimes, but only when it came to fishing or hunting. Mostly fishing. He liked to say following his gut was the best way to find his elusive catch. You know how it goes. Half joke, all truth. He always followed his hunches.” He trailed off, shaking his head as if to dispel the thoughts crowding his mind.

Rebecca made a mental note to check Meek’s social media to see if he was the avid fisherman and hunter Richard and Melissa were painting him to be. While she had no reason to doubt their account, she knew better than to accept information blindly. Verify everything was a code she lived by.

“We found the GPS from his boat, but it’s badly damaged. We’re attempting to retrieve any data we can from it.”

Richard nodded, his tanned face pale. “I tried to track the boat with the GPS this morning but couldn’t get a read on it. Now I know why.”

Rebecca reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a business card. She handed it to Melissa, ensuring the woman was looking directly at her as she spoke. “This is my contact information, and the case number is written on the back. If you think of anything else or have questions, you can reach out to the Coastal Ridge medical examiner’s office or me directly.”

“Thank you.” Melissa clutched the card like a lifeline, but when she met Rebecca’s gaze, her eyes were filled with a mix of sorrow and gratitude.

“Of course.” Rebecca offered a nod of empathy before turning toward the door, where Viviane waited, her expression solemn and attentive.

Outside, they descended the steps to the cruiser. Rebecca slid into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking under her weight. She glanced over at Viviane, whose face was set in a thoughtful frown that mirrored Rebecca’s own concern. Rebecca dialed Jake’s number and waited as her phone connected to the Bluetooth speaker.

“Hey, Sheriff. How’d it go in Ocean City?”

“Not great. They don’t know why Meek was so far south. Long fishing trips weren’t uncommon for him, so the brother-in-law didn’t check the GPS until this morning. Speaking of which, have you secured a tech yet?” The engine hummed as she started the SUV, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow in the cab.

“Yes, ma’am. The VBI in Norfolk has a specialist who has time to look at it. I’m en route to them now. Should be there within the hour.”

“Good. Keep me posted.” Rebecca’s shoulder muscles tightened as she gripped the steering wheel. “If we can place the boat Meek was using at Deerskin Island, we may be able to get a search warrant.”

“I’ll emphasize the importance of the task.”

She ended the call and shifted the vehicle into drive.

“Back to Shadow Island?” Viviane fastened her seat belt.

“Yup.” Rebecca scanned the quiet residential street in her rearview mirror, checking for any signs of a black Hyundai Sonata.

Morley’s goons had proven their persistence by watching her house while she slept. It wasn’t a stretch to think they’d follow her wherever she went while on the job. And if they did, that would confirm how serious of a threat their presence was.

Not seeing any familiar cars, she loosened her grip on the steering wheel a bit. “Now that we know who was killed, we need to nail down where it happened.”

16

The low growl of the engine and the gentle lapping of waves against the hull played a serene soundtrack to Scott Sanford’s newfound freedom. Out on the open ocean, with his wife by his side, he breathed in the satisfaction of a life well spent as they cut through the water in their sleek new speedboat.

It was a Monday afternoon—a detail that no longer provoked anxiety now that every day was theirs to command, thanks to the solid pension from Scott’s decades as a union electrician.

“Cheers!” Tiffany sang out, her voice light and her smile brighter than the glint of sunlight bouncing off the waves. She raised her beer in a toast to the golden years they could now both enjoy, since they’d opted to retire at the same time.

Scott took a long pull from his own can, cold in his hand, and reveled in the taste of leisure. He had no intention of driving their new boat while drunk, but one beer wouldn’t hurt.

The salty breeze tousled his hair, carrying away the remnants of schedules and deadlines that once ruled their lives. “To doing whatever the hell we want.” The corners of his eyes crinkled with contentment as he lifted the beer in another toast.

Life was good. And they deserved it after working so hard their entire lives. Taking retirement in December was a great idea. It meant they didn’t have to worry about vacation days or having coverage on the holidays. And he had so much banked PTO that he was still getting paid as if he were working.

All he had to worry about now was making sure their coats didn’t get too soaked as he wheeled the boat in crazy circles, kicking up spray while putting his newest purchase through its paces.

They cruised along, laughter mingling with the cries of gulls, until Tiffany’s grip tightened on his shirt. Straightening the boat’s direction in a westward line, he responded to the urgency in her touch. Her forehead tightened with concern as she pointed toward a small island nestled before the mainland.

“Scott! It looks like someone might be in trouble.” Tiffany pulled at him, a note of alarm replacing the pleasant buzz they’d been carrying all day. “Does he need help?”

Scott throttled back the engine, the boat decelerating with a reluctant groan, and shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sun as he squinted in the direction she was pointing.

As they drew along the island’s northeastern shore, the figure of a man came into focus, standing out against the backdrop of untamed foliage and gnarled trees, with no tent or house in sight. With a wild beard and tattered clothing hanging from his frame, he could have been mistaken for part of the rugged landscape itself. His arms flailed in desperation, a silent plea carried on the wind.

“Damn.” The tranquility of their afternoon splintered like fragile glass. The man’s gestures were frenetic, imbued with a raw urgency that clawed at Scott’s sense of duty.

“He looks wild. It might be trouble. I don’t know if it’s safe.” Tiffany kept her voice low, even though the expanse swallowed her words before they could have reached the stranger.

“Or he might need help,” Scott countered, keeping an eye on the man. He’d always tried not to judge people based on their looks, no matter how unkempt they seemed.

Scott maneuvered the boat, the bow swinging around in a wide arc, to face the northeast side of the island. The engine purred, seemingly wary of the interruption to its steady course.

As they approached the enigmatic figure, the atmosphere shifted. What moments ago had seemed a haven of greenery now hung heavy with an eerie stillness. The man’s presence was an anomaly on this stretch of desolate land. His woeful narrative was painted in the lines of his face and the weariness of his posture.

“Hey!” Scott called out over the sound of the motor, ready to bridge the gap between them. As the distance closed, the man became more frantic as he waved them to come closer.

Several hand-painted No Trespassing signs were tacked to the trees lining the shore as far as Scott could see, but he was prepared to ignore them if someone was stranded and needed help.

The boat’s hull scraped gently against the coarse sand of the island’s edge as Scott cut the engine. A cluster of seabirds protested overhead, marking their arrival.

The guy who had flagged them down looked ragged as hell. He had dirt layered on his face and hands, and his clothes were thin and muddy. How long had this poor guy been out here sleeping on the cold ground?

“Hey, there.” Scott had to raise his voice to be heard over the lapping waves set in motion by his hull sliding up against the shore. “You all right?”

“Phone…” the man croaked, a clawlike hand reaching out while the other went to his throat. Climbing into the boat, he cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded rough. “Do you have a phone? I canoed here days ago. I sprung a leak and couldn’t make it back to the mainland. Been stuck here ever since.”

“Damn, that’s rough luck.” Scott was put off by the man climbing aboard without an invitation, but the guy was probably hungry and not thinking clearly.

Scott was already flipping through the mental inventory of safety gear on board. Every occupant needed their own life vest, according to the sales guy he’d bought the boat from last week. Scott hadn’t thought about wearing them because their coats were too bulky. But he still needed to make sure he had a spare.

Not to mention it would be cold for this poor guy to be out in the wind without a coat or even a jacket. Leaving the captain’s seat, Scott started digging around in the compartments, looking for anything that could be useful. Generosity came as naturally to him as breathing, and he’d always understood the value of lending a hand.

“We’ll get you back to the mainland.” He glanced up at the man, just in time to see a flash of steel.

A long hunting knife caught the dwindling light like a shard of ice. Scott spun to face his attacker, his mouth open to ask what the hell he was doing. But before he could utter a word, the knife sank deep into his chest. A gasp escaped him, more of shock than initial pain, and warmth spread across his shirt like a sinister bloom.

The world spun, a carousel of blues and greens blurring. He tasted copper, felt the thrumming of his heart—a drumbeat slowing with each passing second—while Tiffany’s screaming silhouette grew dim. And all around, the ocean rocked them, indifferent to the human tragedy unfolding upon its waves.

Tiffany’s scream pierced the serenity of the coastal scape, the only one of the trio who’d made any sound.

Scott crumpled, his knees hitting the deck hard. The strength that had served him for decades was sapped instantly as he grappled with the reality of cold metal slicing deep into his flesh, then yanking free. Crimson sprayed across the new boat, and he instantly went cold.

“Scott!” Tiffany’s cry echoed across the water, full of panic and pain.

The world tilted and contracted to a pinpoint of agonizing clarity as he lay on his side on the deck, watching his blood spread across the fiberglass beneath him. His vision blurred at the edges, but the center remained horrifically sharp, focusing on Tiffany, her body writhing in the same agony that enveloped him. The monstrous figure loomed over her as she tried to back away, his knife slamming into Tiffany’s chest like an omen of death.

A surge of adrenaline, fueled by love and desperation, propelled Scott upward. His legs, unreliable and shaky, somehow found the strength to push against the deck’s slick surface. Each heartbeat was a drum of war in his ears, thunderous, urging him on.

“Ti…” The word was a choked whisper, his voice a mere shadow of what it had been. But his actions spoke louder than any cry of vengeance or plea for mercy could have. With the remnants of his resolve, he lunged forward, clamping a hand onto the assailant’s wrist.

The man whirled around, dark eyes ablaze with feral rage. His face, a mask of fury and surprise, contorted as he registered Scott’s unexpected defiance. The knife, an extension of his wrath, plunged once more into Scott’s chest—a deeper, crueler bite than before.

Time slowed, each second stretching into eternity. Scott’s knees buckled, and his grip faltered. He collapsed to the deck. His arms were too heavy to lift, and he fell to his side. His gaze locked onto Tiffany, whose head was twisted to face him.

Her glasses had fallen to the deck, reflecting his horrified expression. Tiffany’s eyes were wide with terror and anguish. He longed to tell her everything would be all right, to promise her a rescue he knew wouldn’t come.

As darkness clawed at the edges of his consciousness, Scott watched helplessly as the blade descended again. A soft thwack as it entered Tiffany’s chest, followed by her gasp cutting through the haze of his dimming senses.

Retirement wasn’t supposed to go this way. They’d had so many plans.

He reached out, a futile attempt to bridge the chasm between them, but his hand fell short, grazing the sticky fiberglass instead of her warm skin.

17

The blood was still warm, trailing across the polished deck of their pristine new boat. I stood there, my chest heaving, watching the last crimson bubbles of breath escape the man’s lungs through the new openings I’d made.

The woman lay crumpled on the deck where she’d fallen after I’d jerked my knife free from her chest one final time. They reeked of alcohol, their breath sour with cheap beer. I could smell it even now, mingling with the metallic scent of their spilled blood.

“Damn fools.” I glanced at the scattered cans. These idiots had been playing fast and loose out here, not only with their lives but with others’. They hadn’t just disregarded the wildlife and environment. They’d cared for no one but themselves with their reckless acts.

I kicked one of the empty cans across the deck, and it skidded to a halt in a pool of sticky blood.

They should have been tossing back beers in some dingy bar instead of on the open water. I’d done a public service. Maybe I’d even saved a family out for an afternoon sail from getting rammed by these drunken morons.

With every gleaming surface I touched, a fresh wave of anger surged through me. How dare they careen through nature with such disregard? This vessel was a monument to human arrogance, and it turned my stomach.

The wind picked up, carrying away the stench of booze and the sound of my curses. I looked around at the chaos I’d created on the once-immaculate deck. Somewhere deep inside, a twisted part of me was satisfied with the carnage, the silence that followed my storm.

But mostly, I was just sick of it all. Sick of them, sick of their toys, sick of what this world was turning into.

I stared down at the lifeless forms sprawled across the deck, their final expressions frozen in silent screams of terror and surprise. “Didn’t you see it coming?” The question was laced with contempt. “Surely after what I already did, the news would have been yelling about what happens to fools like you. Yet here you were, tempting fate.”

I stomped on a half-empty beer can, watching as the yellow contents foamed out of the split side. It was pathetic how these people never thought about consequences, about the ripples they sent through the world with every selfish act. My jaw clenched as I considered the sheer audacity of them entering my domain, disturbing the peace I’d carved out for myself.

What did my message need to look like this time to get through to these idiots?

My eyes narrowed as I envisioned the path the boat would take. I’d planned it all out already, a spectacle of flames and destruction that would be easy to track so I’d know where it landed. This time, I’d ensure the message was unmistakable. Anyone who trespassed on my land was cooked, literally.

It only took a few tries to get to the boat backed up and turned around the way I wanted it. I killed the engine again.

The metallic taste of vengeance was thick in my mouth as I tore into the boat’s innards, seeking out its lifeblood—the gas line. With a swift jerk, I ripped it free, and gasoline began to cascade into the belly of the death machine, pooling around my feet. That didn’t concern me. I knew I’d be washed clean once I completed my tasks and jumped into the ocean.

The fumes clawed at my nostrils, that sickeningly sweet stench that dragged me back through time, to the day when fire and gasoline had changed the course of my life forever.

“Dammit.” I had to fight against the bile rising in my throat.

Memories of that day clawed at the edges of my consciousness. Smoke, screams, and a loss that left me so hollow, all I wanted was to be alone.

But I shoved the memories down deep. I couldn’t afford to lose focus now. Not when I had a message to send and a promise to keep.

I stepped over to the Styrofoam cooler, glad to find it on board. Normally, Styrofoam was something I hated to see used, but I was going to make it work for me today. I recalled the trick—an old but effective recipe for destruction.

Homemade napalm from gasoline and Styrofoam.

It was poetic in its own twisted way. I gagged again, not just from the gasoline fumes this time, but from the hatred bubbling up within me.

“Time to teach another lesson.” I set the cooler under the pouring gasoline. The fuel would take time to eat through the Styrofoam, which was just what I needed. Then I set about removing the shoelaces from both my victims. Each motion was deliberate, every action a step closer to erasing the stain these interlopers had left on my sanctuary.

“When you come into my waters, you’ll get burned. Let the whole damn world burn if it has to.”

I had a path charted in my mind, the same one as before. A silent messenger of chaos cutting through the water. Hitting the same area twice would send waves of panic through the inhabitants.

Gauging the distance, I tied three laces together. After contemplating my makeshift fuse, I added the fourth shoelace, leaving the last one tucked under the cooler. I lit the end of the woven cotton lace and watched to see how fast it would burn.

I propped the burning end along the inside edge of the deck, where it would be protected from sea spray and wind. It should take at least forty-four minutes for the fire from the burning end to meet the forming napalm. As the gas melted the Styrofoam, it would sag and pool around that last lace.

With the cooler full of fuel, I reconnected the line. Had to make sure this abomination would go up far away from me.

With a grunt, I hauled the dead man’s body toward the foot throttle. His lifeless form was just another tool now, an instrument in my symphony of destruction.

“Sorry, pal,” I muttered, not because I meant it, but because the silence was too much like the grave. “You’re on duty one last time.”

His head made a sickening thud as it came down on the pedal and the boat jumped forward.

I checked the throttle, ensuring his deadweight was enough to keep it engaged. It was.

The engine hummed to life, the vibration under my feet a prelude to the inevitable. It took me a moment, but I eventually pointed the vessel along its doomed trajectory and sped it on its way from my island.

With the scene set, I climbed up the side and jumped far enough away to avoid the wake. Swimming to the surface, I shook saltwater from my eyes and watched the noisy machine as it sped away.

It was more than an empty vessel now. It was a statement, a bloody handprint for all to see.

As I walked out of the water and onto my island, I turned to watch the boat. “Go on. Run,” I shouted to the doomed craft, as if it could hear me. I brushed some of the napalm off my clothes, hating the way it clung to me even after I swam through the water. “Let them see what happens when they violate my sanctuary.”

18

The sun dipped below the horizon, creating brilliant oranges and pinks in the clouds over the cozy, holiday-decorated streets of the island town. Strings of rainbow light cast globes of color across Hoyt’s cruiser as it glided along the asphalt.

He kept his eyes sharp and vigilant as he patrolled the familiar terrain, scrutinizing each passing vehicle, searching for a black Hyundai Sonata or any other car with a license plate from D.C. Heck, he gave a second glance to any car he didn’t immediately recognize.

He’d taken to patrolling in random patterns, unpredictable as the coastal winds, hoping to catch his elusive prey unaware.

As he turned a corner one street over from Rebecca’s home, his pulse quickened. There it was. A black Hyundai Sonata, its D.C. plates glaring under the amber hue of the streetlights, which flicked on and off as twilight settled in.

“Dispatch, this is Frost. I’m over here near the boss’s house, and I need a check on a D.C. plate.” He rattled off the alphanumeric sequence, watching the car through narrowed eyes. In order not to be conspicuous, he pulled into a nearby driveway, next to a sedan short enough that he could easily look over it and keep an eye on the Sonata, which was sitting at the end of the road.

Rebecca was right. The windows were well past the legal limit for window tint, so dark that Hoyt couldn’t tell if anyone sat in the driver’s seat or not. Which meant he’d have a reason to pull them over anytime he spotted them again. For now, though, he just wanted some extra information without stirring up a hornet’s nest.

Moments later, Elliot Ping’s voice crackled over the radio, providing more questions than answers. “That vehicle is registered to Peterson Acquisitions, Inc.”

A company name, not a person. Hoyt pressed his lips together, unsurprised. He’d gotten used to dealing with such things with the Yacht Club. It was a form of corporate armor shielding the driver from prying eyes and possible legal matters.

He smothered a flicker of frustration with years of law enforcement stoicism. Who was behind Peterson Acquisitions? Why were they here, circling Rebecca like a shark? The brazenness with which they were surveilling her gnawed at him. If they didn’t care if she noticed the car, perhaps they were just trying to intimidate her.

He snorted. Anyone trying to intimidate Rebecca West didn’t know her very well.

Hoyt jotted down the name in his notepad, the letters stark against the pale paper. His gut churned with unease. This wasn’t some tourist losing their way to the beach. This was something deliberate, calculated. Had they parked one block from Rebecca’s house waiting for her to drive by as she headed home?

No, it was too early for that. Ever since she’d adjusted her schedule so Hoyt could have nightly dinners with Angie, her shift lasted until seven. And she worked much later most of the time. That change had been implemented months ago, so anyone who’d been watching her should have known that.

He chewed on his lip. Maybe they planned on doing more than just following her. He couldn’t think of another reason for them to hang around like this all day long.

The Sonata began to drive out of the cul-de-sac, startling him. After waiting a beat, Hoyt backed out and followed.

He kept the car in sight, taking care not to spook whoever might be behind the wheel. An incredibly slow, meandering game of cat and mouse had begun. The Sonata turned away from Rebecca’s house, heading further south.

Hoyt followed it one street over. Knowing the layout of the island like the back of his hand had its perks. He timed his looks between buildings and bushes perfectly to follow the car without being visible to the driver.

“Hey, Frost?”

“Yeah, Elliot?” Hoyt continued to focus on his low-speed car chase. The suspect’s vehicle was still in view, maintaining a casual speed as it drove a circle around the island, seemingly taking turns at random.

“That company isn’t really a company.” He sighed in frustration. “Well, it is, but it doesn’t do anything.”

“So it’s a shell company?” Hoyt kept his distance while steering the cruiser parallel to the Sonata, his focus darting between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. He rounded the bend near Dee’s docks. “How did you figure that out?”

“Well, I thought to myself, WWVD?”

“What Would Viviane Do. That makes sense.”

Sand Dollar Park lay just ahead, the playground equipment standing silent and abandoned in the fading light. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Bryson Gilroy had been found dead on a bench there, killed by a citizen vigilante trying to stop the horrors of the Yacht Club.

This route was familiar, a stone’s throw from his own doorstep. Hoyt slowed. He’d been to this spot more times than he could count, but something felt different tonight. The air bristled with an undercurrent of danger.

The Sonata rounded a corner onto the next residential street. But before Hoyt could follow, he spotted something out on the ocean.

A boat, ablaze with angry flames, cleaved through the water, heading for the shoreline. It skipped across the waves, a fiery comet against the encroaching dusk. No silhouette manned the vessel. It was a ghost ship set on a collision course with calamity.

“Fuck.” Hoyt’s heart hammered against his rib cage. It was eerily reminiscent of the photos the witness had taken from the last scene, though this time the boat was on fire.

This wasn’t some reckless joyride gone wrong. The absence of a driver and the ferocity of the fire signaled something far more nefarious. He reached for the radio, preparing to alert his fellow deputies to this new emergency.

Forgoing his surveillance of the car from D.C., he turned the wheel toward the shoreline instead, stomping on the gas to get there as quickly as possible. The boat was going to reach the shore before he could. There was no stopping it.

“Dispatch, this is Frost. There’s a flaming unmanned vessel heading toward shore near Dee’s Docks. I need⁠—”

But his words were cut short as the doomed craft slammed into the wooden skeleton of a dock with a sound like thunder. A plume of smoke and sparks shot skyward, a spectacular light show that marked the spot of impact. Somewhere in the chaos, a scream knifed through the air, raw and startling.

“All units!” The bright blaze blinded him as he yelled into the radio. “We have a situation in the Trout Haven neighborhood. Respond immediately. Dispatch, we need fire and EMS. We have a boat collision with potential casualties.”

19

The SUV’s tires screamed against the road as Rebecca whipped around the last corner into Trout Haven, her knuckles white where she gripped the steering wheel. Thick smoke billowed from a residential area with no public access to the shore. That meant they’d have to cut through private property to reach the scene.

It also meant civilians might be popping their heads out to see what was happening. And probably trying to help.

Beside her, Viviane’s eyes were wide, reflecting the flashing red and blue lights that painted the street in urgent strokes. “Dispatch, this is Darby. West and I just arrived on scene.”

“Copy that, Darby. Be careful out there. You still owe me like fifty bucks’ worth of milkshakes.”

“You’ll get them, Elliot. I’m not going anywhere.” Viviane tried to keep her tone light.

“You’re rushing toward a fire that’s intense enough that I can see the smoke from here at the station. Don’t play it cool. Just be safe.” Elliot didn’t sound convinced. Or maybe it was because they had history together, having dated in high school, and he knew better.

Ahead, a thick plume of smoke clawed at the darkening sky, its source hidden within the tangle of upscale homes nestled along the water’s edge.

The SUV was still rocking from its abrupt stop, but Rebecca hopped out and began running toward the smoke. Her sneakers pounded manicured lawn as the acrid scent of burning fiberglass and wood intensified. Viviane was right on her heels as they ran between two Cape Cod-style homes.

They rounded the back of one house to find chaos.

A boat, its bow crumpled like tinfoil, had impaled itself upon the private dock behind the house. A sailboat was moored and now ablaze, sending up angry tongues of fire that licked at the early-evening sky as if trying to consume it whole. Blobs of fire somehow clung to the edge of the second boat and even the thick vertical posts.

“Jesus Christ be with us.” Viviane had slid to a halt at the sight, but Rebecca was already moving forward again.

Hoyt was shepherding a pale-faced, stumbling, middle-aged woman away from the inferno. Blood poured from a wound on her upper arm. The mark of violence was a stark contrast against what had been a pristine white Christmas sweater with drunk reindeer on the front. Now it was smeared with soot and blood. She fought Hoyt with every step as he tried to move her away from the water and to safety.

The woman shrieked, her voice ragged with terror as she kept looking over her shoulder. “Harold! My husband is still back there. Harold! You have to help him.”

“Where is he?” Hoyt’s face brightened as he realized Rebecca and Viviane had joined them.

“He was running down our dock to try to save our sailboat after the speedboat crashed. I guess the broken hull cut me. I think Harold fell in.”

“Stay with her.” Rebecca shouted her order as she ran past Hoyt, barely registering his nod as he supported the injured woman.

Hitting the short dock, Rebecca raised her arm not only to protect herself from the heat but to shield her eyes from the glare of the fire. The burning boats were at the end of the dock, less than fifty feet from the shore. Staying alert for Harold, she covered ground quickly.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the bob of a head in the waves between the burning dock and sailboat. A man, face down and unmoving. A pang of fear shot through her chest.

“Over there!” Rebecca pointed as she moved toward him, already shedding her utility belt, kicking off her shoes, and emptying her pockets. She noted the water line on the dock pylons, calculating how deep the water might be. The last thing she needed was to dive into shallow water and break her neck. The tide was starting to come back in, so the water shouldn’t be more than ten feet or so.

“Rebecca, wait…” Viviane started, but Rebecca was already in motion, leaping off the dock feetfirst.

The cold was a shock to her system, and as she surfaced, she gasped. Thankfully, the smoke was not close to the water, and she could breathe without coughing.

She swam toward the limp figure drifting under the dock. Burning bits dripped from the first boat, leaving pools of fire on the water’s surface that she had to dodge. “Stay back, Darby!”

But Viviane, ever the loyal partner, was not one to watch from the sidelines.

With barely a second’s hesitation, she jumped in after Rebecca, surfacing next to her as they headed for the unconscious man.

Together, they reached the man Rebecca hoped was Harold. The heat from the flames on the dock pressed against their heads, a violent change from the chilling water. Viviane grabbed him and flipped him over so his bearded face rolled free. There was no time to check if he was breathing. That would have to wait ’til they got him on solid land.

Grabbing his arm, Rebecca began heading away from the fire. “Let’s go.”

They worked quickly, their strokes desperate as they made for the shore.

“Come on, Harold,” Viviane spoke through gritted teeth, her voice laced with the same fear that gripped Rebecca, both for the man they were struggling to save and for what might happen if they failed.

They made slow progress toward the shoreline, an uneven line of safety against the blaze’s wrath. Time slowed to a crawl as they fought their way forward, every second a battle against the possibility of death. At least the rising tide provided a subtle push toward land.

Clambering onto the pebbled shore, they dragged his limp body, heavy with waterlogged clothes, bowed in half under the weight of flesh and water. Rebecca’s sodden uniform clung to her like a second skin of ice. Yet she barely noticed as she laid the man flat on his back and noted blood flowing steadily from his head.

Viviane knelt beside them, scanning Harold’s face for any sign of revival. She pulled gloves from her pocket and tossed Rebecca a pair. “I think that looks worse than it is. Head wounds bleed a lot.”

The blistering heat from the nearby inferno licked at Rebecca’s senses, but the urgency of Harold’s condition kept her focused.

“Harold, can you hear me?” She checked to see if he was breathing and tilted his head back to look for obstructions. Pressing her fingers to his neck, she found no reassuring pulse. His lips had a slight bluish tinge, but that could have been from the cold. Locking her hands together, fingers interlaced, she began chest compressions. “Come on. One, two, three, four…”

“Rebecca, he’s…” Viviane’s voice trailed off, hopeful.

On the twentieth compression, water spurted from Harold’s mouth, followed by a guttural cough. Viviane grabbed his shoulder, rolling him onto his side to help him expel the water from his lungs.

He gasped, air chasing into his lungs with a desperate wheeze.

Rebecca leaned back on her heels, relief washing over her, though she remained sharp, assessing.

“Stay with us, Harold. Paramedics are on their way.”

Harold’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused and dazed.

The volunteer fire department’s trucks arrived, along with the ambulance from Coastal Ridge, their sirens bouncing off the surrounding buildings.

“I’ve got him.” Viviane kept rubbing the man’s back to coax out the remaining water. “Go let the medics know where we are.”

Rebecca nodded, her muscles protesting as she stood. Wet socks squelched between her toes, and she was grateful she kept a spare uniform in her SUV, including shoes.

She turned toward the street as two paramedics rounded the home. “Over here! We’ve got a man down.” Rebecca waved them over.

They raced over with bags marked with white crosses. As one of them bent over Harold, the other took one look at Rebecca dripping wet from head to toe and unzipped her bag. Donna Bianchi—who Rebecca recognized as the EMT from the fentanyl murder at I Scream You Scream—pulled out a thermal blanket and thrust it at Rebecca. “You need to get out of those wet clothes immediately.”

Rebecca gave her a dismissive nod and turned away to head over to the firefighters. But Bianchi clamped a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder and pushed the blanket into her chest. “Unless you want hypothermia to set in, you need to get changed before you do anything else.”

Taking the blanket with a sharp sigh, Rebecca jerked her chin at Viviane, who was still helping Harold. “My deputy was also in the water.”

Bianchi dug out a second blanket and handed it to Viviane. “The same goes for you. Now. I mean it, Sheriff.”

Rebecca gave her a watery smile. Viviane stood and left Harold to the medics. She and Rebecca huddled together in their blankets as they walked back to the SUV. Rebecca pulled out her spare uniform and a bag of extra sweats that she kept in the cargo space and handed the bag to Viviane.

Taking cover in the back seat of the cruiser, they shimmied out of their soaked clothes and wiped themselves dry as best they could. Rebecca pulled on her uniform quickly, eager to get out and help with the fire. Her shoes were still down by the dock, discarded when she’d leaped in to save Harold.

Jamming a wool cap over her wet hair, she wrapped the emergency blanket around her for extra measure and climbed out of the cruiser, Viviane following on her heels.

They edged toward the dock, and Rebecca took in the scene. The boat that had collided with the dock was a skeleton, devoured by the fire working its way through the second vessel.

As the firefighters worked, Rebecca caught sight of something that made her stomach drop—two twisted, prone forms aboard the engulfed vessel, motionless.

“Dammit.” The intensity of the fire made any attempt at rescue or recovery impossible. Rebecca turned toward Dee, who was getting his team into position. “Hey, Dee, there are two victims on the speedboat.”

Dee redirected the hoses to that area. Not even the volunteer firefighters in their fire-resistant suits would be able to get through the intense heat to attempt a rescue. Rebecca was no expert, but this fire felt much hotter than the one at the Waterman’s Memorial, and the water didn’t seem to be helping.

Walking down the dock away from the inferno, she found her sneakers and shoved her feet into them. She grabbed everything she’d pulled from her pockets, including her phone. The new body cams were supposed to be waterproof, and she wanted to see if the claims held up.

Still wrapped in her blanket, Rebecca headed to where Hoyt and the woman were waiting. The burning dock threw flickering light across his face, casting deep shadows over his features as he finished tying off the gauze he’d wrapped around the woman’s bleeding arm.

Hoyt spoke first. “This is Agatha Young, and that’s her husband, Harold. This is their home, and that’s their sailboat burning at the end of the dock.”

Agatha watched as two firefighters put an oxygen mask on Harold. “You saved him. Thank you.” Tears welled in her eyes, but she batted them away with her good hand. “Why does this keep happening?”

Rebecca furrowed her brow. “Has this happened to you before?”

Agatha shook her head. “No. I mean on Shadow Island. We heard about the other boat that crashed down by the memorial. Harold and I thought it was a fluke. But now this…why is this happening?”

“I don’t have answers for you, but we’re working to get them.”

Shivering violently, the woman pulled her sweatshirt around her a bit tighter.

Rebecca slid the thermal blanket from her shoulders and wrapped it around the woman. “Mrs. Young, the medics are taking good care of your husband, and I’ll have them check on you as well.”

She rose from where she crouched by the shaking woman and signaled to Viviane. When the deputy came over, Rebecca leaned in close to her ear. “Darby, have one of the medics check Mrs. Young. I’m worried she might be in shock.”

But before Viviane could turn, the paramedic who had accompanied Bianchi trotted up, introducing himself to Agatha as Steve Abramek. Rebecca also remembered him from the fentanyl case, but she stepped to one side so Abramek could assess the woman’s condition. Agatha’s eyes were wide, reflecting the firelight and fear in equal measure, as the medic shined his small flashlight into her pupils.

“Was anyone else on the dock or outside when the crash occurred?” Rebecca continued to question their witness as Abramek unfolded a fresh thermal blanket, replacing the crinkled one Rebecca had given her.

The woman shook her head, lips quivering. “Just us. It was supposed to be a quiet evening. Harold saw that boat on fire and ran out to try to move our sailboat. I went with him. We don’t dry dock because we get the occasional temperate day and like to go for a sail.” She had a thousand-yard stare, and Rebecca shifted so that she was in Mrs. Young’s eyeline, giving her something to focus on. She blinked and looked up at Rebecca. “It was going so fast, we couldn’t get there in time. When the speedboat hit, we both went flying.”

A sudden crackle from Rebecca’s radio interrupted the moment. She lifted the device closer, pressing the button to receive the incoming message. “I didn’t hear you. Please repeat.”

“Sheriff, it’s Coffey,” came the static-laden reply. “I’m on my way, but I wanted you to know what I just learned.”

“Give me what you’ve got.” Rebecca picked up her mylar blanket now that Mrs. Young had a better one and tucked it around herself. Though she was mostly dry, damp cold lingered in her bones.

“The state’s CSI tech was able to pull the GPS logs from Meek’s boat. That boat was definitely at Deerskin Island before it crashed into our southern shore.”

“Copy that. We don’t need you here. Return to the station. Frost will handle this scene. Darby can help Frost. I’ll follow you shortly.” Rebecca chewed on the inside of her cheek, already plotting her next move. They needed to investigate Deerskin Island, and fast. Whoever did this might still be there.

Her gaze lingered on the smoldering destruction at the end of the dock as she issued commands, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. “Frost, I need you to stay here and coordinate things with Dee. We’ve got a lot to sort out.”

“Yeah, Boss.” Hoyt straightened, his attention flicking from Agatha to Harold and then to the flames, where the firefighters were pumping out foam to snuff out the fire.

Rebecca swiped open her phone, pulling up a familiar number while her mind whirred with the implications of the evening’s events. The call connected, and Special Agent Rhonda Lettinger answered, her voice tinged with the weariness that only another law enforcement officer could understand.

“Rhonda, it’s Rebecca. I need to confirm that part of my case is within my jurisdiction. It’s about our victim from yesterday.” She walked in circles, stomping her feet to keep herself warm. “The problem is we think Deerskin Island is where that murder happened.”

“Then you’re in luck. Deerskin Island is in your county. So that’s your jurisdiction as well as mine.”

“Okay, perfect.” Rebecca’s breath made little puffs of mist as she spoke. “We’ve got another boat burned to a crisp here. Looks like there are two bodies on board this time. And two bystanders were injured when the vessel crashed into their private dock. I’m about to request a warrant to search Deerskin Island. Can you send a team to retrieve what’s left of the boat? Check for any GPS data too. Might give us some insight into this afternoon’s madness.”

“Consider it done. I’ll have my techs on it as soon as possible. And I’ll keep an eye out for that warrant and make sure I’ve got people available to give you backup when you serve it.”

“Thanks.” Rebecca ended the call and immediately dialed Bailey’s number. “Bailey, it’s Rebecca. We’ve got two more bodies.”

The silence on the other end lasted just a beat too long. “New case, I hope, and not two more stabbed victims driving a boat to your island?” The upward lilt at the end made Bailey’s question tip over the creepy line.

“I’m not sure if they were stabbed. I haven’t been able to assess the state of the bodies. They were on fire when I saw them. The blaze was too intense for the firefighters to attempt a rescue. They’re currently battling it.”

“I’ll bring my cooking spray and spatula, then.”

Rebecca blinked, not sure if icicles had formed in her brain or if she’d actually heard Bailey right.

“I’m kidding. I’m kidding.” Bailey laughed. “Where do you need me?”

“Trout Haven neighborhood. But take your time. The firefighters are still working on putting it out.” Rebecca hung up before Bailey made any more jokes.

As she pocketed her phone, she was happy the flames were dwindling under the control of the volunteer fire department’s foam extinguishers. She clenched her fists. The blobs floating on the water distinctly resembled napalm.

This fire had the markings of arson.

She drummed her fingers on her thigh, hoping her warrant request to search Deerskin Island came through fast. Saul Nielson’s insistence on privacy be damned. She was going to get some answers.

20

“Warrant came through.” Snatching up the copy that had just finished printing from her wireless printer, Rebecca climbed out of the SUV idling with its heater running in the parking lot by the boat dock. Despite taking a warm shower and blow-drying her hair on high, she couldn’t shake the chill that had settled into her bones.

Viviane had changed out of Rebecca’s sweats and was in her own spare uniform, along with Jake and Hoyt, all of them climbing out of two other cruisers once they saw her door open. Rebecca watched them for a moment, feeling a surge of pride amid the tension. They were more than law enforcement. They were protectors of this small community, standing as a thin blue line against the darkness that threatened to engulf it.

Rebecca had assembled and prepped them while waiting for the warrant. Now that she had it, they could be on their way.

Hoyt stepped forward. “I know I’m repeating my earlier concern, but it’s pitch black out there, Boss. The only lights will be whatever we bring. I doubt whatever Nielson’s got running in that fortress of his will help us in the woods. And he’s the one who controls if the lights are on and where they point. I don’t think you appreciate just how dark it can be on the ocean or a piece of land that small. That island is a black hole without daylight.”

She nodded, acknowledging the risk. A night approach was far from ideal, but they were racing against an unknown clock. One that could run out at any second if the killer decided to strike again. The first wreck had one victim. The second had two. Four, counting Harold and Agatha Young, though they were expected to fully recover. At least physically. And their boat had been destroyed.

The next might have more.

“I know, but waiting ’til dawn might be too long. And we’re taking the most powerful lights we have that we can transport by water.” They’d gotten permission from Silas to borrow his boat again.

Her phone buzzed—a message from Rhonda. State troopers were already en route to back them up, having anticipated the warrant would be granted. The troopers’ presence would provide an advantage she appreciated.

“Besides, we’ve got backup, and plenty of them, coming with more powerful lights.”

“Coast Guard?” Jake cocked his head to the side as Rebecca climbed aboard the speedboat with the others.

“State police. Rhonda is sending six units out to meet us, since we’re going to be searching the island, not the house or lawn.”

“It should be an easy ride.” The boat’s engine purred under Hoyt’s experienced hands as he sent the vessel away from the dock.

“Remember, everyone,” Rebecca clapped her hands together to gain their full attention, “eyes sharp. Stay alert. We don’t know what we’re walking into, but the last time we were here, the owner of the island greeted us with a shotgun. I don’t think he’ll be any happier seeing us at night.”

Not long afterward, as they rounded the southeastern tip of the shoreline, the outline of Saul Nielson’s dock became evident, although each plank and post blended in with the long shadows cast by docking lights. A familiar prickle raised the hair on the back of her neck, the instinctual awareness that had served her well in her years of service.

Idling just off the southern edge of Deerskin, the six state police boats bobbed silently, awaiting their arrival. Each sported at least four onboard searchlights and four troopers, ready to do what was needed.

As Rebecca’s group arrived, five of the state units broke off, curving around the island to get into place. Rebecca’s crew couldn’t exactly sneak around, but their borrowed vessel helped cover up the sound of the others.

“Docking in thirty seconds,” Hoyt announced, his voice low, almost lost in the sound of lapping waves. The light from the trooper’s craft accompanying them sliced through the darkness, revealing the rugged contours of the island’s shoreline.

“Ready up.” Rebecca checked her equipment one final time—radio set to the correct channel, flashlight at the ready, firearm secure but accessible, and search warrant in hand. Of course, everyone was fully equipped with a Kevlar vest.

Not that it guaranteed safety. Rebecca forced her mind away from the memories of the deputies she’d already lost.

Hoyt expertly maneuvered them alongside the dock, and the vessel bumped gently against a nest of old clothes tied into bundles that acted as buffers. Working swiftly, Hoyt and Viviane secured them, and the deputies prepared to disembark.

“Stay close. Communicate. And let’s all go home safe tonight.” Rebecca took the lead as she stepped onto the dock, the same wooden path they’d been denied before.

Hoyt and Jake piled out behind her. Once they were clear, Viviane disembarked as well. The group moved silently, each step deliberate. Tension hung heavy in the air.

Rebecca nodded curtly to acknowledge the troopers as they tethered their boat and disembarked. Together, they were a formidable team. Any criminal would think twice before challenging this assembly of authority.

Or would they? Saul Nielson had no problem meeting them with a shotgun last time.

“Let’s find cover before announcing ourselves, just in case he gets jumpy. Search warrants don’t stop shotgun shells.” Rebecca kept her voice near a whisper as she led her deputies toward Nielson’s house, her senses on high alert. They all filtered around the surrounding trees, hiding among the shadows but staying close to the dock, where it would be the safest if Nielson started shooting.

A megaphone crackled in Rebecca’s grip, a harsh squawk against the hush of encroaching night. With the trooper’s nod, she raised it to her lips, her voice amplified and authoritative. “Saul Nielson, this is Sheriff Rebecca West with a search warrant for your island. Please come speak to us or we will proceed with the search.”

Her announcement hung in the air, a challenge that rippled through the darkness across the island, where secrets lay buried. The response was not words but the sudden rectangle of light as Saul Nielson flung open his front door, his silhouette framed by the dim house.

Nielson’s shotgun was evident even from a distance, an extension of his anger, but upon seeing the line of troopers, he let the weapon dip toward the ground.

“Mr. Nielson, put down your weapon. As you insisted, we have a warrant.” Lowering the megaphone, Rebecca held the document up. “We have evidence linking a recent crime to this island. It’s imperative we search the premises.”

Her stance was squared, her gaze unwavering as she fixed it on the island owner, reading his every twitch. There was power in her posture, in the unspoken ultimatum that hung between them. She would step forward whether he willed it or not.

“Let me see that,” Nielson grumbled as he set the shotgun down on the threshold. The rebellious edge to his voice at their last meeting was gone, replaced by petulance. He sounded like a spoiled toddler.

The night air was thick with tension as Rebecca’s boots hit the wooden planks with a decisive thud. She glanced over the dark waters lapping at the pylons beneath them, her senses sharpened by the urgency of their mission. Deputies and troopers fanned out around her, forming an uneven line of authority against the backdrop of Deerskin Island’s tiny, untamed wilderness.

With measured steps, Rebecca ascended the lawn in front of the house, extending the document.

He snatched it, scanning the legalese. After a tense moment, Nielson’s resistance crumbled. “So be it.” He stepped aside with a sweeping gesture that was more of surrender than hospitality. “Do what you need to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nielson.” The formality of Rebecca’s tone wrapped around the situation like caution tape. She backed away from the porch so she could direct her team.

He mumbled something that contained a whole string of curses, but Rebecca ignored it and stepped close to her crew so she wouldn’t be overheard.

“Coffey, stay near the house so you can keep an eye on Mr. Nielson and secure his weapon. Make sure he isn’t carrying anything else. See if you can keep him distracted by talking to him. I want to know how he reacts to every step we take, so keep your radios on and the volume up for him to hear. If he reacts, we’ll know he’s hiding something.”

We know he’s used fire to threaten people before, and just because he has no history of assault doesn’t mean he hasn’t changed since moving here. And there’s nothing to say someone isn’t hiding in the house or somewhere else on the island. Maybe an accomplice, maybe even someone Nielson isn’t aware of.

Jake and the trooper both nodded and headed for the grizzled islander, who stood under the halo of a solitary lamp. His shotgun still lay abandoned by his feet. Rebecca looked at Nielson’s thin arms, comparing them to the size and weight of Benton Meek. Would he have been able to drag that dead body into a boat? Could he have even hoisted the corpse over the rail?

“The rest of you, let’s huddle up. We’re going to check the shoreline first. That’s where we’ll have the best lighting. Be loud and obvious. If someone is hiding here, we can flush them out.” She beckoned to Viviane and a short trooper with dark hair. “You two will be with me. We’re taking the east side of the island.”

Viviane nodded as the trooper murmured, “Understood.”

“You three take the west side.” She pointed to Hoyt and two troopers. “The rest of you…” She indicated a group of five troopers. “Go down the middle. As a group. No splitting up. Not yet. Head north but take your time and watch your step. We’ll all regroup on the north shore.”

“And the last three?” Viviane was nearly bouncing with curiosity.

“You three will be our bird dogs.” Rebecca faced the remaining troopers. “I want you to go to the back of the house, hunker down in the shadows, and keep an eye out for any movement. Call out if you see anything, but don’t let yourselves be spotted.”

One of the troopers, a woman with thick bands of gray in her dark hair, nodded. “That’s a good plan. The rest of you are going to flush him out, and we get to catch him.”

Rebecca nodded. “That’s if our unsub isn’t Nielson and is on the island but not in Nielson’s house.”

“Which is why you have your man and Buzz staying with him so he can’t signal to anyone else.” The same trooper smiled to show her approval. “And if someone else is inside, they’ll think we’ve all left, when another team will be waiting at the back door, ready to back them up.”

Rebecca surveyed the group a final time. “Once you’re concealed, tell your people on the water to light it up. We’ll wait here for that to happen.”

Without another word, the bird dog team shuffled off through the shadows to find a suitable position.

Rebecca and the rest of the team waited. After only a few minutes, a ring of lights appeared just off the shore, turning night to day. “Head out.” She led the way, her high-powered flashlight cutting through the thick shadows cast by the lights.

Hoyt and his team went in the other direction while the trooper team walked in a straight line.

Traversing the edge of the island was no walk on the beach. Stubby trees grew along the eastern side, leaning away from the vast ocean due to the nearly unrelenting ocean winds. The beach contained very little sand and a lot of gnarled roots and smooth stones.

They had to watch every step, not just for evidence, but also so they wouldn’t break their ankles. Nearly an hour passed before they veered west to reach the northern side of the island.

As they went, the terrain gradually changed to more sand and driftwood and fewer rocks. They also encountered random garbage, from pieces of plastic stuck in roots to sun-faded aluminum cans partly buried in the sand.

Strange for a guy so devoted to the environment.

The beam of Rebecca’s flashlight landed on something even stranger. Above the high tide line, a cluster of bare footprints, chaotic and overlapping, led to and from the water’s edge. They were fresh, the edges sharp, untouched by the tide this far from the water’s reach. She removed her measuring tape from her pocket and held it just above the spread of the toes, noting the print was about four and a half inches wide and about ten inches long.

The tracks went in every direction, and it wasn’t clear where they’d originated. All were made by a barefoot person, and the wide-splayed toes indicated the person didn’t wear shoes often. She radioed to have one of the troopers take photos and make a cast of the impressions after they’d completed their search.

Saul Nielson was barefoot when he greeted us with a shotgun on his dock at our first encounter.

“Here.” As she scanned the surrounding area for other clues, Rebecca motioned for her companions to draw nearer.

Viviane squatted beside her.

Rebecca followed the prints as they headed north. In the bright white of her beam, dark droplets formed a constellation amid the grains of sand. “Darby, use the test kit to see if this is blood.”

The trooper turned to watch their six as Viviane dropped a bag filled with forensic tools. She produced the small test strip and carefully collected a sample before testing it. After a couple minutes, the result came back. “It’s positive for human blood.”

“Mark all the drops,” Rebecca ordered.

Viviane produced a little flag and pushed it into the soft ground, then pulled out her camera to take a picture.

Rebecca spoke carefully into her radio, wanting to make sure Nielson would be able to understand her words as they came through on Jake’s end. “We’ve got human blood over here.”

“And something else.” Viviane pointed, and Rebecca turned to look.

On top of a patch of sand was a shimmering gray gel. Rebecca thought it might be a jellyfish at first, or part of one. The substance looked almost like snot balls on the sand. But it wasn’t gelatinous enough.

Recognition hit. The floating pools of fire at the wreck. The way it dripped out of the boat.

She snatched up her radio, her back to the water as she scanned the trees around them. “I’ve got tracks, human blood, and some kind of homemade napalm.”

21

The piercing December cold clawed through the dense woodland of Deerskin Island, where Rebecca continued to lead her team with a vigilant eye. After the discovery of blood along the shore, everyone was on high alert as they searched for additional evidence.

The VSP boats had split up like the ground crew, and they now circled the island to help provide cover and clarity. It was both a help and a hindrance. The searchlights improved visibility overall, but the chaotic shadows distorted the scene.

Fearing they might miss a crucial piece of evidence that could lead them to their killer, the members of each search party spread out farther. Occasionally, due to the terrain, they struggled to keep each other in their lines of sight.

Leaves crunched underfoot as her deputies and the state police fanned out, their flashlights sweeping methodically over every inch of ground, illuminating the areas at the fringes of the searchlights.

“Keep your sectors as tight as possible,” she reminded them through the radio, her breath forming misty plumes in the cold air. “We need eyes on every shadow.”

As Rebecca moved forward, she never strayed her hand far from the reassuring weight of her holster. Having found the blood evidence, she firmly believed more answers lay hidden somewhere in this quiet serenity.

A sharp snap resonated behind her. Instinctively, she spun around, her flashlight beam cutting a swath through the darkness as she gripped her weapon.

“Who’s there?” She felt like an idiot heroine in a horror movie as the words left her mouth. Too much time spent watching TV recently was the excuse she told herself. She scanned the area, searching for the source of the noise.

It wasn’t long before she caught the glint of eyes reflecting back at her. Two orbs suspended in the blackness. She tensed, preparing for confrontation.

But as she lifted her light to illuminate those eyes, the figure resolved into a deer—a doe, judging by the lack of antlers. Her large eyes were wide and frozen in the harsh light, and the bark she was stripping from the tree branch still hung from her mouth.

Like a deer in headlights even though she’s standing on her rear legs to reach the tree.

With a flicker of amusement, Rebecca redirected the beam, freeing the beast. Through the slashes of light, she watched the creature bolt, vanishing into a thicket with a rustle of disturbed foliage.

“Heads up, all units. We’ve got a deer heading west,” she radioed, fighting to keep her voice professional despite the absurdity.

“Copy that, Sheriff,” crackled a response, a hint of laughter tinging the words. “Appreciate the heads-up on Bambi. We’ll stay out of the way.”

“Stay alert. It could spook something else our way. Keep an ear out for sounds of thumping,” another voice chimed in, followed by a chorus of chuckles.

“Screw that! Watch out for that stinky striped friend of his!”

Rebecca shuddered at the thought of running into a sleeping skunk and startling it awake. The last thing she wanted during an already tense investigation was to get doused in skunk spray.

She allowed herself the ghost of a smile as she pressed deeper into the underbrush, her boots sinking into the soft earth as she navigated a labyrinth of trees. The cold December air bit her cheeks, but her focus remained razor-sharp. She reminded herself that the island’s wildlife was just part of the natural landscape, a harmless backdrop to their grim search. If she didn’t bother them, they wouldn’t bother her.

Besides, any snakes should be hibernating already. That was a small comfort.

The cold never kept Bigfoot from wandering around the woods, though.

A snapping twig in the stillness of the night halted her silly thought, and she pivoted sharply again. With her senses heightened, her heartbeat was almost audible above the whispering wind. Squinting through the darkness, she caught what appeared to be the outline of a stooped man. Rebecca’s instincts kicked in. This wasn’t an animal.

Hand hovering over her holstered weapon, she directed the beam of her flashlight toward the anomaly. But the light revealed nothing more than an empty patch of ground littered with fallen leaves and pine needles. No sign of life, no trace of movement.

She scoured the area for footprints, but the forest floor yielded no clues. A chill ran down her spine, not from the cold but from the unsettling notion that her mind was crafting phantoms.

As Rebecca reached the island’s northern edge, the vast expanse of water beyond lay dark and indifferent. She turned around, her flashlight’s beam dancing among the trees as she backtracked. She needed to return to the house, so she might as well make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

“Marine units, Sheriff West here. I’m turning around and plan to retrace my steps.”

“Roger that, Sheriff.” Engines revved. “We have eyes on you and will keep you lit up.”

Every rustle, every creak of the forest, now seemed amplified in the quiet night.

Then came a new sound. A faint, rhythmic breathing that synchronized with her own.

She stopped moving. The breathing intensified, as though it were an echo through the trees. Rebecca listened hard, trying to isolate the source of the noise, but the sound faded into the forest, rendering it indistinct from the breeze off the ocean.

She swept the area with her light, her pulse quickening with each passing second. The bright lights from the boats’ searchlights revealed nothing. The interplay of light and shadow created illusions of depth and form where there were none.

Could Viviane be just out of view? Am I hearing her breaths from beyond the searchlights’ reach?

Rebecca keyed her radio. “Deputy Darby, you copy?” If someone was out there, they might take advantage of her distraction. Moving her hand to her other hip, she pulled her taser free. If no one was out there, then the breaths she heard should belong to Viviane, the person who should be the closest to her.

“Go ahead, Sheriff,” came the immediate reply, a hint of static in the transmission.

Viviane’s voice reached her twice, once from the radio and once from the right and in front of her. Nowhere near where Rebecca had heard the breathing. Though they were in the same search party, the terrain had been more challenging along Rebecca’s path. “Anything on your side?” Keeping her gaze steady, Rebecca focused her hearing behind her to see if she could detect anything else.

“Negative, Sheriff. Quiet as a grave out here.”

“Roger that. Stay sharp.” Rebecca released the talk button, her chest tightening with unspoken anxiety. She hoped Viviane understood what she meant without having to say it.

“Roger that, Sheriff.”

With a deep inhale, Rebecca continued her vigilant trek back through the dense foliage, the weight of solitude resting heavily on her shoulders. Each step was like a move in a high-stakes game of chess against an unseen adversary. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was not the hunter on this island, but the prey. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck, a familiar response when she felt she was being watched.

But she heard no further sounds or signs of anyone else as she made her way back to the house. Her deputies and the state police had converged in a loose circle at the landside end of the dock, their breaths misting in the beams of their flashlights.

“Anything?” Rebecca scanned their faces for any sign of hope.

“Nothing along my path.” Viviane spoke up first, voice heavy with the weight of disappointment. “No tracks. No signs of disturbance beyond the initial scene. What was that about staying sharp?”

“I thought I heard something breathing out there. I wanted to see if it was you. But it could have been another deer.” Rebecca shrugged it off, chalking it up to nerves.

Viviane’s eyes went wide, and her lips twisted as she fought off a grin. “Oh, deary me.”

Hoyt snorted hard, shaking his head at the pun. Then he one-upped her. “I’ll bet you a buck it was just wildlife.”

That elicited several groans, which made Hoyt straighten with pride.

“Well, we didn’t find anything out there,” another trooper chimed in, most likely to stop the punning between Viviane and Hoyt. One by one, the reports echoed the futility of the search.

Rebecca let out a sigh. “All right, we’ve done all we can for tonight. Let’s regroup at first light.” She watched as the troopers nodded, fatigue burdening their movements as they headed for the boats.

“We’ll stick around until after we know that Nielson isn’t a threat, then we’ll pack it in and pull up on the shore where the CSI team is working. They’re making impressions of the footprints and gathering the other evidence we found. Once they’re done, we’ll head back to Norfolk.” With a salute to Rebecca, the last trooper followed his group back to the boats.

22

Turning away from the water, Rebecca began the short walk up the sloping ground to Saul Nielson’s house. The structure loomed, solitary against the night sky, windows bright but unwelcoming.

“Think we’ve got enough to hold him?” Hoyt’s voice broke through the crunching of her boots as he fell into step beside her.

Her gaze never left the off-grid house, its silhouette a dark stain against the island’s foliage. “I’d prefer to question him here, where he’s likely to be more cooperative. The CSI team needs to find something to link him directly to the evidence. Otherwise, his lawyer will scrutinize every element of the arrest.”

“Not our first rodeo, Boss. We’ll do it by the letter.” Hoyt’s shadow merged with hers as they neared the house.

Rebecca looked toward the front porch, where Saul Nielson sat watching them. “Let’s see what Mr. Nielson has to say for himself. Can you check on CSI?”

Hoyt nodded and veered off.

Jake stood guard, holding the shotgun on the other side of his body so it was out of Nielson’s reach.

“Coffey.”

He stepped off the porch to join them. “Got something?” Jake’s whisper held an edge of anticipation.

Her gaze stayed fixed on Nielson, who look more like a statue than a man accused. “Footprints and human blood. It’s enough to know an attack happened here.”

“When word came over the radio, he was surprised to hear it. I don’t think he was faking either. He was shocked into stillness, just a twitch around the eyes.” Jake barely moved his lips, keeping the information between them. “He didn’t reach for his phone or try to bolt. While he’s unsettled, I don’t think he’s involved.” He shrugged. “Just my two cents.”

“That’s good to know. Thanks.” She moved with her deputy onto the porch, where Nielson regarded them from his chair.

Pulling her notepad from her pocket, Rebecca purposely fumbled and dropped it. Bending over, she blocked Nielson’s view as she held her hand over his bare foot. His toes were only slightly wider than her palm. She’d need to get a mold of his foot to be certain, but it didn’t appear he was the one who’d left the tracks on the beach.

Straightening, she smiled. “Mr. Nielson, we found evidence on the northeast end of your island. Looks like the attack we’re investigating happened here.”

Nielson’s expression wrinkled into a mix of disbelief and resigned understanding. “You think it’s me, huh?”

“Is there anyone else living here?”

“Nobody but me.” Nielson’s tone was flat, a contrast to the ripple of tension passing through him. “And just in case you’re going to try to pin this on me because of my background, I don’t go after people. I never have. My fights were with buildings and corporations, not flesh and bone. I wanted to save lives, not end them.”

“Yet here we are.” Rebecca watched him closely for any twitch, any micro-expression, that might show any hint of deceit. He was right, though. His arson attack was nonviolent, targeting only an empty house. He’d proven he had no intention of harming anyone by admitting to watching the house for days, waiting for it to be empty. That had been in the court documents and likely helped his lawyers secure him an unusually light sentence for ecoterrorism.

“Yet here we are.” Nielson mimicked her, a shadow of bitterness in his voice. “I fought long and hard, got tired, and retreated from society. This island is my sanctuary now. I’ve done my time, five years behind bars. I’m not looking to go back. And I’m not looking to start drama or give you people reasons to come out here.”

“Your history complicates things. But if you’re innocent, we’ll find out soon enough.”

His nonchalant demeanor contrasted with the gravity of the situation. Either he was arrogant as hell, or he knew something she didn’t. Rebecca was betting it was both.

“Complicated is one word for it,” Nielson muttered, his gaze drifting off into the distance. where the powerful beams from the boats’ searchlights bathed the shore in artificial daylight.

Rebecca turned to signal Jake, her mind racing through the next steps of the investigation. “Keep an eye on him. CSI techs are already collecting evidence from the scene we identified. We’ll turn this place inside out if we have to.”

Nielson stomped his foot. “Your warrant is only for the land outside my curtilage. Not for my yard or my house. So you confine your techs and ‘turning this place inside out’ to the trees and shore. I’m not particularly fond of my lawyer, but I can bring him here, and he can have an injunction placed on anyone who strays from the confines of this warrant.” Nielson held up the document she’d given him.

The air was thick with unspoken questions and suspicions, but Rebecca trusted her instincts. The truth was here, somewhere on this isolated island, and she would unearth it. In the darkness, they’d managed to find where an attack had occurred. Daylight might yield even more results. “Mr. Nielson, if you’re not guilty, then any information could be crucial. You understand that, right? Your silence doesn’t do you any favors.”

“Spoken like a true fanatic. You know that innocent people have rights too? That I don’t have to be guilty of something to want you and your goons to abide by the law you’re sworn to uphold?” Nielson shifted on his wooden porch chair. “People trespass here more than you’d think. A couple of times a day. More in summer. They come for the quiet or the clean air, I suppose. I don’t bother them if they don’t bother me.”

“Is that so?” Rebecca countered, skeptical. “Because my deputies and I have been ‘bothered’ by a shotgun both times we’ve visited. Not exactly the welcome wagon, Mr. Nielson.”

He shrugged, a gesture that seemed to shake off the gravity of her words. “It’s different when they come knocking on my door. A man’s got a right to defend his home.”

“That’s true, but⁠—”

“I heard a scream earlier.” He said it almost as an afterthought. “At the time I thought it was drunks. That happens, though usually less often this time of year. But if you found something out there, maybe it wasn’t.”

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“Like I said, I thought it was just people acting the fool. Hootin’ and hollerin’, not needing actual help.”

“Why didn’t you investigate?” Rebecca’s tone was sharp, edged with disbelief.

“Didn’t seem my business.” Nielson gestured lazily toward a corner of the porch where a security camera perched in the eaves. “It was around three thirty, maybe four. That thing’s recording all the time. I was right here, sitting on the porch.”

“Can you prove that?”

Nielson stood, his movements deliberate. “Sure. You can come on in. I’ll show you the footage.”

Rebecca hesitated for just a fraction of a second before following him into the house. Inside, the spartan setup spoke volumes of the man’s desire for simplicity.

The room held only the essentials. One chair flanked a small table, on top of which sat a bulging wallet with cash and cards, a computer, and a box with blinking lights that looked like a mobile hotspot. An older model satellite phone sat next to it.

“Here you go.” Nielson gestured to the screen as he clicked through the surveillance footage. The glow of the monitor cast deep shadows across his weathered face, highlighting the lines etched by age and sun.

Rebecca leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she watched the grainy image of Nielson, alone on the porch, just sitting there facing the ocean with a blanket over his lap and a book in his hands. The video didn’t have sound.

Nielson clicked a button, and the video sped up, but the man in the chair didn’t. He sat there peacefully, turning the pages. Until he glanced up from his book with an expression of annoyance, his gaze darting off-screen. Something had disturbed him, but not enough for him to leave his post.

“That’s the scream I told you about.” Nielson paused the button and pointed to the time stamp, 3:44. He started the video at regular speed this time. On the screen, Nielson scowled but went back to reading his book. Occasionally he glared off-screen, but he did not move or otherwise react to the disturbance.

“Could you send this segment to my station? I’ll need it for our records.” Rebecca was already making a mental tally of what could change now that she knew an approximate time for the attack.

Bailey was going to have a hell of a time peeling the bodies out of the melted boat before she could provide them with any useful information on the victims.

And, of course, Rebecca would have techs check the footage for signs of tampering and verify the time by checking the lengths of the shadows. Just because he was offering help didn’t mean he wasn’t the killer. Or an accomplice.

“Consider it done.” Nielson cut and copied the section, attaching it to a message as she recited her email address to him.

“Can you also pull up footage at 2:37 Sunday afternoon?” If he had proof he was at his house during Benton Meek’s murder too, she’d be closer to crossing him off her person of interest list.

He didn’t even ask why, just grunted and did as she asked.

And there he was, peacefully turning pages and sipping from a steaming mug. Without her even asking, he copied the section and sent it too. He was clearly in a the faster I get this done the faster I get them gone frame of mind.

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Rebecca smiled as she spoke, though privately, she thought Nielson could have been more forthcoming.

He’d sent her a clip, nothing more, and he didn’t have cameras on his back door. She had no way of knowing what he did after he conveniently recorded his afternoon reading being interrupted.

Rebecca strode onto the porch, her eyes meeting Jake’s. A silent conversation passed between them, and the deputy moved away from Nielson as Rebecca stepped off the porch and addressed Neilson one more time. “Thank you for your cooperation. Crime scene techs are still collecting evidence from the scene we found earlier, but none of our team should be bothering you anymore tonight.”

Nielson scowled but said nothing.

“If you happen to notice anything at all, please call me.” She extended a business card, which Nielson accepted with a grunt.

“Sure.”

“Listen, Mr. Nielson,” Rebecca pressed, her voice firm. “We did find evidence that an attack happened on your shore. You heard the scream. It was human blood we found, not animal, so you need to take this seriously. If you see or hear something unusual or concerning, use your boat and get clear. Then call me, and we’ll get someone to you as fast as possible.”

“Boat’s nearly dry on fuel.” Nielson shrugged, as if none of that mattered. “And I’m not about to skedaddle from my own land.”

“Then at least keep your phone on you.” As hateful as he was, she didn’t want anything to happen to him if he was innocent. “We’ll check in tomorrow. If you don’t pick up, we’re coming back. Understood?”

“Fine.” Nielson still grumbled, but the edge in his voice softened. “I’ll answer so you don’t have to come out here again. I really do appreciate my privacy.”

“And we’ll respect it as much as we’re able.” Rebecca gave him a curt nod. She then strode out to meet Jake. “The video corroborates his story. And he looked in the same general direction where we found the footprints and blood.”

Jake kept his voice low. “You think he’s innocent?”

“My instincts say he is, but I need more evidence before I’ll be convinced.”

As she turned and made her way back to the docks, Jake trailed her, leaving the shotgun on the porch.

Rebecca hoped Saul Nielson wouldn’t have any need for it.

23

The marsh was silent except for the rustling of the tall winter grasses around me, whispers in the dark. While the police trampled my shoreline, I made sure to stay well away from their prying eyes.

The sheriff’s speedboat cut through the water, its engine fading into the night, and I clenched my fists, digging my nails into the damp earth. Anger boiled in my veins, hotter than ever before.

I’d been shadowing that blond lady, the one they called the sheriff, through the gnarled trees and underbrush. She’d moved with confidence, that irritating swagger of law that had no place here. My fingers had itched with the urge to leap out, to stab her the way I’d stabbed the others, to watch the life drain from her body for daring to trespass on my island. My sacred ground.

“Stupid bitch,” I hissed into the darkness, the words slicing through the quiet marsh. “How dare you come back here after I sent you another warning?”

Dumb investigators were too blind to see my messages for what they were. Not an invitation to come visit my beach, but a warning to stay away. This was my land!

Maybe they didn’t care. Well, I cared. This was my domain, my refuge from the world that had taken everything from me. Each engine on my land was a desecration, a call to action.

When they first stormed the shores tonight, I thought it was another damn nightmare. But their engines shattered my sleep, a harsh reminder that even in the dead of night, I was vulnerable to their intrusion. Then their clomping boots shook the roof of my dwelling ’til I had to come out and investigate.

They had come uninvited, their bright searchlights sweeping across the woods I’d called home for more than ten years. My woods.

“You violated my home when you’re supposed to be protecting it. That’s what you cops are meant to do.”

They were looking for something, someone. Maybe for me. But they wouldn’t find me. Not here among the reeds and mud, where I blended with the shadows and the silence. I was a ghost in this place, and ghosts didn’t get caught.

As her boat disappeared, leaving only ripples behind, I knew what had to be done. The messages hadn’t been enough. It was time to become the message. To make a statement they couldn’t ignore. And the means to do so was already waiting for me on the island.

“Patience,” I whispered. It was as much a vow as a reminder. Patience would be my ally until the moment to strike arrived. Then they would understand. But I could do nothing until the rest of her crew left my island.

I remembered when he first came to the island. The interloper. My fingers had itched to take my knife to him then, the same way they itched now. But he’d been different. He understood the sanctity of solitude, the unspoken law of distance. We coexisted, two shadows abiding in our respective corners. Peace returned, fragile but welcome.

The intruder had become a kindred spirit. A twin flame who understood my hatred of civilization. He, too, had lashed out at those who threatened the land. And he’d stayed to himself once his home was built and the work crews departed my sanctuary for good.

But I could see how he lived. His was a life enhanced by nature, not one that exploited it. Our values aligned, even if he had invaded my home. Long ago I had decided to forgive it. We were brothers of a sort, of one mindset. And he never bothered me, never even crossed into my sanctuary except for those first days when he posted the signs telling people to stay away.

Although I’d nearly attacked him when he’d wandered near my nest, I knew when I saw the signs he posted that we were comrades in this fight. We shared a belief system. It was us against the world.

I traced the outline of the foliage that concealed my entrance, ensuring not a single leaf was out of place. My home was safe for now, but the anger simmering within me wouldn’t be quelled by their departure. No, they needed to learn, to understand the sacredness they had defiled.

The last of them, the ones searching close to my home, had finally packed up their things and boated off, but their stench remained, oil and metal fouling up my nostrils. Their boats, those growling beasts, reminded me of that semitruck. The one that tore my life to shreds. Tore my family to shreds. They were gone in a scream of brakes and shattering glass.

That was what had taught me the lesson. Stay away from the machines and keep within the woods that protected life.

I clenched my fists, tearing at the foliage beneath me as rage and grief rippled through me like a wave. I’d sent two messages, warnings loosed like arrows into their artificial world, but they were too blind to see. Too deaf to hear. They thought they could storm my sanctuary, trample my peace, and just leave?

No.

Clearly the messages weren’t enough for them. It was time for something more direct. A warning I would deliver in person. The kind of message they couldn’t ignore even if I had to shove it right up their noses.

I rose silently, moving with the stealth of a shadow slipping across the moonless night. There was no need to wait for the boat of another invader. There was already one at the dock on the other side of the island, ripe for the taking.

24

Hoyt navigated through the dark waters surrounding Shadow Island. Aside from the scattered lights of distant boats, darkness enveloped them.

Rebecca sat near the bow, posture rigid, eyes locked on the undulating waves. Viviane and Jake were likewise silent, ensnared by their private musings.

As Hoyt guided them home, a realization struck him. With everything else happening that day, he had neglected to share a vital discovery. “Hey, Boss, I forgot to mention this. Earlier today, I tracked down the car parked outside your house. Got the plate number too.”

Rebecca’s head snapped toward him. “What did you find out?”

Jake leaned forward, shoulders hunched. “Yeah, what do we know about it?”

Hoyt flicked a switch, illuminating the boat’s console with a soft amber light that chased away a fraction of the gloom. “First, I ran the plates through the system. It turns out it’s registered to Peterson Acquisitions, Inc. Elliot found that out for me. The kid’s got some good sense, and he’s really taking to the job well. But everything he found makes me think Peterson is a dummy corporation.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Viviane beaming at the mention of Elliot’s abilities. Which was only natural, considering she had been the one to handle most of his training. She’d grown up at the knees of her mother at that desk, then spent nearly as much time working the desk herself before passing all that learned experience on to their newbie.

Rebecca furrowed her brow, a frown creasing her features. “Peterson Acquisitions? Never heard of them.” Her voice carried an undercurrent of frustration, the kind that came with hitting yet another dead end.

Hoyt couldn’t blame her. They had a lot of scraps of information, but none of them were connecting yet. Which meant they needed to keep digging to find a way to piece everything together.

“Is that company listed in the intel from Lankford?” Jake swung his head to look at Rebecca, his eyes narrowing as he processed the new information.

“Nothing that I saw, but then, I wasn’t looking for that specifically.” Rebecca shook her head, pursing her lips in concentration. She rarely forgot a name. But there were possibly hundreds of shell company names on the thumb drive Lankford had given her. Who knew what the encryption was protecting?

“A shell company is a convenient way to keep your real identity off the radar. It’s a piece of cake to make one. It only takes a day or two to set one up, and you can toss it nearly as quickly.” Viviane’s voice held a hint of jaded pessimism, but it didn’t mask the underlying seriousness of her point.

Hoyt nodded, acknowledging Viviane’s insight. They all knew the cloak of bureaucracy could easily hide nefarious deeds, especially in a small island community where resources were limited and the law could sometimes feel like an afterthought. But they had plenty of experience dealing with such things.

The Yacht Club had operated under shell companies, dummy corporations, and a staggering number of offshore bank accounts. Still, they’d waded through it all to make the RICO case stick, as well as to seize all proceeds and properties used in criminal acts. That had bolstered their department’s budget significantly.

Rebecca had used some of the money to get them new gear, like their new body cams. After her ocean swim with Harold Young, she was pleased to find the body cams really were waterproof, as advertised.

“Let’s make sure to dig deeper into Peterson Acquisitions.” She shifted her feet as she leaned back in her seat. “If they’re being used as a cloak to stalk me, then we need to peel back the layers to find who’s really behind it.”

Hoyt eased off the throttle as they approached the dock, the rumble of the motor yielding to the gentle lap of waves against the hull. The stars’ silver sheen cast a pale light over the water, reflecting on the faces of his companions.

Rebecca’s focus was fixed on the horizon, and he could tell she was preparing to speak about what had been weighing on her mind. “Did you see what the car did while I was gone?”

“Mostly, it just cruised around.” Hoyt grabbed the lines to toss onto the dock. “The driver was trying to blend in, look nonchalant. They didn’t count on us being alert.” He blew out a hard breath. “I’m worried about you, Boss. They’re not exactly trying to hide. And that means you’re in danger.”

Jake hopped out of the boat and, with a couple flicks of the wrist, tied the rope Hoyt had thrown to the cleat on the dock. “Fuck them. And whoever sent them.” The sharp edge in his tone matched his angry posture. “Thinking they can intimidate an officer of the law like this…it’s a blatant disregard for what we stand for. And I take that personally.”

“I appreciate the concern, but I’m more worried about you guys.” She surveyed the group, her expression solemn. “You could be targets too. So could Melody and Elliot. If Morley’s folks are willing to come after the sheriff, none of us are safe. They won’t stop with me.”

The truth in her words hung heavy in the air. Hoyt knew the stakes were high. “I’m pretty sure a wise woman once told me that being a cop is a dangerous job. That we could be taken out by a drunk driver or a shooter on any shift.” He raised his eyebrow at Rebecca as he threw her words from months ago back at her.

She gave a tiny shrug, as if to say that was then and this was now.

“We’ll watch each other’s backs.” Viviane stood, dropping a hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “You’ve got a solid team here, and we’re not about to let some corporate shadows scare us off. Much less some blowhard D.C. twerp in his million-dollar suit. They don’t know who they’re messing with.”

Hoyt went through the final docking procedures with the thoughtless ease of long practice. He couldn’t help but let his mind drift to the past, when the sheriff was Alden Wallace—a man who had borne the weight of his badge in solitary silence.

If only Alden had reached out, confided in his deputies about the growing malignancy within their jurisdiction, maybe the chaos that had claimed his life could have been averted. The cruel clarity of hindsight gave Hoyt a pang.

Trent had repeatedly echoed the sentiment during their lengthy discussions. The two of them were united in their belief that a sheriff’s strength lay in trust and collaboration with their team.

“I can’t speak for everyone,” he indicated Jake and Viviane, who were still waiting beside Rebecca, “but I didn’t sign up for this badge to stand by and watch good people suffer. You came here, and you cleaned house with the Yacht Club. That took guts. And if Morley thinks he’s going to bring that kind of terror back to this island, then he’s got another think coming.”

Rebecca blew out a long breath, a silent acknowledgment of the risks they all faced. “Morley’s different. He’s got more reach, more power.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Jake crossed his arms. “No one is above the law. And no one gets to harass and intimidate a law enforcement officer. Especially not our sheriff.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Viviane met Hoyt’s gaze, her eyes shining like polished tiger’s eye stones under the navigation lights. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. None of them were going to let their boss down, just like they weren’t going to allow her to give up.

25

Headlights from Rebecca’s cruiser cut through the night blanketing Shadow Island. The only sounds were the low thrum of the engine and the occasional wave that broke heavily enough on the shore.

Her team needed a brief respite to compose their thoughts and catch some sleep before filing their reports in the morning light. They were all heading back to the sheriff’s station to drop off their cruisers and pick up their personal vehicles from the side lot.

At this time of night, the roads usually offered stretches of unbroken solitude, but tonight, as Rebecca turned onto Anchor Drive, her headlights illuminated an anomaly. A dark car was moving down the street, away from the station. She wasn’t certain, but she thought it might be the same black Hyundai Sonata from yesterday.

Tension coiled within her as she squinted, catching a fleeting image of the license plate. It was the same D.C. plate. The letters were like icy fingers down her spine. It was the first vehicle she’d seen since leaving the dock, and its presence screamed conspiracy rather than coincidence.

She fought the nausea that clawed up her throat, the sickening worry that this could be one of them—the faceless people who’d been tailing her, lurking in the shadows cast by her own investigation.

Instinctively, she sought any sign of movement through the station’s front windows, but the reflective film turned the glass into mirrored barriers, thwarting her view and elevating her pulse.

Rebecca whipped the SUV to an abrupt halt in front of the sheriff’s station, tires sliding on the cold pavement. She gripped the steering wheel for a moment longer than necessary before flinging open the door and bounding out, propelled by a mixture of duty and dread.

After unlocking the front door, shoving it open sent the bell overhead jingling. Viviane had swapped out the normal, heavier bell for a string of jingle bells. Ordinarily it would be a welcoming sound, but now the holiday cheer seemed alarmingly out of place as Rebecca used her foot to hold the door open, scanning the lobby.

Melody’s usual evening-shift smile edged with confusion at the sight of Rebecca, who stood immobilized on the threshold. “Evening, Sheriff. How’d⁠—?”

“Did someone just leave here?” Rebecca scanned the interior, resting her hand on the butt of her gun.

“No.” Melody’s brow furrowed, her head tilting as she tried to read the situation. “Is something wrong?”

“Did someone walk by outside? A few minutes ago?” Rebecca pressed, ignoring the question. “Did you see anyone or anything?” On the road behind her, the passing headlights of her crew’s cruisers sliced through the night, casting elongated shadows that slipped away into the side parking lot.

“Uh, no. Nothing at all. But I wasn’t really looking…” Uncertainty crept into her voice as she glanced toward the empty sidewalk through the open door.

Before Rebecca could respond, Hoyt’s jovial voice boomed from behind her. “Sheriff, did you race us here just to play doorkeeper?” His chuckle resonated into the quiet lobby.

Viviane, and Jake arrived on Hoyt’s heels, their expressions light with amusement. Viviane’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Aw, you’re so sweet, Boss. Always watching out for us.” She softened the sarcasm in her tone with genuine affection.

“Never had a boss hold the door for me before,” Jake added with a grin, his youthful face alight with appreciation.

“Get inside, guys.” Rebecca held the door wider, ushering them with more urgency than the moment warranted.

With all deputies now gathered in the lobby, Rebecca pushed the bulletproof-glass door shut with a definitive click, not waiting for the hydraulic mechanism to do its slow job.

The humor faded from the assembled deputies’ faces as they registered the gravity that weighed down her every move. Trent appeared from the bullpen, curiosity and concern on his features.

Rebecca studied her deputies, noting the shift in their postures as they waited for her to explain. If she’d gotten here only to find Melody hurt or dead, she didn’t know how she’d deal with that. “I saw a car with D.C. plates as I was pulling onto Anchor Drive. It was driving away from here.”

“From D.C.? Here? At the station? That would take a lot of nerve.” Viviane’s eyebrows arched skeptically.

Trent glanced at Melody. “And if they have the nerve for that, they might have the nerve to do more than just drive by.”

Rebecca was certain he was recalling the jailbreak that had happened when only he and Melody had been in the building. Melody had gotten out with only a fright, but Trent had been badly beaten. “That’s exactly my concern. Given what we’ve been through lately, my first thought was a raid on the station.”

Melody’s usually cheerful demeanor had drained away, leaving her visibly shaken. “A raid on the station?” Her voice quivered slightly. “But why? There’s no one in the cells. Nothing they might want. Right?”

“But they might think there’s something in here worth taking. Worth risking a raid on a barely staffed sheriff’s station.” Rebecca chewed her lip, debating how best to deal with this situation. “That, and I can’t ignore the possibility that someone’s been following me. A black Hyundai Sonata with D.C. plates. This isn’t just local trouble. It’s way bigger. And I’m not sure that’s the only car either.”

“Does this have anything to do with the Yacht Club takedown?” Melody’s hands trembled as she tucked strands of loose hair behind her ear.

Rebecca hesitated. That was something she hadn’t considered. “No…well, I don’t think so. The open files didn’t appear to mention anything Yacht Club-related. But I just don’t know what’s booby-trapped.” Rebecca pushed her hand through her hair, loosening her ponytail. “That’s why I need to keep it out of their hands and still keep everyone safe. They weren’t supposed to know Lankford gave it to me, but they’re stalking him now. It’s possible they made the connection between us. He advised me to be careful.”

How she was supposed to do that, Rebecca didn’t know. She dropped her hand to her side, pressing her palm flat against her thigh. But she had to figure it out quickly, because until she did, every one of her people was in just as much danger as she was.

26

Saul Nielson lay awake, the sheets twisted around his legs like tangled seaweed. As late as it was, he was completely alert, staring at the ceiling that flickered with the shadows of the tree branches outside, swaying in the night breeze. The room was silent except for the distant lapping of waves against rock, a sound that should have been soothing but now felt like an accusation.

He had always known his island attracted the occasional trespasser. It was usually only curious souls seeking adventure beyond the weathered No Trespassing signs that clung to the trees at the perimeter.

But murder?

That was a toxin more potent than any pollutant his parents had ever ignored in their hedonistic jaunts across the globe. It seeped into Saul’s sanctuary, souring the air he breathed.

Shifting onto his side, he kicked at the sheets. He’d uncovered hints he wasn’t totally alone on his private island. Footprints on the beach with a stride that didn’t match his own, peculiar rustles in the underbrush at night that were distinct from foraging deer. On rare occasions, he’d noticed his greenhouse had been disturbed.

Saul had dismissed the signs as a combination of rude trespassers leaving traces of their intrusion and a tinge of paranoia that came from years of solitude. But now he could no longer dismiss the possibility of another inhabitant. Perhaps he was the one trespassing, and the other resident had been here long before he arrived.

He rolled out of bed, the floorboards cool under his bare feet. His mind wandered back to his youth, when he’d watched his parents disappear into sleek, shiny cars and ascend into the skies in private jets. Even as a child, he could sense the indifference in their laughter, the way they never looked back at the exhaust fumes trailing behind. That world—the one of excess and ignorance—had never made sense to him.

And now, as he paced through the dimly lit hallway of his home, the outside world seemed even more alien to him. He couldn’t envision himself living like his family, people who moved through life without seeing the impact of their footprints, both literal and metaphorical.

Over the years, he’d noticed that the more money people had in their accounts, the less they seemed to care about others and the planet as a whole. He had no place among people like that.

That was why he’d tried to find his own path, away from the family businesses. Activism had called to him. Naive twenty-year-old Saul had wanted to repair the damage done by large corporations. But no one had listened to him.

Words weren’t enough to change the world. He needed real action to make a difference. And the actions he’d taken had made him an outcast.

Rejected by society. Rejected by his family. Even his activist friends had renounced him once the cops had him. Justice had decreed that he be removed from society for his beliefs and actions. Everyone had made it clear they wanted nothing to do with him.

And after getting out of prison, he’d been effectively ostracized and disowned by all of humanity. Just for trying to save them in spite of themselves. Lacking the strength to push back on the society that had condemned him, he escaped it altogether.

Now Saul belonged only here. On an island that bore his solitude as much as it did the wild animals and rocky shores. His gaze drifted out the window, over the turbulent sea, and he wondered if the killer had looked upon this same view before staining the soil with blood.

With a sigh, Saul turned away from the window, resigned to a night without sleep, haunted by the specter of a crime and the shadow of a stranger living among the susurrations of the wind and waves.

His bare feet whispered against the plank flooring as he shuffled through the darkened corridor of his modest bungalow to the single chair at his table. The sea’s lullaby, usually a balm to his restless spirit, was tonight a haunting refrain that underscored the dissonance in his soul. And each chorus reminded him that the water surrounding his sanctuary offered easy paths to his doorstep.

One act of righteous fury, derided by others as vigilantism and arson, had clapped him in chains. The authorities had thrown him behind bars, where the sterility of the concrete-and-steel world gnawed at his soul.

Yet it was the tainted currency of his family, the same currency that oiled the gears of the world’s destruction, that had unlocked those prison doors early. His family was all too happy to get rid of him and gave him all the funds he needed to buy the island. It was blood money that had bought him this much-needed refuge from the world that scorned him and his fight for humanity.

His home was simple—spartan by his family’s standards—but it was all he needed or wanted. He didn’t even want the boat he’d had to buy to navigate the logistical nightmare that constructing the house had posed. He rarely used it and only left the island when supplies were needed. Obtaining his isolation far outweighed any desire for creature comforts.

But he hated that he’d used his family’s tainted money to build his sanctuary. The thought was a jagged pill, scraping down his throat with every swallow. He’d bought his freedom, purchased this slice of seclusion surrounded by nothing but the wild embrace of nature.

The irony was a bitter herb that no amount of salt breeze could cleanse from his palate. Money was both the architect of his salvation and his prison. It also paid for his gray water system, his greenhouse, his solar panels, and the filtration he relied on to get potable water.

He’d had these thoughts before and knew he would have them again. Saul pushed away from the table and stood, wanting the comfort of his warm bed instead of the growing chill in the house as the night deepened.

A crack, loud and jarring in the emptiness, pulled Saul from his introspection. It sliced through the silence like a blade through fog. He froze, his heart pounding a fierce rhythm against his ribs. He wasn’t alone.

And his shotgun was safely tucked away in his closet.

It felt as close as the far side of the moon as Saul turned slowly toward the source of the intrusion.

A man stood in the open front door, a shape hewn from shadows and stillness, an entity whose presence seemed at once both impossible and inevitable. The air between them was charged, electric with unspoken recognition. Panicked, Saul reached out and hit the light switch, filling the space with a warm glow.

Saul’s eyes narrowed against the sudden light as he assessed the intruder, an unwelcome specter in his carefully cultivated isolation. The inevitability of confrontation hung between them, a palpable tension that made the night air feel even colder on his skin.

“Who are you?” Though his voice was a low rumble, barely more than a whisper, it carried the command of a man who long ago learned how to make himself heard, even as he stood alone against the world.

The intruder was a creature of the wild. Dirt had become a second skin, caking into the crevices of his weathered face and matting the thick beard that tumbled from his jaw like brambles. His eyes—dark, wide, and glassy—flickered with the erratic pulse of a cornered animal. Saul’s own reflection danced in those eyes, twisted and distorted by years of isolation.

Is this some alternative vision of me? The thought crept into Saul’s consciousness like a specter. Had my family’s fortune not steered the course of my life after that fire, would I, too, be this…ghoul, this remnant of a man?

The room held its breath as the stranger’s cracked lips parted, his voice a collection of rough-hewn syllables scratching at the air. “The machines…they scream.” His voice rasped raggedly. He dislodged each word with visible effort. “The water, the trees, even the deer, they weep. We must silence…machines…pollute our land. Use their machines…against them. Stop them.”

Saul’s gaze never wavered from the man, even as his mind raced. He heard in those fragmented utterances the echoes of his own silent protests. The fury against a world that churned ceaselessly on, heedless of the wreckage in its wake. The silence returned, oppressive and thick, as he measured the threat before him.

He understood the language of solitude, of desperate acts born from despair. Yet where he had sought isolation, this man declared war.

“No.” The word dropped like a stone into the silence. Saul’s pulse hammered in his ears, making him worry this was a hallucination, or perhaps the visual cues of a stroke. This couldn’t be happening. “We don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to kill again.”

The man’s eyes flashed, a storm breaking within their depths. “Yes! I do. We do. I thought you understood. We are brothers.” He spat dirty phlegm on the wood floor. The words were sharp as flint. And just as brutal. “This is our sanctuary. Our island. We have to protect what is ours.”

Saul saw it then, a glint of metal in the man’s hand. He had a knife. Saul’s blood chilled. He should have listened to the sheriff. But maybe he could still do something before things got out of control. “Why are you here?”

“I lived in the…the mountains, the mainland.” The man stumbled over his words, his voice thick with despair. “Until there was nothing left. They were taken. My family. We had nothing…had to go to town for help. A semi crashed into us. Killed them. We were pinned in the car together until they could cut me out.” He started shaking as he spoke, the memory seeming to corrode him from the inside.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. I’m glad you found refuge here.” Saul’s throat tightened. “But killing won’t bring your family back. Nothing will.” He spoke softly, hoping to breach the man’s fortress of pain.

The stranger’s rage burst forth, a geyser of grief and fury. “I thought you, of all people, would understand. You came here, with your loud machines and your roof with its bright reflective panels. But then you stayed quiet. Like me. I thought you were an ally to keep the island safe.” He pounded a fist against his chest. “If you’re not with me, then leave! This was my home before it was ever yours.”

“I bought this land fair and square.” Saul was thrown off-guard by the sudden demand. “You said you came from the mountains. What makes you think this is yours?”

That was the wrong question to ask.

The man tightened his hand on the knife. “Because I was here first! I made my home here first. Your construction crew destroyed the quiet, and I still let you live here because I thought we shared a cause. And I believed you might be handy in an emergency.” He stomped his bare foot. “This is an emergency.”

“What is?” Saul tried to come up with some way to get the man to calm down. But everything he said seemed to make the intruder even madder.

“The invaders!” The knife was raised and pointed at him now. “The interlopers, like the ones I killed and sent off before. I protected our island while you sat here in the house you paid other men to build for you. I should have known that someone as soft and weak as you wouldn’t be up to doing what needs to be done.”

With a move so swift that he blurred against the darkness, the wild man lunged forward, knife aimed at Saul’s chest.

Time slowed, each tick of the clock stretching out. Saul tried to raise his hand, but he was too late. The apathy and depression that had started to devour him since he’d moved out here had taken its toll on his muscles and reflexes. He didn’t have the heart to fight for his life.

The blade found its mark, plunging into Saul’s flesh with a finality that whispered across the island’s tranquil night.

27

I sank the blade into his flesh again and again, the wet thud of steel piercing skin and muscle a symphony in my ears. Nielson’s body shuddered beneath me with each plunge. The eyes that had defied me were now glazed over, staring at nothing—a life extinguished by necessity. Blood painted both of us, warm and sticky, a crimson testament to what had to be done.

When I was sure he was gone, I stood, my hands trembling, the knife slipping from my fingers and clattering to the floor. It shouldn’t have come to this.

I studied the room, taking in the trappings of Saul Nielson’s soft life. This home he had built on the bones of my solitude. I could almost taste the bitterness as I remembered the invasion of machines, the roar of engines that shattered the stillness of my island. Those damn boats, monstrous and unrelenting, hauling their cargo of destruction.

Nielson wasn’t like the rest of them, but he brought them here, to my sanctuary. My breaths came hard and fast, my chest heaving with more than just exertion.

For a moment, I imagined what it would be like to live here, to have walls instead of earth surround me at night.

But then my anger flared up again, churning with nausea as my adrenaline faded. I remembered suddenly and bitterly how the rumble of the machines had forced me to cower underground like an animal.

They blasted and drilled while I hid, all the while hoping my home wouldn’t collapse in on me. I waited for the quiet of night to emerge and sustain myself with whatever the land offered. I had to endure that for months when I should have been stocking up for winter, all so Nielson could relax in his fortress while I scraped by in a hole in the ground.

My hand clenched into a fist. No more. The island was mine long before this soft excuse for a man ever set foot on it. And I’d be damned if I was going to let anyone else forget that. My island was not a playground for the rich. It was my refuge, my domain. My castle.

And I would protect it, no matter the cost.

The warmth from the radiator battled the chill seeping into my bones. A luxury of central heat that I hadn’t felt in years. It mocked me with its comfort. Seduced me with its ease.

I scanned the contours of Nielson’s kitchen, clean surfaces showing under electric lights.

He had a greenhouse for winter herbs, a summer garden now fallow outside the window. A refrigerator that I could stock with more than just fish and wild game. Life here would be easy. Too easy.

I envisioned myself flipping through seed catalogs, planning next year’s crops as I’d done in my previous life.

An image flashed in my mind. My wife laughing, apron dusted with flour. Our son tugging at her skirt. She would have loved this kitchen. I imagined the scent of fresh bread and roasting venison. And my boy’s laughter.

The pain was a blade twisting in my chest, not unlike the one I’d plunged into Nielson’s heart.

“Dammit.” I hissed in pain, anger boiling up again, scalding the tender edges of memory. I couldn’t afford to dream. Couldn’t dare to live as though they were still by my side. They were gone. Like he was.

My gaze fell back to Nielson’s lifeless form, sprawled across the smooth floorboards. I wished he had listened, wished it hadn’t ended this way. We’d lived in harmony in the years since he’d invaded my home. We could have continued to live that way, separate but not truly alone.

But wishes were for fools and dead men.

I moved through the house, an intruder in a world I no longer belonged to, until I found what I needed. The keys to Nielson’s boat hung on a peg by the front door. They jangled a discordant chime as I pocketed them. I already felt tainted by their proximity, by the machine they operated.

Standing by the front door, I gave one last look to the man who might have been my compatriot. His blood pooled on the floor, staining it. A reminder of what happened to those who chose to live easily. They never lived long. Not like I had.

An object on the table caught my eye—a faded leather wallet bulging with cash. “All that money, and look where it got you.” I shook my head sadly as I left the house of the man who might have been my friend.

The dock was only a few strides away, the large boat he rarely used bobbing on the waves.

I could send the boat off as I had before, but the messages weren’t getting through. Maybe because my aim wasn’t true?

If I wanted to make them understand, I had to guide the boat to make sure it was on target. I was going to finish what I started. And this time, they’d see the determination in my features. The face of the man whose life they’d torn apart. My resolve hardened as I climbed aboard and stepped up to the helm under its hard top.

The console loomed before me in the darkness, alien and confusing. I’d arrived in a simple canoe and had avoided such machines when possible. This vessel was much more complicated than the last one I’d set on fire. It took several minutes for me to figure out where to put the key.

I fumbled with switches and buttons, a novice trying to decipher a language foreign to me. Frustration gnawed at my insides as the night swallowed my curses.

“Come on, damn you.” I jabbed a red button.

The engine coughed to life. But as the dashboard flickered on, a red light caught my eye, an indicator not unlike the one in the car I used to own. The fuel gauge needle hovered just above empty.

“Dammit.” I slammed my fist against the wheel. It was enough gas to get to the mainland if I rode the tide but not enough for the message I needed to send. Shutting off the engine and abandoning the helm, I scoured the storage compartments, finding each one as barren as the last. No gas cans. My search turned frantic, a mad dash across the dock and up to the house—a fruitless trip.

With a sudden flash of memory, I remembered the leather wallet, thick with potential. Nielson’s final contribution to my cause. I stormed back inside, snatched the wallet from the table, and ripped it open. The cash spilled into my palm like a promise.

“Tomorrow, you’ll buy me all the fire I need.”

Retribution. The island’s fate was sealed. The invaders would try to stop me, but I’d be damned if I went down quietly. They would hear my roar across the water, feel my wrath in their bones. See my resolve in my eyes.

With the money secured in my pocket, I retreated to the shadows and comfort of my earthen home, ready for the dawn. Tomorrow, I would set the world ablaze with my message, and this time, I’d watch it burn.

28

Rebecca’s eyes snapped open to the steady gurgle and drip of her automatic coffee maker. The warmth of Humphrey’s solid presence at her feet was a small comfort compared to the knot of tension that had taken up residence in her stomach.

She slid from under the covers and padded quietly across the room. A glance toward Humphrey assured her he was still in the clutches of sleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

She reached for the blinds with the stealth of a seasoned Gladys Kravitz wannabe, fingers barely moving as they parted the slats just enough to peek out at the neighborhood, looking for troublemakers.

There it was again. The same black Hyundai Sonata from before. The car was positioned strategically, near the light-up snowman that Mr. Henderson from two doors down had proudly set up last evening. This was the third day in a row. Three times was a pattern.

Either these people wanted her to know she was being followed, or they were really, truly terrible at their jobs. Rebecca was betting on the former, but she tried to never underestimate the stupidity of criminals.

She knew which garments would work best, starting with jeans, baggy and worn from years of use. They would help conceal her shape. The last time she’d worn them, Viviane had said they made her look like a teenage boy. That was the look Rebecca was going for. And, hey, they had real pockets she could clip her holster to.

Next, she tossed her armored vest on over a black t-shirt before she grabbed a hoodie, its material weathered to an unremarkable gray. The perfect thing to finish her disguise for this mission. The hood would cast shadows over her face once she pulled it up, hiding her from casual observation. And the thick material would conceal the fact that she was armed.

“Stay, Humphrey.” She pressed a finger to her lips as if the dog could comprehend the need for secrecy. He lifted his head and perked his ears. Sensing the gravity in her tone, he obeyed, settling back into his blanket nest on her bed with a soft huff.

She muffled the click of the back door when she closed it, ensuring no echo would betray her departure. Outside, the air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine, and the festive lights that her neighbors had on a dusk-to-dawn timer still flickered in the burgeoning daylight.

Rebecca’s boots left faint impressions on the frost-laden grass as she approached the fence, glancing around to confirm the absence of watchful neighbors. She scaled the wooden barrier, landing with a muted thud on the other side.

Two more fences stood between her and her target, neither a match for her determination. On the other side of the third fence at Dickey Tabbart’s house, she crouched low, listening for any indication that someone had noticed her unusual route.

A small pile of bricks caught her attention, sparking an idea. Grabbing two, she tucked them into her hoodie pockets.

Rebecca edged along the final stretch of fence, squinting at the crossroad ahead. The car was still there, a stationary interloper in the otherwise tranquil morning. She emerged from the shadows of the Tabbarts’ yard, her identity cloaked in her mundane disguise.

With her hood framing her face, she slouched heavily and began a nonchalant walk down the sidewalk. Each step was slow and casual, as if she were merely another teen on their way to school while dreaming of the upcoming winter break.

But Rebecca’s mind was far from relaxed. She was focused, analyzing every detail, every possible outcome. The license plate came into view, and she confirmed it matched the one Hoyt had seen.

So they weren’t even swapping out cars. An amateur, then, probably not even aware that moving a couple of feet each day concealed nothing on a residential road in a small town where everyone knew their neighbors. Moving the car incrementally was more conspicuous than bold movement or no movement at all. They would have been wiser to leave the car in one place, as if an out-of-town relative were visiting someone on the street.

Slipping her phone from her jeans pocket, she flicked her thumbs across the screen, feigning distraction while her true intent lay just a tap away. She paused briefly in the blind spot on the back of the car where the quarter panel blocked the driver’s sight.

In a swift motion, she placed one of the bricks behind the wheel and was standing again a second later. She continued her leisurely pace along the side of the car. Even this close, she couldn’t see through the tint. Definitely a violation in Virginia.

At the front of the vehicle, she placed the second brick in front of that tire before stepping onto the street in front of the Hyundai. Rebecca lifted her head, abandoning all pretense as she pressed record on her phone, and the camera eye blinked open, capturing the scene before her. With her other hand, she pulled the hood from her head and stared directly at the windshield.

“Shadow Island Sheriff.” She pitched her voice to carry, and the car rocked as the driver reacted to her presence. “Roll down your window.”

The words hung in the frigid air, an undeniable challenge to the faceless adversary within the tinted confines. It was a gambit, a play for control in a game that was far from over. Rebecca felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the rush of confrontation, and knew that whatever came next, she was ready.

As the engine came to life with a threatening growl, the car tried to roll backward, only to be stopped by the brick.

Rebecca stepped closer to the car’s bumper, extending her hand to record each tense second. “Stop! You’re on camera.”

Behind the heavily tinted glass, the outline of the man at the wheel became visible, his movements erratic as he attempted to reverse again, but his rear tire couldn’t get traction.

He adjusted his reverse angle, but his wheels spun against the brick in a desperate attempt to maneuver away from Rebecca’s steadfast presence. She shifted her footing and kept the lens trained on him, forcing him to confront her.

“Roll it down.” She motioned to the window.

He ignored her. After making a dozen or so adjustments in his three-hundred-point turn, which led to her stepping in front of him each time and him grinding his tires on the curb and bricks repeatedly, his frustration peaked.

She captured his features—pale, wide-eyed, with a bit of a round face. When he looked her in the eye, those wide eyes narrowed. The engine revved.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” Rebecca put on her “cop voice.” But the engine’s roar covered her questions. He wasn’t going to answer.

“Fuck you, Sheriff!” the driver shouted with hollow bravado, his eyes darting to her phone recording their encounter. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal. This time he didn’t let up until his front tire gained enough traction to jump the corner of the brick.

The car lurched forward, tires squealing as it sped toward her. Rebecca dodged but felt the heat of the exhaust pipe as the car jolted past her. She kept her peace of mind and her phone trained on the vehicle and zoomed in on the license plate. She only stopped recording when the car was no more than a dot in the distance. Then she called dispatch.

“What is your emergency?” Elliot’s voice was calm and soothing on the line.

“It’s West. Put out a BOLO on a black Hyundai Sonata traveling northwest toward Main Street and heading into town.” She gave the partial plates. “Stop the vehicle, detain the driver for assaulting a law enforcement officer and for driving with illegally tinted windows.”

“Copy that.”

She exhaled deeply, her breath visible in the cool morning air. It had been a risk, but one that paid off. Picking up the bricks, she heading home, making sure to save the footage she’d just recorded and email a copy of it to herself at the station.

As she opened the front door, Humphrey bounded up to her, his tail wagging like a metronome set to an allegro tempo.

“Good boy, waiting like I asked.” Rebecca bent to ruffle the fur between Humphrey’s ears, and the chocolate lab nuzzled his nose into her hand. “You deserve a treat, buddy. Let’s get some breakfast.”

In the kitchen, she scooped kibble into Humphrey’s bowl, then made herself a quick breakfast, her mind still racing through the morning’s events.

As she sat at the table, fork in hand but appetite waning, Rebecca glanced out the window. Her reflection stared back at her, a sheriff who stood her ground against threats lurking in tinted sedans.

Yet beneath the badge and the resolve, her heart was still pounding out a rhythm of adrenaline and anticipation. She’d just upped the ante on this little turf war, and she wouldn’t know how far she’d pushed them until they pushed back.

“Maybe we’ll just do a short run today, huh?” Humphrey perked up at the word run. “I’ve already had enough excitement for one morning.”

She hadn’t even finished her first cup of coffee. Today was definitely going to be a long one.

29

Hoyt’s cruiser rolled to a stop in the precinct lot. The dashboard clock read 7:58, and he winced. He was cutting it close but rationalized that he could just take a bit less overtime pay for the exhaustive search on Deerskin Island if he failed to clock in by eight.

As he pushed through the glass door of the station, the weight of the unresolved case sat heavy on his mind. They should have found more than what they had before leaving the island.

“Morning, Hoyt!” Elliot’s chipper voice sliced through his reverie as he approached the dispatch counter. The man’s usual sleepy demeanor at the start of his shift had been replaced by a grin wide enough to seem out of place on anyone except Viviane.

“Elliot.” Hoyt gave the younger man a nod, trying to mirror the dispatcher’s cheer but failing. He noticed a sizable box stationed prominently on the desk, about two feet in length on every side, though it was slightly taller than wide. It was still sealed and had a shipping label on the top, so it must have been dropped off that morning.

Must be new gear or supplies the boss ordered. If she keeps this up, our equipment might reach the mid-twentieth century soon.

Hoyt filed it away as a task for later. He moved past the box, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the kitchenette, the rich aroma barely registering.

“Hey, Viviane.” He acknowledged the deputy hunched over her desk, fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard. “What’s that you’re working on? Did we get something new?”

Viviane responded without looking up, a cup of tea steaming next to her on the desk. “No. I’m working on last night’s report.” Her tongue barely showed between her lips as she concentrated on her work. “The sheriff called in a BOLO on a Sonata. Something went down apparently.”

A gruff mutter announced Trent’s arrival. “Why in the blasted hell did I have to come in this early after only a few days of being on the modified second shift? Doesn’t the boss know I prefer working nights?” He continued to grumble, shaking his head as he hung up his jacket.

“’Cause she’s being nice to you, you doof.” Viviane took a sip of tea without looking away from her computer. “The boss didn’t want you to have to work in the cold alone. She also thought it would give you a chance to go to all the holiday meetings, parties, and get-togethers you always missed because you worked third shift. So quit your bitching.”

Hoyt dropped down into his seat, nearly splattering coffee all over himself. “Also, in case you haven’t noticed, most of our late-night crime has disappeared, so we don’t need a full-time third shift.”

“Right.” Viviane snorted, finally glancing up. “We don’t have enough crimes of our own now. We have to import cases from D.C. and other islands. What a world we live in.”

Jake’s arrival cut through the morning hum, his boots thudding a familiar rhythm against the linoleum as he crossed the threshold of the station. The tinkle of Viviane’s jingle bells over the front door faded under his stride. He barely had time to nod in greeting before the front door swung open again and Rebecca strode in, once again chiming the garland of bells. She glanced up at them before scanning the bullpen.

Her expression immediately commanded the room’s attention. “Morning, everyone. Before we get started on the day, there’s something you all need to see.”

Hoyt straightened, an inkling in his gut that this had nothing to do with their current case and everything to do with that Hyundai Sonata.

Elliot, perched at the dispatch counter like a bird ready to sing, leaned forward with an eager grin, holding the box Hoyt noticed earlier. But Rebecca seemed oblivious to the box and held up a finger, silencing him. “Hold that thought, Elliot.”

Trent and Jake both sat at their desks as everyone waited to hear what she had for them.

She fished out her phone and swiped the screen, casting the image onto the brand-new wall-mounted monitor next to the whiteboard with an ease that suggested she’d used one while with the FBI. The grainy footage showed a man sitting in a black Hyundai Sonata with heavily tinted windows. The camera zoomed in enough to catch every inch of his face.

“You got his face!” Viviane jumped up from her desk and ran over to high-five Rebecca.

“Sneaky move, Boss. I like it. He never saw you coming.” Hoyt’s gaze fixated on the license plate as Rebecca zoomed back out. The video showed the vehicle attempting to get out of a parking space, but some sort of obstacle kept thwarting it. The plate matched the one he’d looked up yesterday. He snapped his fingers. “That’s our guy.”

“I might have shaken him up a bit more than I meant to. He didn’t seem to know what he was doing. All bluster and no balls.” Rebecca’s eyes locked with Hoyt’s. “At least they know I’m watching them too.”

She pivoted toward Elliot, who had been observing the exchange with a keen interest that bordered on impatience. She huddled with the dispatcher, their voices a muted whisper. Rebecca’s eyebrow arched in surprise, then smoothed into an expression of pleased comprehension.

With a final nod from Rebecca, Elliot scooped up the enigmatic box from the counter and made a beeline for Trent’s desk. The other deputies’ gazes followed, a ripple of anticipation spreading through the room.

“What’s going on?” Viviane leaned closer to Hoyt, her eyes glinting with intrigue.

“Guess we’re about to find out.” Hoyt watched as Elliot’s smile spread wider, chasing away the anxiety from the morning briefing about Rebecca’s stalker.

“Hey, Trent, here ya go!” Elliot presented the box with an exaggerated, comical flourish.

Trent paused mid-type, fingers hovering over his keyboard as he eyed the package with a mixture of confusion and wariness. “What’s this about?”

“Open it, and it’ll be obvious.” Elliot set the box on his desk and slid it closer.

Trent hovered his hands over the box, uncertainty casting lines across his face. “Should I be worried something’s going to spring out at me?”

Elliot’s grin was unwavering as he leaned against Trent’s desk, his arms folded casually. “Greg Abner ordered something for you. It just took a while to get it finished and delivered. He told me to look out for it…before he died.”

Hoyt’s gut clenched at the mention of his mentor. Greg had worked at the station as a deputy for years longer than Hoyt and had helped him get used to the job. He’d even retired, but when things had gotten tricky with the Yacht Club, he’d agreed to come back to help out. And he’d been shot in the chest during one of the final skirmishes with the Yacht Club.

Greg had been the one to take Trent under his wing and train the bad habits out of him. Trent was the deputy he was now, respected by his peers, because of Greg’s tutelage. Hoyt wasn’t in the least surprised the old man had gotten Trent a graduation gift of sorts.

Trent’s brow furrowed, a shadow of grief passing over his features. “Shouldn’t it go to his family?”

“Absolutely not.” Elliot shook his head with conviction. “It was meant for you. Greg made sure I knew about it so I could take care of it when it was delivered. And do you see that extra nail above the coffee station?” He pointed toward the wall adorned with the department’s hard-earned commendations. “He wanted this hung up there so you would always remember it. Which means you have to open it in front of us. He told me that’s the tradition.”

“Elliot’s right.” Hoyt nodded. “Anytime one of us gets an award or anything that gets hung on that wall, we’re all here to watch it go up. So hurry up and open the box, Locke.”

Trent, still hesitant, peeled back the layers of cardboard and packing tape. From his vantage point, Hoyt tried to guess what Greg might have left behind for a deputy who hadn’t yet had the chance to decorate the wall with any official accolades.

A soft smile grew on Rebecca’s face as she watched Trent, her anticipation palpable. Hoyt noted the absence of her usual guard. Her excitement was sincere and unmasked.

The flaps of the box gave way, and Trent reached inside to extract the contents. What emerged was a plaque—modest in size but clearly significant. Mounted upon it was a striped bass, its scales shimmering even under the fluorescent lights. The fish was so minuscule, Hoyt almost scoffed. It was the very definition of a “just legal” catch.

“‘Big Mouth Little Bass,’” Trent read aloud, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Laughter erupted from him like a sudden squall. “This is the first fish I ever caught. Greg never let me live it down.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Greg.” Hoyt let out a quiet laugh despite the solemn undertone of the memories. One of Trent’s biggest failures as an officer of the law was his gossiping ways. He’d spread rumors and case details to anyone who would listen, unknowingly feeding the local criminals with all the information they needed to subvert the law.

Trent’s fingers brushed the inscription again, his laughter fading into a somber silence. “Look, man, in my defense, that was my first fishing trip too.” He shook his head, the recollection lighting his features with a mix of joy and melancholy. “Greg spent the whole afternoon teaching me to cast, and then I hauled in this little guy.”

“Greg was so damn proud of you, Trent. He said you were really coming into your own, making strides personally and professionally.” A wistful smile touched Elliot’s lips. “When he was telling me about it, he said he wanted it to be a surprise for you. Because this job is rough, and there are a lot of bad times.” He paused to wipe the edges of his eyes and clear his throat. “He said it was something to remember the good times. Because that’s needed on this job.”

Greg Abner and Alden Wallace, the old sheriff and senior deputy, brothers in arms, their courage and sacrifice blazoned forever in the lines of duty they passed on to Trent. And Darian Hudson, the younger deputy who’d become a fine officer as well. All three of them died in the past year. All three in the line of duty.

Shadow Island’s sacrifice.

“We…” Hoyt had to stop and clear his throat as his voice cracked. “We all need to remember the good times. Mostly because they outnumber the bad. But the bad are so bad, they seem bigger and more important. I had thousands of great days with Greg, but that last bad one is the one that sticks in my mind every time I think of him.”

Trent looked at him, his eyes shiny with unshed tears.

“I bet the rest of you do too. But Greg was more than just the circumstances of his death. And that’s what we should remember. All those other times.” Hoyt didn’t bother to wipe away a tear as it trickled down his cheek. “So we’ll cry because we miss Greg. But we’ll miss him because of those good times we shared. That’s what really matters.”

“Go on. Hang it up,” Rebecca urged Trent.

Trent obliged, lifting the plaque to the extra nail above the coffee station. The simple act seemed a solemn tribute, and Hoyt caught the sheen of tears on Trent’s cheeks as the plaque settled into place.

A moment of reverent silence settled.

“All right.” Hoyt cleared his throat as he turned away from the wall of memories, needing an excuse to think of anything else. “I’m going to call Saul Nielson. We told him we’d check on him this morning.” He picked up the phone at his desk and, after checking the file, dialed the number on speaker.

It rang several times before forwarding to a message letting him know that Nielson hadn’t set his voicemail box up. Hoyt wasn’t surprised.

Settling into his chair, he dialed twice more with the same result. A hush fell over the room, the earlier warmth dissipating like mist in the morning sun. The deputies exchanged solemn looks, sharing their unspoken fears.

“Let’s go check on him. I told him to keep his phone on him and that we’d go back out there if he didn’t answer.” Rebecca hadn’t even taken her coat off yet, so she was ready to walk out the door. “We can’t be too careful, not after what we found on his island last night.”

“Agreed,” Hoyt said, his instincts as a deputy kicking into high gear. It could be nothing—a dead battery, a misplaced phone—but in the wake of recent events, every unanswered call was a potential distress signal.

30

Rebecca sat in the back of Silas’s borrowed boat as Hoyt drove. Viviane was on the other side, her eyes closed and a soft smile on her face as if she were enjoying the ride.

She’d never understood why people thought boating was so much fun. It was too loud to have a conversation. It went too fast for anyone to enjoy the water. The ocean spray had a way of getting into clothes and making them soggy. And the damn thing listed and pitched with every change in direction.

In hot weather, the only thing attractive about boating was the wind. On colder days, like today, the wind made the experience miserable. She could just as easily catch a breeze with a fan while lounging on her porch drinking fruity mixed drinks. And Humphrey’s wet kisses would be the only thing dampening her skin.

One day, she promised herself once again, she’d find the time to relax on the beach and sip margaritas with her friends. That had been the first thing on her to-do list when she came to Shadow Island, and she still hadn’t managed it.

Instead, she’d been wrapped up in deaths, investigations, heartache, funerals, criminal conspiracies, and more deaths.

Though that guy who thought he was the vassal for a long-lost eldritch god was new and interesting. And gross, with the way he flayed people to make a cover for his book. Not the kind of new experience I’m looking for.

What do I want, then?

Her thoughts immediately jumped to Humphrey, and she couldn’t help but smile. Getting a dog had only been a hope, a dream, never making it to her to-do list. Still, she’d checked the box anyway. Humphrey was her gift from the universe after all the crap she been through.

And being with him had been more satisfying than the relationship she’d had with his original owner. Someone she tried not to think about nowadays.

Then she thought about Dr. Nick Bryant, the sexy surgeon at Coastal Ridge Hospital. They’d exchanged numbers but hadn’t been able to do more than talk so far. Still, she found herself looking more and more forward to those conversations.

But what else?

Rebecca contemplated the vast expanse of ocean. The roar of the engine drowned out the whispers of the waves, making it nearly impossible to think. She didn’t have a lot of time left for that anyway as they drew closer to Deerskin Island.

The tree-lined coast looked unchanged since their last visit. But as they rounded the island’s southern side, where Saul Nielson’s house perched, Rebecca groaned.

The dock in front of his house was empty.

She stood, searching the water around them for any sign of his vessel. She found nothing.

“That’s odd.” Viviane was leaning slightly over the edge, hand up to protect her eyes from the glints off the water.

“You can say that again. Nielson said he rarely left the island and didn’t plan to.” The empty dock was a silent alarm, and Rebecca’s gut churned with unease. “Keep your eyes sharp. Something’s not right.”

Is he our killer after all, and fled during the night? Or is something else going on?

Hoyt’s expression was grim as he guided the vessel alongside the deserted dock. Viviane leaped out with a coiled rope in hand, her movements quick and precise. Together, she and Hoyt secured the boat as Rebecca kept an eye on the house and surroundings.

Somehow, not being met by a shotgun-wielding hermit felt less safe. Rebecca scanned the tree line and windows of the house. Silence hung heavy, broken only by the sound of water lapping against the hull.

With cautious, slow steps, Rebecca crossed the planks of the dock. “Stay close.”

Viviane followed, resting her hand near her service weapon, while Hoyt brought up the rear. As they approached Nielson’s front door, Rebecca prepared herself for what they might find inside, ready to confront whatever lay beyond the threshold.

She rapped her knuckles against the door, the sound echoing hollowly. No response came from within the house. She leaned closer, catching the glint of disturbed metal around the lock, a clear sign of tampering. “The door’s been forced.” When she touched the knob, the door inched forward.

She glanced toward Hoyt and Viviane as she drew her gun. They both nodded, Hoyt already holding his weapon at low ready. With a gentle push, Rebecca swung the door inward on silent hinges.

The sight that greeted them was stark, a still life of violence and finality in dark red and pale flesh on wood. Nielson lay sprawled on the floor, a tableau of stab wounds marring his chest.

Rebecca drew in a sharp breath. “We’ve got a body.”

She moved through the door, quickly stepping to the side to let the others in while she kept her gun trained on a short hallway that led to three closed doors. Between the age of the blood and the missing boat, she was almost positive the killer was long gone, but she’d verify that before letting her guard down.

Viviane approached the body, her movements deliberate as she donned a glove. She crouched, using two fingers to search for the pulse they all knew would not be there. “He’s dead.”

“Stay with him.” Rebecca kept stepping to the side, circling around to check every inch of the kitchen. “Clear.” She looked toward Hoyt, and he moved forward.

Together, they searched the house methodically. They checked every corner, every potential hiding spot—closets, under beds, behind doors.

They swept through the backyard, scanning the untamed brush at the edges of a winterized garden bed. Then they moved into the greenhouse, with its humid air and pungent scent of earth and foliage. Nothing stirred but the leaves in the breeze.

Back inside, they found Viviane where they’d left her, standing watch over Nielson’s remains.

“It’s all clear.” Rebecca put her gun back in her holster, looking at the dead man. “Why didn’t you call us, Saul?” Retrieving her gloves from a pouch on her belt, she pulled them on.

“Dispatch, this is Hoyt. We have a DOA at Saul Nielson’s residence on Deerskin,” Hoyt reported into his radio, his voice betraying none of the gravity the words conveyed. “Requesting the M.E. and CSI to the scene.”

Rebecca turned her attention to checking the house for anything that might be missing while Hoyt continued to provide necessary details. Nielson had demonstrated his surveillance system for them. He hadn’t been trying to protect anyone. Jiggling the mouse, she was a little surprised it woke up without needing a password. Then again, the man lived alone.

She found the program that held the digital eyes of the property, and the screen flickered to life, displaying footage from the previous night. A bearded man with ragged clothes and wild hair approached the house. He took a firm grip on the front doorknob and inserted something by the lock, forcing it free of the jamb. Then he walked in.

Rebecca squinted at the grainy image on the screen, the pixels blurring and then coming into sharp focus as she paused the footage. The intruder moved with a familiarity that was unsettling. Older, long hair, big beard, bare feet—he could have been Nielson’s reflection if not for the malicious intent radiating from his posture.

“Look at this guy. Seems the island doesn’t just attract hermits but killers too.”

“Could be a local gone rogue.” Hoyt leaned in, frowning as she started the video again. “Or we didn’t do as good of a job looking for the killer as we thought.”

Remembering the breathing she’d heard behind her while searching the island, Rebecca was afraid he was right. But where could the man have hidden?

“Or someone knew Nielson well enough to mimic him. Maybe he’s got fans from his old days as an ecoterrorist, and they weren’t happy with his retirement.” Rebecca turned to look at the door and caught sight of the leather bifold on the table. It was empty. Not a single bill. “He took the cash. I saw that wallet lying here yesterday. It was bulging with money.”

She took a screenshot of the best frame showing the man’s face and sent it to the case file. Cueing her radio, she had Elliot put her through to Trent, who picked up immediately.

“What’s up, Boss? Do you have something on Nielson’s death already?”

“We’ve got a picture of his killer. I’ve uploaded it to the file. Issue a BOLO for this man and Nielson’s boat.”

“On it, Boss.”

Rebecca clicked off the mic and looked around.

“Where would he go?” Viviane pondered, locking eyes with Rebecca. “If he’s still here…”

“Unlikely.” Rebecca shook her head. “He’d have used Nielson’s body to stage another scene if he stuck around. And we’d have heard about a flaming boat.” She remembered Nielson’s words about the boat’s fuel, or lack thereof. “Nielson mentioned the boat being almost empty on gas. But we can’t know for sure if that’s true.”

She strode out the front door and down the grassy embankment to the weathered dock. Hoyt and Viviane scrambled to keep up.

“It may have been an excuse.” Hoyt turned to look back up at the house. “He might have said that because he didn’t want to leave the island.”

“Either way, we need to find that boat before the man in that picture refuels or ditches it.”

Rebecca scanned the area, gaze sharp for any sign of disturbance. But the dock lay barren, no fuel cans in sight.

“Anything?” Viviane’s voice carried a tinge of hope as she joined Rebecca at the edge of the dock, her eyes shifting from side to side.

“Nothing.” Rebecca squinted against the glare off the water. “Unless Nielson was lying, the killer would need to refuel, whether he took the boat to escape or has other plans for it.”

“He probably went to the mainland.” Hoyt spoke with an expertise that Rebecca lacked, his gaze trailing along the coastline. “If he left in the early morning, he could have easily made it to the mainland, riding the tide in. It would have been harder to get to Shadow Island. And there’s not another island closer that has filling stations. I’d need to do some math, but I think our search area is limited if we assume he hasn’t been able to refuel yet.”

Rebecca lifted her radio, pressing the button as she spoke. “Locke, update on the BOLO. Our suspect might be looking for gas. I want you to call around. Check every marina, every fuel dock. Ask about anyone fitting our guy’s description.”

“I’ll get on it right away.”

“Thanks. Keep me posted.”

31

A hint of morning sun peeked through the fog and glared off the water, a blinding welcome back to a world I’d long since forgotten. I clenched the wheel, my grip unsteady as I tried to figure out all the buttons and levers I needed to work to navigate the boat.

It was like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. Nothing about steering this damn machine felt natural. But I swallowed down my anxiety. My past was in the past. I needed to stay in the present and do what I’d come here to do.

Yet no matter what I told myself, my body still reacted like I was back there. Back then.

Shoving all those old feelings down, I focused on the task at hand.

My heart kicked an anxious drumbeat against my rib cage as the dock came into view. The thrumming beneath my bare feet was unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the silent isolation of my years spent away from all this…chaos. On the shore ahead of me, people milled about, going on with their lives.

They were all oblivious to the shadows that clung to me like a second skin.

It was jarring, seeing them just walking around while my mind was still wrapped in solitude. Civilization. It was a necessary evil. At least for today it was. It contained that which was poisonous to itself. The bearer of its own destruction and the destruction of those who lived within it.

The engine growled as I pulled up to the dock. Not a moment too soon. “Fill ’er up.” I approached the man who stood by the pumps.

His eyes narrowed at my approach, and I didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on the cash I presented, dirty bills from Nielson’s wallet. The attendant’s frown deepened at the sight, and I realized then how filthy I must appear. But when he leaned forward and looked at my bare feet, I knew he was searching for an excuse to look down on me.

A sneer curled my lips, but I managed to say nothing. His nails were stained with oil, yet he judged me because my hands had completely normal, natural dirt on them.

Still, the money was good enough for him, and he took the nozzle from the pump and set about filling up the tank like I’d told him to.

For the first time in what felt like forever, I noticed the state of my clothes. My shirt contained traces of dried blood from Nielson, but I knew it was indistinguishable among the soil and animal guts caked there too. I caught the attendant wrinkling his nose, and a flash of anger surged through me.

He probably thought I had no business being on a boat like this, that I was some lowlife who’d stolen a ride too good for him.

“Something…wrong?” I didn’t bother to hide the threat in my words. I wanted him to understand that I was not one to be trifled with.

“Nothing…sir.” His voice wavered, and I knew he saw right through the veneer of civility I was putting on. He smelled the stink of a man who’d been reduced to his base instincts.

I bit back a laugh. Let him think whatever he wanted. I was beyond caring about the opinions of men like him. All I needed was enough fuel to send my message.

The nozzle clunked and halted as the internal device told the attendant it was a full tank.

I didn’t look at the attendant as he tried to hand me back a wad of Nielson’s cash. My eyes were on the storefront and the gaudy neon signs. Money was useless on the island. It was too small to even wipe your ass with properly. But here on the mainland, it had some worth. And I could use that to make my statement even bigger than before. “Got any Styrofoam coolers?”

“Uh, yeah. They’re a bit dusty ’cause it’s offseason, but we’ve still got some. They’re the big ones, though.” He eyed me like I was some puzzle he couldn’t piece together.

“Good. However many that’ll buy me.” I motioned to the change and extra bills he’d tried to hand back.

He fanned out the money, his fingers twitching as he counted. “You can buy ’em all and still have some change left over.”

Another thought sparked in my mind, clear and sharp. “Fuel cans? Don’t wanna run out. I’ll take as many, filled, as the money gets me.”

“Sure. I can do that. Where you heading that you need so much fuel?” Wariness crept into his voice like a shadow stretching at sunset.

“Fill them up. Use all the cash.” I ignored his question and watched his hands work.

“Big day out on the water?” He tried to sound casual, but I heard the suspicion there, too, even as he picked up two ten-gallon cans and set them down on the dock.

He didn’t get it. Nobody did.

I snorted. It would be a big day out on the water, all right. Final. This wasn’t just another jaunt across the waves. I knew where I was headed. That sheriff had gone north the other night, toward the other island. The one teaming with boats. I’d seen and heard a bunch of fires there recently, before the ones my own messages had caused. “I want the rest of those cans too. All ten of them.”

The idea of it—the cars, the boats, the people—made my stomach twist. I wanted to scream at them, at all of it, tell them to leave me to my solitude.

But words were wind. What I needed was fire, something that would burn into their memories.

“Twelve cans, five gallons each. That’s sixty gallons.” He glanced down at the change. “It’ll be more than this.”

Sticking my hand into my pocket, I pulled out two new hundred-dollar bills. “This cover it?”

He swallowed, taking the bills from the very edges, like they were dirty. “Everything all right? You got a buddy stuck out at sea or something?”

“No…just stocking up for the winter.” I turned away from him, away from the stink of civilization. Soon, they’d understand. Or they wouldn’t. Didn’t matter much to me. I was beyond caring. All I had left was the message, and I’d make damn sure it came through loud and clear.

He started filling the cans.

The gasoline fumes were thick and acrid. I swallowed hard against the urge to gag, my senses catapulting back to that day—the one I’d buried under years of solitude and silence. The day my world went up in flames, taking my family with it. It was a smell I’d hoped to never breathe in again.

“Careful there.” The attendant snapped the lids on the extra cans. “Wouldn’t want any spillage.”

I grunted, not trusting my voice while the ghost of that old fire danced behind my eyes. Each can he filled was another step closer to my bigger, better warning, another scream into the void that had become my existence.

Securing the cap back onto the last can, the man glanced at me, his face twisted with a concern that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was afraid, all right, but not for me. For himself. “Everything set?”

“Yep.” My response came out as a growl. Lifting the cans onto the boat, I waited as he walked into the building and came out carrying a stack of Styrofoam containers.

“Be careful not to spill any of the fuel on these.” He passed them down, and I stacked them in the back along with the cans. “The fuel will melt the Styrofoam if you’re not careful.”

“Thanks for the concern.” When he held out the change, I waved it away. “Keep it.”

“Um, yeah, thanks.” The attendant backed away, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

I could see it now. The suspicion painting me as some kind of freak. Was it the dirt beneath my nails? The aroma of free living that clung to my skin? No matter. They’d all see soon enough what a real monster looked like.

Done with dealing with others, I shoved off, casting a final look over my shoulder.

The attendant’s gaze flitted between me and his phone, eyeing me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. They were always watching, always judging. Not this time.

There was no stopping me now.

Out on the water, away from prying eyes, I slowed the machine of death to a crawl before turning it off.

Walking to the back, I kicked and stomped the fragile white boxes. With that done, I sat down to rip them into smaller pieces.

The guy was right. The fuel would melt the Styrofoam. But it would melt faster if the pieces were smaller.

A sense of calm washed over me. The gentle rocking of the boat lulled me into a rhythm.

Rip, drop, rip, drop.

It was almost therapeutic, like preparing for a journey I’d been destined to take since the day I lost everything.

I worked methodically, letting the aggression that fueled my every move guide my hands. There was no turning back now.

My message would be big. Final. And they would never forget it.

32

Rebecca stood at the stern, wrapped in a navy blue coat, uniform top, Kevlar vest, and t-shirt underneath that. Her back was stiff with tension as she leaned against the boat railing, scanning the restless ocean stretching between Shadow Island and Deerskin Island.

Standing in the cold, dealing with salt spray and the constant jerk and bob of a boat slowly patrolling over the waves and heavy fog was her new least favorite way to start her day.

“See anything yet?” Hoyt called out over the hum of the engine, his breath visible in the chilly morning air.

“Nothing yet.” Rebecca wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Maybe after killing his neighbor, the wild man of Deerskin Island had decided to leave and find someplace more remote to hole up.

It was a possibility. But Rebecca didn’t think that likely. This case felt unfinished. Something more was going on. She just wasn’t sure what it was.

Viviane huddled at the prow. With binoculars pressed to her eyes, she panned the horizon methodically. Every so often, she glanced toward Rebecca, seeking any sign of a lead.

Each time, Rebecca had to shake her head. Not even a bird flapped on the horizon.

Over the last year, she had learned that out here, on the unforgiving sea, predicting a killer’s next move was as crucial as it was difficult.

These waters were where she’d lost so many. Ryker. Greg. Darian. More than fifteen Yacht Club members who should have stood trial instead of being assassinated by their bosses. And that didn’t include all the victims who had died out here only to end up on her shores.

The flat horizon was a mirage. Each wave concealed what lay beyond it, unless one were high enough above it to see over the tops. And that changed with the weather and the season. A low-hanging mist currently bobbed a few feet off the top of the water, blurring everything.

Rebecca had never understood how someone could get lost out here until she’d been in the middle of it. Now she got it.

The radio crackled to life, breaking the monotony of waves against the hull. “Hey, Boss, you got your ears on?” It was Trent.

Rebecca reached up and grabbed her radio before realizing he wasn’t using their normal channel. Instead, he was coming through the boat’s onboard unit.

Hoyt handed her the receiver. “Bigger battery means better signal.”

That should have been obvious. They did the same thing with the cruisers when the weather was bad. She lifted the larger microphone to her mouth. “I’m here. Go ahead, Locke.”

“We just got a tip from Powell’s Fuels on the mainland. A guy matching our suspect pulled up to get a refill. According to the clerk, our guy seemed to be in a hurry. He also mentioned the guy paid cash, just like you predicted.”

Predicting a homeless man was going to use the cash he’d stolen from his victim didn’t exactly take a master’s degree in psychology, but she’d take the compliment. She turned to Hoyt. “Do you know of a place called Powell’s Fuels?”

He nodded, but his eyebrows furrowed. “I’ve heard of it, and I know it’s not far from here, on the mainland. But I’m not certain where exactly. I can look it up on the GPS.” He glanced down and frowned before he started tapping on something she couldn’t see

“We’re on it, Locke. Frost seems to know where it is, and the boat has GPS. Let the clerk know we’re heading his way.” Rebecca squinted, trying to see anything past the glare on the water. It was useless. The light fog reflected everything back at them.

“Well, this part might be more interesting.” Trent spoke slowly, so nothing he said would get lost in static or misunderstood. “The guy said our man not only filled up his tank, but he also bought a bunch of gas cans that he filled and as many Styrofoam coolers as they had to sell.”

That was not good news. Rebecca remembered the gloppy, burning mess on the last boat the killer had sent their way and grimaced.

“Said he loaded up the boat. Which means he might be pulling a runner.” Trent clearly hadn’t made the same connection she had. “That’s what the clerk thought. He asked our suspect where he was going, but the guy didn’t tell him.”

“Roger that. We’re en route now.” Rebecca handed the microphone back to Hoyt.

“Does that mean our guy is going to make his next attack on the mainland somewhere?” Lowering her binoculars, Viviane turned to face them. “Or do you think he’s planning to escape? Nielson’s boat could be used for a simple escape or something much worse.”

With a larger vessel came a larger fuel tank. That meant he could easily head north or south across state lines or even twelve nautical miles east into international waters.

It also meant the boat would have way more combustibles if he decided to turn it into another Molotov battering ram heading for her island.

Hoyt shook his head, throttling up the engine. They surged forward, slicing through the water on a more northwestward trajectory. “If he was going to hit the mainland, why not just hit the refueling station? That would make a nice big boom, which seems to be what he wants.”

“We’re not actually sure what he wants, though. Before now, he was only targeting people who trespassed on Deerskin.” Rebecca lifted an eyebrow at Hoyt. “Do you really think he expected his aim with those boats to stay true? According to your report, you saw the boat coming in last time. How many times did it change trajectory when it hit a wave?”

Hoyt nodded slowly. “A lot. I wasn’t even sure it was going to hit anything but sand and rock until it did. It’s harder to predict the movements of an out-of-control boat than an out-of-control car. There’s a lot going on in the water that isn’t obvious from the land.”

“And there’s a lot of water between Deerskin Island and Shadow Island. He may not have intended to hit our island at all.” Rebecca took in the vast swath of water around them.

“But one thing undermines that theory.” Hoyt opened the throttle and lifted both hands. His demonstration was quite telling. They barely drifted from their course. “The faster a boat’s moving, the less off course the currents will push it, because it sits higher in the water. Which means he did at least point those boats toward us before setting them loose. Even if he couldn’t pick specific targets, he could still hit the broad side of the barn.” He waved his hand in the general direction of home. “Or island, in this case.”

Rebecca pictured Deerskin Island, where they’d found the blood on the shore, and compared it to where the boats slammed into Shadow Island. Nielson’s dock was on the far side of the island. Where they were now and the direction they were heading sparked a thought. “We’re heading back north.”

“More or less, yeah.” Hoyt nodded.

“Which means he didn’t go to the closest shore looking for fuel. He headed north to get it.” Rebecca turned her head, looking at their island in the distance.

“Right. There’s a fueling station a little closer and more south of here. That means he’s not picking at random. You think he’s going to double back to Shadow? Because he’s targeting the island?” Chewing her lip, Viviane looked first toward the mainland where the killer was last seen and then to the island she’d called home her entire life.

“I wouldn’t put it past him.” Walking to the helm, Rebecca lifted the radio handset. “Locke, you still there?”

“Yeah, Boss. What do you need? Did you find him?”

“Not yet. He may be heading toward Shadow Island. We’ll try to intercept him before he can get there. Be advised, suspect may still be en route to the mainland. We can’t cover everything at once. Alert all LEOs in the vicinity. Coast Guard too.” She glanced out over the water. “Let them know we’re in pursuit but need eyes on every possible landing point. Remind them that he’s hit Shadow Island twice, with four deaths confirmed. And ask Dee’s volunteer firefighters and an ambulance to be on call.”

“On it, Boss.”

Rebecca thought about everything Powell’s had sold. She cued the mic once again. “And tell them the boat should be considered a lethal weapon. He might have made a gel fuel, and with that much on board, any spark could set it off.”

A long pause filtered over the line. “Roger that, Boss. I’ll let them all know. Should I put up flags on the beaches to warn about dangerous boating conditions?”

“Good thinking. Yes. Go ahead and do that as well.”

Trent’s voice came back, crisp and professional but with a heavy hint of pride. “Mainland units have been notified. Be careful out there, guys.”

“Will do. Thanks, Locke.” Rebecca replaced the handset and turned to her team. “Let’s hope we can cut him off before he makes landfall. Frost, get us between Powell’s and home as fast as you can.”

“Yeah, Boss.” Hoyt adjusted their heading slightly before pushing the throttle forward.

Rebecca had to brace herself as they sped up, hitting the waves faster. And as he’d explained, she noticed the boat was higher in the water. It was good to have physics essentially confirming her gut feeling.

Shadow Island was still at risk. Even if no one was out on the water today—at least no one they could see through the low fog—their killer had proven that boats could make horrible flaming ballistae that could kill anyone close to the shore.

And on an island as small as theirs, that was a good chunk of the population.

Hoyt kept his attention trained on the map, tracing his fingers along a line that intersected with their target’s most likely path. The cold spray stung Rebecca’s face, but she ignored it, focusing on the area between Powell’s Fuels and the southwestern edge of Shadow Island.

Unless he planned on going back to Deerskin Island first, this was the area most likely to be the next target.

“Here.” Hoyt pointed to a spot on the electronic chart with nothing but water. “If he’s heading for Shadow Island, this is where we can cut him off.”

Viviane turned to them again. “But that’s assuming he knows the currents in that area.”

“If he doesn’t,” Rebecca peered at the map, which showed the speed of the current, “then the boat will simply burn in the water. That would be an even better outcome. And we would be able to spot it as soon as he lit it up. Let’s move. Time isn’t on our side. The sooner we can intercept him, the safer everyone will be.”

The engines hummed louder as Hoyt pushed the throttle forward, their vessel slicing through the water with renewed urgency. Rebecca stayed by the helm, holding on but refusing to sit down in case she missed anything in the vicinity.

“Approaching interception coordinates,” Hoyt announced, his voice cutting through the tension like the sharp winter wind.

All three of them scanned the horizon, each searching for any sign of the boat that carried a dangerous man who threatened their small, tight-knit community.

“There.” Hoyt’s voice was low but firm as he pointed toward a distant speck on the water. “That could be Nielson’s boat. Moving fast.”

“Darby! Can you make out the ID?” Rebecca squinted against the spikes of light from the sun reflecting off the waves and fog.

The deputy tried to balance while keeping the binoculars steady. “Not a single letter.”

Hoyt raised a hand to protect his eyes from the wind. “He’s got the bow pointed right at us and is kicking up too much wake. There are no visible markings from this angle. We need to get closer.”

“Agreed.” Rebecca scowled at the approaching craft, still just an unknown streak on the water. “But we approach cautiously. If that’s our suspect, he’s already demonstrated he’s not going down without a fight. And I’m not fond of trying to fight in the middle of the ocean.”

“Yeah, Boss. I’m ready for anything.” Hoyt peered at the other boat as he doggedly closed the distance between them. Each second that ticked by ramped up the tension vibrating through the air as they moved ever closer to the heart of the danger.

Rebecca took the binoculars from Viviane.

Through the lenses, the world zoomed into an intimate proximity. Her breath caught as she focused on the driver. A man whose features echoed those of Nielson. It was like looking into a distorted mirror of what might have been.

This was her first time having a suspect and victim who were so similar in appearance. It was creepy as hell.

“Is it him?” Hoyt kept his gaze forward, watching the distance between their boats shrink with each passing second.

“Has to be. He looks like a windblown, dirty version of Saul Nielson.” Rebecca lowered the binoculars with a grim set to her mouth. “He’s the one we want.” She picked up the radio again, calling in their update and requesting reinforcements.

Viviane leaned in, a question in her eyes that didn’t need voicing. They all knew the stakes now.

The rogue boat carved through the water, its intent as clear as the hint of daylight breaking through the fog.

“Doesn’t look like he plans on stopping.” Hoyt’s grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“Neither do we.” Rebecca set the binoculars aside. She no longer needed them to see the man at the helm of the boat bearing down on them. His face was twisted in an unsettling grin, maniacal and unyielding. She set her own face into a determined mask. “We end this today.”

33

The distance between them evaporated faster than the mist.

Rebecca’s pulse hammered as she watched the killer slice through the waves, aiming straight for them. The engine’s growl deepened, reverberating across the water like a warning.

What the hell am I doing?

The thought slammed into her, sharp and unexpected. She’d told herself this was necessary, that they had to stop him now, but was she really willing to risk them for it?

Hadn’t she lost enough already?

Rebecca tightened her grip on the railing, clenching her jaw against the ripple of doubt threading through her resolve. Viviane. Hoyt. They weren’t just her team—they were her responsibility. Her family. And here she was, leading them straight into a collision course with a man who had no intention of backing down.

“He’s going to ram us!” Viviane cut through the storm of Rebecca’s thoughts.

She was right. The man had already shown a penchant for turning boats into Molotov cocktails, his twisted games leaving a wake of destruction and ruined lives.

Now he was heading right for them.

Not this time. I can’t let this happen.

She turned to Hoyt, about to order him to pull back, turn away, do anything to keep him and Viviane safe.

But before a single syllable left her mouth, Hoyt slammed the throttle forward. The force knocked Rebecca off-balance, and she tumbled into a seat. He adjusted their trajectory, but not away like her mind was screaming for him to do. They were headed straight toward the bastard.

“Hoyt!”

He didn’t even look her way.

She moved to stop him, but Viviane grabbed her arm. “Trust him.” Her eyes were more serious than Rebecca had ever seen them. “Trust. Him.”

I do.

Then prove it.

Not trusting her voice, Rebecca settled back into the seat and grabbed her weapon. Viviane patted her shoulder before finding a seat of her own.

The world shrank to the space of the roiling sea visible within the mist, the two vessels playing a deadly game of chicken. As the gap between them closed, the killer’s boat bore down upon them like a missile locked on its target.

Rebecca leaned to the side, trying to sight the man down the barrel of her gun. The bounce of waves made it damn near impossible. She gave up when she was nearly knocked overboard.

Back in her seat, she braced for impact, despite telling herself she trusted Hoyt’s driving. Is this what he experiences when I’m driving to a scene? Her grip tightened until her fingers scraped over the rivets in the gunwale. At least there he has a grab bar to hold on to. Dammit!

With reflexes honed by years on the water, Hoyt yanked the wheel a moment before impact.

The speedboat heeled over, its hull groaning in protest as they skated across the surface. Water splashed over the opposite edge as they narrowly dodged a collision. The killer’s boat careened past, missing them by mere feet, its wake sending them rocking violently. It disappeared into a cloud of fog.

Hoyt jerked the wheel again, dropping them flat hard enough to nearly bounce Rebecca out of her seat. Her ass was going to be sore tomorrow.

“Damn, that was close.” Viviane breathed out, her eyes wide and holding entirely too much excitement.

“Top notch driving, Frost!” Rebecca yelled, not bothering to mask her relief. The man at the helm merely set his jaw in grim determination, his focus locked on the churning water ahead.

“He’s not bluffing,” Hoyt gritted out, fighting the wheel as he turned them around. “He meant to kill us with that. Even if it killed him too. Self-preservation doesn’t seem to be a concern. That makes him the deadliest kind of criminal.”

Rebecca attempted to reach for the radio clipped to her coat. But the boat bucked again, a rogue wave slamming into the side, and she was forced to grab the gunwale again. Communication was vital, but not at the risk of being thrown overboard.

“Keep your eyes on him. If he tries that again, I’m unloading my gun into him. Darby, you do the same. Frost, make sure he doesn’t reach the shore. And try not to kill us.”

“Once I can see him again.” Viviane’s brown skin was stippled with sea spray. “At the very least, I can hopefully get him away from the helm so it slows him down.”

Hoyt grumbled something under his breath about not being able to see a damn thing, punctuated by a variety of colorful words.

The fog distorted the growl of their engine, making it hard to tell if their nemesis was approaching again or not.

Today, the cold wasn’t just in the air. It ran in their veins, fueling their relentless pursuit of a killer who seemed to have no regard for human life, least of all his own.

The echo began to change, not suddenly but slightly and growing louder.

“He’s coming back!” Viviane leaned over the edge.

Rebecca tried to focus on the approaching growl and not her deputy and friend hanging outside the modest safety of railings. If the asshole hit them, they were all screwed.

And if he hits Viviane instead of the hull…

Rebecca tightened her grip on the railing, the wind whipping her blond ponytail into a frenzy as Hoyt finished his long loop and left the fog bank to face off with the man once more.

But the echo had thrown them off completely. When the fog cleared, he was racing away in the opposite direction. He wasn’t coming after them again. He was getting away. Having missed his target, the killer had apparently lost interest in them.

He was still surging northeast toward the island, his engine howling like a beast unleashed.

“Frost, catch up with him! We can’t let him get to shore.”

Hoyt expertly adjusted the wheel as they followed in the killer’s wake. Rebecca stole a glance at Viviane, who was scanning the half-hidden, hazy horizon with fierce concentration. The morning cold turned her breath into puffs of mist, adding to the obstruction as they rose in front of her view.

The killer’s lack of skill was glaring. His vessel lurched awkwardly, overcorrecting with each panicked adjustment. The chop didn’t help, but it was his inexperience that betrayed him.

Hoyt closed the gap.

“Stop!” Rebecca’s command was swallowed in the wind. Dammit. “Is there a PA system on this thing?”

Hoyt shook his head but adjusted something on the radio. “Try him on this.” He shoved the mic into her hand.

She keyed it on. “This Sheriff Rebecca West. Stop!” She switched to the next channel and the next, desperate to find whichever one would reach his radio.

Rebecca hoped—against all logic—that he’d listen.

He didn’t.

Instead, he yanked the wheel too hard at full speed. The engine screamed, the propeller breaking the surface before slamming back down. The craft pitched wildly, jerking and fishtailing as he struggled to regain control.

By the time he did, Hoyt had nearly caught up.

“Well, isn’t he just a stubborn son of a…” Viviane muttered as she tried to sight him in on her gun, her hands nearly gray from the cold.

Rebecca couldn’t help but agree.

The killer struggled but soon was aiming to collide with them again, with barely any room left between them. His determined grin was visible through the curved plastic that acted as a windscreen for the helm.

Viviane dropped one knee to the deck, bracing herself against the seat as she attempted to get the shot. Rebecca did the same, cursing when she was knocked sideways.

Hoyt’s reflexes were lightning fast, steering them out of harm’s way just as the killer’s bow sliced past, missing them by a hair’s breadth.

“No shot!” Viviane whipped around with her gun up, trying to get a bead on the man.

“Keep us steady, Frost.” Rebecca wiped her damp palms on her damp pants. “We’re the only thing between him and innocent lives.”

“Steady and safe are mutually exclusive right now,” came Hoyt’s clipped response as the other boat veered at them again and he had to quickly dodge. “There’s a reason the Coast Guard trains so much. And I’m not a Coastie!”

Despite his words, Hoyt kept them circling around while dodging the killer’s awkward attempts to ram them. Keels cut through the water, leaving a trail of froth and fury in their wake. Rebecca’s mind raced. If they could stall him long enough, they’d have backup. Maybe even the actual Coast Guard.

Viviane was steadily tracking the helm. “If I can disable him with a shot, he’ll release the throttle and just bob in the water harmlessly.”

Rebecca clung to the gunwale as Hoyt veered to the left, the craft heaving in response to his sharp maneuver. Ahead, the killer tore through the water with reckless abandon.

It was a high-stakes chase, with no room for error, and Rebecca was just a passenger, relying on her senior deputy to keep them alive.

“Get ready!” Rebecca braced her legs, lifting her gun. If she sat down, she would improve her balance but limit her line of sight. Viviane was struggling with the same dilemma while trying to not be thrown overboard. If Rebecca stood, she would need to hold herself in place, but if she timed it right, she might be able to get off a shot. Even if she could only hit the engine, that might be enough to end this.

They were now racing toward Shadow Island, and the killer shifted course again, narrowly avoiding a collision with a small fishing boat that bobbed like a cork in their wake.

Rebecca’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t just a chase anymore. This was Shadow’s collision—a brutal reckoning between everything the island had come to represent and the darkness threatening to destroy it. And they were caught dead center.

The fisherman at the helm tossed up his hands in alarm, shouting obscenities lost to the roar of engines and churning sea.

“What the hell is this guy doing?” Rebecca’s brain spun as she tried to predict their killer’s next move.

The island’s southern tip loomed ahead, its smooth, rocky outcrops a testament to the relentless buffet of waves and time. With an amateur’s heavy hand, the killer wrenched his steering wheel, sending his boat into a clumsy arc around the landmass. The vessel leaned dangerously, slapping against the waves before righting itself.

That gave Rebecca a new idea. “Keep the pressure on him. If he keeps trying to dodge us like that, he might take himself out all on his own. And if he capsizes, no one else needs to get hurt today.”

“On it, Boss. I’ll do my best.” Hoyt jigged the boat to the side, avoiding the sloppy wake the killer kicked up. Once clear, he pushed the throttle to its limit, the engine protesting with a high-pitched whine.

As they skirted past the marshes, a blur of dull reeds and frosty mudflats, the infamous Noble Lighthouse grew larger. Its glassless windows were like hollow eyes watching the frenzy unfold.

A shiver ran down Rebecca’s spine. At least the preservation society hadn’t finished their repairs yet. Otherwise, its beacon might have become their suspect’s next target, the one thing standing out in the foggy abyss.

“We’re getting real close to land now.” Viviane’s wrist bounced sporadically as she attempted to use the railing to brace herself until she was ready to raise the gun and take her shot. Every muscle in her body was coiled and ready for what would come next.

As the speckled gray of Sand Dollar Shores loomed in the distance, Rebecca’s pulse pounded with the rhythm of the chase. The killer’s reckless trajectory was a clear and present danger, his disregard for life sending a spike of fear through her. “We need to get ahead of him, Frost! We need to intercept, push him away from the beach!”

Hoyt nodded, jaw set with determination as he coaxed every ounce of speed from the loaned vessel. But fate conspired against them. Their quarry slammed the throttle down with a wild abandon that sent his boat surging forward on a collision course with the park.

“Dammit!” Rebecca’s frustration boiled over. She only hoped that the fog and Trent’s closing of the beaches would have kept the usual morning wanderers at home and out of harm’s way.

With a sudden jerk, the killer slowed. Rebecca leaned forward.

What’s he doing?

Time seemed to fracture as she spotted the gasoline can in the killer’s raised grip. He hoisted the canister of potential destruction with an unsettling ease. The implications were immediate and terrifying.

Fire, chaos, and death.

“Stay on him. We can’t let him…”

Rebecca’s words were strangled by horror as the killer lifted the gas can and poured it all over the boat, including splashing it on himself.

Her breath choked in her throat. The man was willing to take this all the way to the end, even if the end was a Pyrrhic victory.

34

Water churned violently behind me as the police cut through the waves with a precision my inexperience couldn’t match. My hands were slick on the wheel, every jerk of the boat sending another jolt of panic up my spine. I was outclassed, outgunned, and damn well outmaneuvered.

Though they deserved to die for trespassing on my land, I couldn’t just run them down and set fire to them like I’d hoped when I first saw them.

But I had an ace up my sleeve.

Releasing the throttle, I yanked the lid off the gas canister, letting the boat bob in the churning water while I got my message ready.

The thick, sticky concoction of gasoline and Styrofoam sloshed as I started pouring it over the deck, the fumes stinging my nostrils. This was it. The only statement I could make that they’d listen to. Let the flames speak for me, since words never did. I’d yelled at enough passing boats from the serenity of my sanctuary for years. But no one had heeded my pleas.

“Come on,” I growled as the napalm spread its treacherous path across the surface. I had to make sure it burned long enough to be seen, to be understood. I was leaving my mark in fire and fury. A final act of defiance before whatever came next.

After all, I’d survived a burning wreck once before.

The smell hit me like a punch to the gut, an acrid reminder of past horrors. Gasoline—thick, pungent, suffocating. Its stink soaked into my clothes, my skin, clinging to me despite my desperate attempts to shake it off. The world spun, my heart a jackhammer against my rib cage.

“I have to warn them to stay away.” The words came out strangled, choked by the rising tide of memory and fear.

This was all too much. Like that day.

The day when everything turned to ash, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

I stumbled, the deck unsteady beneath my feet. Panic clawed at my chest, each breath coming shorter than the last, as though I could already feel the fire consuming me.

They said your life flashed before your eyes when you were about to die. All I got was the stench of gasoline, the precursor to an inferno. My only path to victory now was through death.

My hands shook as I gripped the gasoline can, familiar pain invading my senses. Panic had set in, an uninvited guest that wouldn’t leave, and it brought the ghosts of a past I couldn’t bury deep enough.

“God, not now,” I spat, the words barely a whisper over the water slapping against the hull. My heart thrummed a frenzied beat. “Not now.”

Fumes swirled, thick and cloying, wrapping around me like a shroud. It was Richmond all over again.

The city’s concrete arteries had been choked with traffic, a cacophony of horns and engines, the air heavy with exhaust. We’d gone there seeking just a bit of help. A chance to fill our bellies from the food banks while the wildfires back home raged on, insatiable.

But there was no mercy. Not for us.

The semi came out of nowhere, a hulking beast of steel and speed. It collided with our small truck, metal shrieking against metal, the world tilting into chaos.

Gasoline, the scent of it raw and overpowering, flooded the air as liquid death seeped from twisted wreckage.

“Anna! Joey!” The names tore from my throat, ragged and desperate.

I reached for them, fingers clawing at seat belts, at doors that wouldn’t budge. My family—my life—trapped inside a tomb of crumpled steel and shattered glass.

Burning. Melting. Their eyes staring at me. Never blinking. Everything screamed.

I could see their faces, contorted in fear and pain, hear the screams that would echo in my nightmares forever. They were looking at me, eyes pleading for salvation I couldn’t give. And then silence—a silence that screamed louder than any cry for help.

“Anna! Joey!” I called out again, but there was no response, only the sound of my own sobs lost amid the roar of the fire as it claimed everything I loved.

Now, as I stood on this damned boat, ready to turn it into a pyre, their screams fueled my relentless pursuit of the vessel the cops piloted. I was caught between the hounds of hell out on the water now and the specters of my past, each as unforgiving as the others.

“It should’ve been me,” I screamed, the admission a shard of ice in my gut. I had failed them, and that failure had branded me more permanently than any scar.

Gasoline pooled around my bare feet, a reflection of that day stained with regret. The flames would come, just as they had before, and maybe this time they’d be kinder. Maybe they’d burn away the memories along with the flesh.

But deep down, I knew better. Fire purged nothing but the physical. The soul’s scars were eternal.

I was frozen, a statue in the chaos of my own making. My fingers went slack against the slick plastic canister, the last drops of homemade napalm splattering onto the deck. The boat bobbed beneath me, unsteady and impatient, like it knew what was coming.

A sharp gust of wind stole my breath, and once again, phantoms from my past claimed me.

The clean, calm air of the ocean disappeared.

I was back there.

On that city street, engulfed by noise and fumes, standing in the wreckage.

The wail of sirens from that day long ago mingled with the low hum of approaching police boats, each one a hammer driving me out of my memories.

“Dammit.” I spoke through clenched teeth, the word more a growl than speech. I didn’t want this. All I ever wanted was to be left in peace, but they wouldn’t have it. They couldn’t just let me be.

The engines drew nearer, a relentless pursuit I couldn’t outrun. Each roar was a reminder of the cars that had swerved past me on the day that ripped my life apart.

Joey was strapped in the middle seat, his face half hidden by the cracked dashboard wrapped around it. Drool poured from his sagging jaw, mixing with the blood that sluiced down his cheeks. The lap belt had done nothing to protect him. His mother’s arm, thrown over him, had done nothing. She was a strong woman, but not stronger than a semitruck. Not strong enough to keep the flames at bay.

“Stop!” The plea tore from my lips, ragged and raw, but it wasn’t for them. They didn’t need my help anymore. I, like my dead family, was beyond help and had been since that day.

My precious boy.

My memories wouldn’t cease their torment. Did they know what they did to me? Did they care?

Anna’s gurgles lasted for an eternity while I begged her not to leave me. Our son, the human personification of our love, was a bloodied corpse keeping us apart. My seat belt was jammed. The bench seat was broken and twisted, pinning us all in place.

Only I protested.

Anna, my better half, my reason to smile, my heart. Her left shoulder was folded nearly in half, arm trapped and broken in her attempt to protect our boy. Her right side had taken the brunt of the collision. Her door was bent in, pinning her head between the rear panel and side. She never even saw the flames as they crept up from the floorboard.

I stumbled back, nearly losing my footing as the boat lurched from the wake of the approaching vessels. My hands were shaking, palms slick with sweat and gas. They could come with their boats, their guns, their badges. But none of that would erase what had been done to me, what I’d lost.

Did Anna ever smell the gas? Her last breaths had mixed with the popping of the plastic interior. Mixed with my screams.

She coughed. Gagged. Her fingers moved, and I tried to hold them. Don’t leave me! The smoke filled my eyes. My lungs. It was so hard to breathe. Metal shrieked. People shrieked. But I remained untouched.

Except for those fingers I held in my hand until the first responders pulled me out.

“Leave me alone,” I muttered, the words swallowed by the gale that whipped around me. It was futile.

I knew that.

But the rage and the pain I carried from that day demanded to be heard, even if no one would listen.

If a man cries alone in the woods, is he still a man?

The horizon blurred, my vision clouded not just by fog but by tears, by a hatred so thick, it was almost tangible. From somewhere far away, a woman’s voice carried to me, my ears too full of rage to hear her words.

I’d left the woods behind. All I had now was gasoline, metal, and enough hatred to sear my story into the world’s skin.

No one cared when it was my family who died in the flames and twisted metal. Maybe they will when it’s their family. Their families.

I looked down at the spreading gasoline, my reflection distorted in the shimmering pool. A man broken beyond repair. I was out of time, out of options.

They thought they could corner me, cage me like some animal. But I wouldn’t go down without leaving a scar. I’d inflict my own pain on their fragile lives.

Because a cornered man with nothing left to lose was the most dangerous thing on the planet.

35

Rebecca’s world narrowed to just the figure now drifting aimlessly near the shallows.

His arms trembled as he gripped a jerrycan. A waterfall of gasoline glugged out with dangerous generosity.

“Frost, don’t let him get going again. If he gets up speed, he could slam into someone’s home.” Rebecca gripped her mic and keyed it, focused on the driver as he soaked everything in the boat with the contents of the gas can. “All units, this is Sheriff West. All units to Sand Dollar Shore. We need to establish a perimeter. No civilians on the beach. Suspect’s cornered in the water, and we’ve got a potential fire hazard.”

“Copy that, Boss.” Trent’s voice was breathless, and Rebecca could picture him running for his cruiser. “En route to secure the area. Firefighters and EMS will be directed that way.”

Another voice followed, just as determined. “Coffey here. On your six, Locke.”

Rebecca tasted the acrid stench of fuel on her tongue, the heavy fumes in the salty sea air mingling with the ominous fog. What depths of despair could drive a man to ignite his own funeral pyre while he was still alive? Could a soul be so tormented that the embrace of flames seemed a sweet final release?

“Darby, Frost.” Rebecca never let her gaze leave the desolate figure before them. “Be ready for anything. This could turn into a repeat of the marina inferno.”

The two deputies nodded, their faces set in grim lines. Viviane’s eyes were pools of controlled fear as she steadied her weapon. She might be new to the force, but she was an experienced shooter and one of the best on the team. “I’ve got a shot now.”

Hoyt, seasoned and stoic, mirrored her readiness.

“Wait.” Rebecca held her hand up.

The stream from the can cut short, as if the reservoir of the man’s resolve and the container had both run dry. The empty can dangled from his grasp as the boat bobbed in the waves.

Rebecca breathed out. “What the hell is he doing?” Moments ago, they’d been racing at each other in an oceanic game of chicken. Now they both waited in silence for what would happen next, less than thirty feet away from each other.

Her heart clenched as she caught the shimmer of tears trailing down his dirt-streaked face, windows into a broken spirit. In that moment, the line between law keeper and lawbreaker blurred, revealing a shared human fragility. The arm holding the can lowered.

“Stay sharp,” she whispered, but her voice carried the weight of a plea.

Let there be no need for gunfire today.

The boats drifted, a macabre waltz on the whim of the tide.

Rebecca held her breath, watching the man’s blank expression as he clutched the empty gas can. A pall of silence hung over the tableau, save for the gentle slap of water against hulls.

“Boss, if he keeps drifting, he’ll hit the shallows.” Hoyt’s voice was a soft intrusion, his words barely more than a whisper carried on the breeze.

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea at this point.” She kept her voice as low as possible, her gaze and gun trained on the unmoving man ahead of them. “Stay quiet, both of you. No sudden moves. But can you get us closer to him?”

Viviane’s eyes flicked toward Rebecca, uncertainty etching her features before determination settled like a mask. From the hold, she lifted a gaff hook, and with an almost reverent caution, she extended it toward the water. They were in the shallows now, and after a few tries, she hit bottom. With a slow, hard push, she nudged their boat closer to the specter of gasoline-soaked despair.

As the gap between the vessels narrowed, the sandy bottom came into view through the clear water. Rebecca swung her legs over the side and dropped down. The water came up to just above her knees.

She moved with deliberate slowness, acutely aware of the lethal potential that hung in the air, invisible yet suffocating.

Viviane and Hoyt remained in the boat, pistols aimed, a silent guard over this precipice upon which they all stood. Rebecca trusted her deputies to take down the suspect if things escalated. But she hoped this confrontation could be settled without further loss of life.

Easy does it, Rebecca coaxed herself as she approached the gasoline-soaked vessel from behind.

The man was like a statue. His body was locked in a moment of profound defeat or contemplation. Rebecca couldn’t tell which. His eyes were glassy, lost in whatever torment twisted his lips and caused his breath to come in shallow sobs.

“Hello,” she called as loud as she dared, her voice threading through the tension.

She received no reply, but she hadn’t expected one. As she closed the last few feet between them, her senses remained alert for any sign of danger, any twitch that might signal catastrophe.

“Look at me,” she tried again, her voice taking on a pleading edge.

But the man before her was far away, unreachable by sound or reason. Rebecca knew the next moments could decide fates. Would they end in redemption or in fire?

Reaching up blindly, Rebecca found the stiff lines of electrical wires in the boat’s outboard engine, slick with salt and protective grease under her searching fingers.

Without hesitating, she yanked them free, feeling the connection give way beneath her grasp. The idling engine coughed, a guttural choke that echoed over the water.

She exhaled slowly, her pulse thrumming against the adrenaline that had led her here. No spark, no fire. No fire, no engine. No engine, no weapon.

Hopefully her next steps would prevent an even bigger fire.

“Are you okay, sir?” Rebecca’s steady voice was edged with genuine concern. There was no movement from the broken figure hunkering at the prow, no sign he’d heard her. He didn’t move even as she lifted her foot and put her weight on the lower step of the diver’s platform affixed to the back of the vessel.

His eyes, red-rimmed and raw, showed a man carved hollow by loss and despair. His words spilled forth, tremulous and laced with anguish. “Everything…they’ve taken everything.”

Gasoline painted the deck in a dangerous sheen.

“Whatever you’re going through, setting this fire won’t fix it. Fire doesn’t bring anything back.” Taking a deep breath to center herself, Rebecca stepped onto the narrow ledge. She boarded carefully, her movements measured, knowing any sudden action might trigger a spark in more ways than one.

Yet he simply turned his head, his eyes finding hers. “I want them to know how it feels to lose everything. They wouldn’t leave me alone with my pain.” He mumbled the last words and shook his head. “In my sanctuary.”

“Trust me when I say this.” She settled onto the vessel, her muscles tensed for the backlash she anticipated. Every scenario she had trained for played out in rapid succession behind her eyes. “These people know all about pain. They know about losing their loved ones.”

The unlit lighter tucked tight in his hand against the fuel can seemed almost an afterthought, a forgotten prop in the tragic soliloquy of his current existence.

Rebecca noted its presence, but it was clear that, for the moment, the man was somewhere else entirely. “Siblings lost. Parents lost. Children taken. I’m sure you haven’t read the newspapers, but our people lost so much, it made national headlines. And that only brought more pain to our shores. I lost my boss, my coworkers, my boyfriend, my parents, my career, my reputation.”

Her gaze never wavered from the lighter, its presence a stark reminder of the threadbare line between life and death for them both.

“And you don’t want to just burn it all down? Make it all stop?” His tear-streaked face bore the marks of a man who had crossed realms of pain most people never tread, but it was her duty to ensure that his personal hell didn’t claim any more victims.

“No. Just the opposite. I want to protect people because I know what that pain is like, and I don’t want it to spread.” She reached out slowly, inching her hand toward the dangerous weapons he still held.

Her fingers brushed his as she gently relieved him of the lighter and empty fuel can. There was no resistance in his grasp. She held her breath. “That’s why I want to help you. So you don’t get hurt. How about you let me have that?”

Her movement was smooth, practiced. Her years in law enforcement had drilled into her the importance of disarming with minimal force. She set the can down softly, her gaze never leaving the bereft man in front of her.

With the lighter secured, Rebecca transitioned seamlessly, pulling out her handcuffs with the ease of routine. “You’re not alone now.” She spoke to cover the soft clicking of the cuffs as she secured them around his wrists with an efficiency that belied her compassionate tone. “We’re going to step off this boat, get some fresh air. Let’s wash away this mess, yeah?”

His posture bowed inward, as though he wasn’t even aware of the cuffs on him. A nod, almost imperceptible, was his only response.

But it was enough.

She guided the soul-lost man, his steps unsteady, toward the stern. The pungent odor of gasoline stung her nostrils, and she felt a twinge of relief to be leaving the toxic fumes behind. “Easy does it.”

From the adjacent vessel, Hoyt slipped over the edge to land in the water. He grimaced, eyes locked on the man, who thankfully didn’t react. Moving slowly and as quietly as possible, he sidled up.

“I got him, Boss.” Hoyt wrapped his large hands around the man’s arms. “Let’s get you cleaned up now. Does that sound good?”

The man, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of his actions just moments before, took to the water with an eagerness that bordered on childlike innocence. He dunked his face, blowing the water from his mouth as he stood upright again. Hoyt splashed water onto his clothes, each stroke washing away layers of the concoction he’d doused himself in.

Just like that, in a bizarre twist she had not been expecting, the man who’d ruthlessly killed four people collapsed into her senior deputy’s arms, bawling like a baby. Hoyt cradled him as he shook and sobbed.

Rebecca let out a long breath. Compassion was a large part of their job. And it was that skill that had won today.

36

Rebecca leaned back in her office chair, rueful that she’d have to hit the shoe store for a new pair of sneakers. She’d had plenty of time to change into dry clothes while Hoyt and Viviane took the man’s prints and helped him get cleaned up.

He’d been as complacent as could be, following every order Hoyt gave him.

Now they had a name for him. Gustav Simpson. But not much else.

There was one record on him, but he hadn’t been the perpetrator. He and his family had been the victims of a terrible wreck. Semi versus pickup truck, and the semi had won, leaving Simpson’s wife and young son dead.

A crackle from the speaker broke the silence of the room. “Dispatch, this is Coffey. We’ve landed on Deerskin Island. Dr. Flynn and her team are about to recover Saul Nielson’s body.”

The news settled heavily, choking the air in the small office. Rebecca’s mind wandered briefly to the island, its future uncertain with its caretaker gone. She pressed the talk button. “Copy that, Coffey. Keep me posted.” She paused for a breath. “I’m heading in to do the Gustav Simpson interview now. His name’s all we’ve got. Records are practically nonexistent for him. All I know is an accident took his family a decade ago.”

“Roger that,” Jake responded, static fizzing out.

With a sigh, Rebecca stood. She moved slowly, the weight of duty anchoring her steps as she crossed to the door where Viviane waited with an unreadable expression.

Together, they navigated the short stretch of hallway, each step bringing them closer to the man who sat behind the closed door.

At a nod from Rebecca, Viviane reached out and pushed the door open.

Gustav Simpson sat cuffed to a heavy metal table, his shoulders slumped, the fight seemingly washed away with the grime of his previous life. Cleaned up and dressed in prison scrubs, he now resembled Nielson more than ever. A cruel irony not lost on Rebecca.

“Mr. Simpson.” She greeted him with neither warmth nor coldness, just a professional neutrality.

Simpson raised his head, eyes dull, the spark of defiance that might have once lived there now extinguished. For a fleeting moment, he locked gazes with Rebecca—a silent exchange in the sterile chill of the interrogation room. But there was something far-off in his stare. He’d been read his rights and had declined an attorney. She hoped he’d be cooperative and answer her questions.

“I’m Sheriff Rebecca West. Deputy Darby will be observing today.” Rebecca gestured to Viviane, who remained quiet by the door as she flicked on the recorder, her presence an unspoken statement of solidarity.

After stating the date and names of those present, Rebecca settled into the seat across from Simpson, her tone suggesting this was just another conversation. “Let’s start with your arrival on Deerskin Island.”

He scowled. “My island.”

In the corner of the room, the red light of the camera blinked steadily, recording every nuance, every shift in demeanor, every word spoken and left unsaid. Rebecca leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, carefully examining Simpson’s face. It was time to peel back the layers of this mystery, one guarded answer at a time.

She clasped her hands on the metal table, the surface cold and unyielding beneath her touch. “How long did you live on Deerskin Island, Mr. Simpson?”

“I dunno,” Simpson mumbled, his voice barely more than a raspy whisper. “After…after my family…” He trailed off, his eyes shadowed with a pain that radiated through the room.

Rebecca waited, giving him the space to collect his thoughts. In an interrogation, silence often provoked more answers than the most carefully worded questions.

“After…I lost my family…I…” Simpson swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze flitted around the room, not settling on anything. “Trial. Paid me…for pain. For them. Gone.”

Again, the silence stretched out, and this time, Rebecca eased him out of it. “As if money can replace family.” Filled with cynicism, she wondered if it was a large corporation that ended up paying him off. They seemed to think money fixed everything.

His gaze wandered to Rebecca, and whatever he saw in her face got him talking again. “I went east. Saw the island.” His voice gained a hint of wistfulness. “Looked peaceful, away from everything. A deer swam to it. Seemed like a sign.”

“And how did you get there?” Rebecca prodded gently, aware of Viviane’s watchful eyes from the sidelines.

“A canoe on the beach. I stole it.” He admitted the petty crime without hesitation, seeming to find his voice with every word. “I climbed in and paddled over. Didn’t plan on coming back. There was nothing left for me. I just wanted to get away…as far away as possible. Remote island seemed like the perfect place.”

Rebecca processed this information. “And once on the island, how did you manage to stay hidden all these years?”

Simpson’s hands clenched, the handcuffs clinking softly. “I’m handy. Always have been. I made a home.” A bitter smile flickered across his lips. “I broke the oars and used them to dig into a hill. Then I used parts of the canoe to shore up the walls inside. It was safe. And quiet.”

Rebecca shot Viviane a knowing look. They hadn’t been looking in the ground. The whole time they’d searched the island, they could have been walking right over him.

Viviane pulled her phone from her pocket and started typing. Rebecca assumed she was alerting Jake to look for a burrow where Simpson could have lived.

“And it was mine.” He laced his words with a sense of possession that bordered on sacred.

Rebecca let him keep talking. After so many years alone, maybe he appreciated finally having someone listen to him. Despite what Simpson might have thought, people were herd animals. They didn’t do well when left alone for long.

“I didn’t want people.” A distant look took over his eyes again. “But those boats, they kept coming. The noise of their engines. Reminding me of what I’d lost. Of how I’d lost them. They were so loud.”

“How did those boats affect you and the island?” Rebecca was curious to see what had finally pushed him over the edge.

Simpson seemed to grow stronger with the trace of an old anger. “Flooding. Erosion. Wildlife dying. They were destroying my home…my sanctuary. All I wanted…I wanted to be left alone.”

Rebecca absorbed his words, which painted the image of a man driven to solitude only to have it incessantly disrupted. “You wanted to be left alone in your home? And you killed to make sure that happened?”

“I had to kill them. People…boats kept coming. I knew fire worked well, so…I used that to try to warn others to stay away.” Simpson studied his hands. They were clean now, though years of dirt remained trapped under his fingernails.

Rebecca’s gaze lingered on Simpson, his features washed in the sterile light of the interrogation room. His earlier anger was gone, seeped out of him, leaving only a hollow and frail shell of a man. A stark contrast to the wild, untamed man who had made a fortress out of solitude.

She couldn’t help but draw parallels between Simpson and Nielson, two men who looked so similar, both ensnared by their tragedies, lashing out to preserve what little they had left. Simpson with his makeshift sanctuary on Deerskin Island. Nielson with his grander vision for the planet.

Both had found themselves at the mercy of their own misguided actions, and both had paid dearly.

Their stories resonated with her own. Rebecca’s father had been cut from the same cloth. After he’d invented a water-powered engine, an innovation that had promised a cleaner world, he’d refused to back down or allow his work to be hidden away just to line the pockets of rich men. He’d wanted to save the world.

Instead, he and his wife had been assassinated. Altruism had cost him everything.

Now poor Simon Lankford, the man who’d been chased off by Morley and spent years silently gathering evidence, was dealing with the same problem, despite having given up on his life’s work due to the same threats.

It just went to show that kowtowing to bullies didn’t guarantee safety, despite what they might promise.

Absorbed in thought, she nearly missed the nudge from Viviane, a silent reminder of the task at hand. Clearing her throat, Rebecca shuffled through the evidence photos until she found one particular image.

She slid the photograph across the table toward Simpson. “Tell me about Benton Meek. What happened the day he landed on your island?”

37

Rebecca pushed open the heavy door of the jail after returning Simpson to his cell, her fingers still chilled from where they had rested on the cold metal table. Viviane followed behind her, eyes drawn and filled with sadness.

Once Gustav Simpson started talking, he’d spilled everything. Now he was resting, drained and exhausted. Rebecca felt the same.

It had been a terrible confession to take as the hermit who had lost everything realized just what he’d done in his grief and anger. And that he’d given up the only thing that still mattered to him. His freedom.

They stepped into the relative calm of the station’s bullpen, the buzz of chatter and clatter of keyboards a welcome change from the tension of the room where Simpson had confessed. Jake, having just returned from Deerskin Island, gathered up with Trent and Hoyt, their faces reflecting concern and anticipation. Elliot, ever vigilant at the dispatch counter, tilted his head slightly to eavesdrop on the exchange.

“We got the boat towed. It’s going to take a while to get it cleaned up enough to be stored, but I made sure the team knew about the homemade napalm. They all promised not to blow themselves up.” Trent held up the paperwork, and Rebecca checked the clock. The time was already past one, and she wondered just how long they’d been sequestered in the interrogation room.

She headed straight for the coffeepot, needing the heat and caffeine boost before she sat down to write her report. It looked like everyone else had gotten theirs sorted already.

“Medical examiner’s got Nielson’s body heading back to the morgue now,” Jake added as Viviane took her seat among the team. “I dropped the M.E. off at the van on the dock about thirty minutes ago. Also, the forensic crew found the hideout Viviane told me about. It’s a pretty good one. Looks like he kept expanding the whole time he lived there.”

“Good timing.” Rebecca rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Frost, you spoke to Saul Nielson’s family?”

“Yep.” Hoyt leaned back in his chair with a creak of protest from the old springs. “His next of kin are flying down on their jet. Should be here by tomorrow morning.”

“All right.” Rebecca was not looking forward to that conversation. “We got a full confession. He didn’t even try to hide anything. He spilled it all. He’ll be ready for pickup and transport as soon as the paperwork is filed.”

Hoyt’s expression softened for a moment before firm professionalism took over. “Well done, Boss, Viviane. Another case closed neatly with a confession.” His voice held a note of genuine relief, a rare sound amid the usual noise pollution of a day’s grind.

“Neatly,” Rebecca echoed, her tone dry. A small knot of tension unraveled at the acknowledgment, even if the victory tasted more bitter than sweet. “Then let me go ahead and get started on the last of it so we can close this one completely.” She squared her shoulders, mentally preparing for the mountain of paperwork awaiting her signature.

“Rebecca, hold up a second.” Hoyt using her first name at work was so strange, she froze immediately. The rest of the team also stared at him.

“You wanna talk about this now?” Jake half whispered to Hoyt, who nodded.

“No sense in wasting time.” Trent scooted his chair closer. “The sooner this is settled, the sooner we can get back to normal.”

“Gentlemen? What’s going on?” Rebecca leaned against the kitchenette counter she’d just been about to leave. The cup warmed her fingers.

“We’ve been talking.” Hoyt gestured to the other deputies. “About this stalker situation with Morley.”

Jake nodded, his arms crossed, while Trent gave a confirming tilt of his head, a silent show of solidarity.

“Morley and his goons need a message loud and clear. They’re not welcome here.” Hoyt’s tone was resolute. “And we’re not standing by while they harass our sheriff.”

Surprise flickered through Rebecca, warmth blooming in her chest at their united front. “I appreciate it.” Her words were soft but laced with steel. “I’ve been giving it some thought too. We can’t play sitting ducks, waiting for Morley’s next move.”

“Exactly.” Trent clenched his jaw. “Best defense is a strong offense. At least, that’s what we decided. Uh…”

“Right.” Jake stepped in as Trent faltered. “The guy camped outside your place is clearly casing the joint. He’s collecting intel, prepping for something bigger.”

“Which means…?” Rebecca was curious what conclusion her team had come to.

Trent thumped his fist on the desk. “Now that Gustav Simpson’s case is wrapped, it’s time to focus on Morley. Let him know he’s picked the wrong island to mess with. And the wrong sheriff to go after.”

Hoyt’s eyes glinted with approval. “We’ll set up extra patrols with increased visibility around your home and the station. And any unfamiliar faces get questioned. Anyone with heavy tint gets a ticket. No exceptions. We’ve got laws about parking, standing, and loitering that we usually only use against tourists. But we can use them against these guys too.”

Rebecca straightened her spine, and she tapped a finger against her mug. “We push back hard, right off the bat, to make it crystal clear that his intimidation tactics won’t work on us.”

“Exactly right.” Hoyt nodded.

Viviane’s grin had been growing the whole conversation. “Oh, I like the sound of this. Turn the tables on them so they can feel the heat and know we’re watching their every move. They’re not on our island following our boss. They’re being followed by us.”

Rebecca pointed her finger at each person in the room. “There are only five of us.”

“Six!” Elliot raised his hand. “I can keep an eye on the cameras in case they linger around the station. Maybe I can’t write tickets, but I can walk out with a camera and record them.”

Rebecca conceded the point with an appreciative smile. “Six, maybe seven, if Melody helps. That’s not a lot of people to⁠—”

Viviane’s expression hardened, the muscles in her jaw clenching. “Rebecca, if we let Morley win, he’ll erase everything your parents worked for. That’s not going to happen on my watch.”

Rebecca felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

“Or mine.” She took a sip of her coffee, stalling for a moment before her resolve steeled. She considered Virginia’s stalking laws, the legal framework that could be their first line of defense. “We make every encounter with Morley’s people a lesson in our determination. We log their movements, issue tickets for any infraction, no matter how minor, and follow when necessary. They’ll learn quickly that they’re tangling with more than just civilians here.”

“Speaking of which,” Jake chimed in, scanning a list on his laptop, “I’ve got friends with the state troopers who’d be up for some extra patrols. They’re already itching to help out. Plus, the sight of cruisers from two departments will send a clear message.”

“Let’s cover all approaches.” Rebecca’s mind raced through logistics. “Any vehicle with D.C. plates gets an automatic flag. Morley needs to know he’s taking on the full force of law enforcement, not just a single sheriff’s department.”

“Got it.” Trent was already on his computer, tapping out messages with more speed than his usual unhurried pace. “I’ll coordinate shifts and routes with Jake.”

“Good.” Rebecca straightened, absently brushing her hand against the badge at her belt. This was their turf, their fight. Morley had underestimated the tenacity of a small island’s sheriff’s office, and Rebecca intended to use that to their full advantage.

“Speaking of outside help.” Viviane perked up. “I’ve still got connections in Coastal Ridge and Lynnhaven. A word from me, and they’ll be on high alert for any D.C. plates heading this way.”

Hoyt chuckled. “Imagine Morley’s goons getting stopped in every town, sweated under hot lights on the interstate. They won’t know what hit ’em.”

The mental image sparked a strategic flame in Rebecca’s mind. “I’ve got some strings to pull with the D.C. police myself.” The gears in her head turned as she considered the plate number that could lead them right to Morley’s doorstep. “A discreet inquiry here, a subtle follow there. We’ll have our own eyes and ears where we need them most.”

“I thought you didn’t know anyone who could take on Morley’s case.” Viviane frowned at her.

Rebecca snorted. “I don’t. Everyone who helped the first time is out of a job now. And their replacements aren’t exactly jumping at the chance to fall on that grenade. But I do know plenty of people who would be happy to harass a corrupt politician. Tint tickets bring in a lot of revenue in D.C. They’re always willing to write more.”

“Justice by a thousand tickets!” Viviane cheered, holding her fists up in the air.

“If it works, it works. That’s how you chase drug dealers out of an area. It should work the same on scummier scumbags.” Jake winked at Hoyt.

Gratitude swelled within Rebecca, a warm wave amid the cold sea of threats they faced. She scanned the faces of her team, each one set in lines of determination. “Thank you. All of you.”

Viviane’s lip curved up. “You know, nothing says thank you like milkshakes from Betty’s.”

Rebecca laughed. “You got it.”

Her deputies dispersed to their tasks, a well-oiled machine fueled by loyalty and shared purpose. Rebecca retreated to the sanctuary of her office, ready to complete her reports so she could dive into the next phase of their plan.

Alone with her thoughts, she allowed herself a moment to feel the full weight of her badge.

Integrity, honor, and commitment.

Alden Wallace would have been proud of his deputies. And Rebecca refused to make the same mistake he had. She was going to trust her life to her team, and together, they’d take on a group of people bigger than she could handle on her own.

38

Rebecca danced her fingers across the keyboard in a rhythmic clatter, finishing the last of the paperwork to transfer Gustav Simpson. The afternoon sun had chased away the morning fog, casting a warm glow across her desk and bathing her workspace in light that sparkled off her coffee cup.

She leaned back, smiling as she savored a sip of the rich brew, her mind wandering to the possibility of a late lunch by the water’s edge.

The ring of her phone made her jolt upright. With a sigh, she picked up the receiver. “Shadow Island Sheriff’s Office. This is Sheriff Rebecca West speaking.”

“Sheriff! You’ve gotta help me.”

Rebecca’s blood ran cold as she recognized Simon Lankford’s voice. She slapped her hand down on the intercom button, cueing the line open so the engineer’s voice would play throughout the station. “Mr. Lankford, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“They’re coming after me.” Lankford’s voice shook as Hoyt and Trent burst through the open door. Viviane and Jake were right behind them and pushed their way in, crowding her office.

“Who? Mr. Lankford, where are you?” Rebecca switched the call to speakerphone and hit the switch on her chest that started her body camera recording.

“I’m leaving my house. I can’t go back there now. Sheriff West, I’m so sorry I brought you into this. I didn’t know who else to call. I’ve been followed for the last few days. My wife doesn’t know anything about this except that she’s noticed I’ve been more stressed, acting different.” Lankford’s voice cracked. “She needs to be kept out of this, so I didn’t even tell her goodbye. I just left.”

Rebecca bit her lip. “Where are you going? Do you have a plan?”

“You. You’re my only plan. The only person I know who has a chance of standing up against Morley and his people.” His sobs echoed against the walls of the station. “I’m sorry. I know I just said I was sorry for bringing you into this, but you’re the only person on my side who could possibly understand. I think my wife will be safe, because they’ll follow me and leave her alone.”

“Mr. Lankford, slow down. Take a deep breath. Where are you?” Rebecca glanced at Jake, who pulled his keys from his pocket. He was ready to move as soon as they knew where to go. “If you tell us where you are, I can send deputies to come pick you up. Or I can pick you up, if that would make you feel safer.”

“I don’t want to say over the phone. There’s no telling if they’re already tracking me or following me or…I don’t think they’re following me now. I drove like a maniac leaving town.” Talking was at least slowing him down, and he didn’t sound so desperate now. “I’ll be on Shadow Island soon. I can fill you in on everything then.” His voice strengthened. “Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll be tossing my phone as soon as I hang up so they can’t use it to track me. Again, I’m sorry for involving you.”

The call ended, and Rebecca was left blinking.

“Right.” Jake drew the word out, then held up his keys. “I’m going to start patrol now. By the time he gets here, there won’t be a single car in town with D.C. plates.”

They’d thought they were taking the fight to Morley, but now Rebecca was worried Morley had just been distracting her so he could attack elsewhere. Once Lankford got to town, all the fighters would be on one small island.

And she’d have home field advantage.

Rebecca snapped awake and immediately rolled over to check her phone.

The time read 7:15 a.m., and she had no missed calls. Lankford had said he was going to toss his phone, but she’d still hoped he’d find a way to call and update her. She’d left a message with Melody to contact her if he showed up or called again. But apparently, that hadn’t happened either.

Her stretching routine was cut short as Humphrey plopped down on top of her, nearly choking her with his morning affection.

“Yes. Pfft. Morning, Humph. Yes, I love you too.” She wrestled with the dog, pushing him away from her face so she could talk. “I take it someone wants his breakfast?”

At that magic word, Humphrey leaped from the bed and spun happy circles in the doorway.

“Okay, okay. Let’s get something to eat.” Sliding out of bed, she shuffled across the cold hardwood floor, with Humphrey hovering only inches from her feet.

Last night, in a bid to be welcoming and festive, and to show the faceless goons of the country’s most corrupt politician that she wasn’t afraid, she’d purchased and hung all kinds of Christmas decorations.

Setting her phone on the counter, Rebecca scooped out Humphrey’s breakfast before pouring her own.

An unforeseen and delightful side effect of decorating had been just how happy it had made her dog. He seemed to love the twinkling lights she’d struggled to hang on the inside of her windows and had followed her around all night, getting in the way and generally just making a doofus of himself.

At least it got me tons of adorable pictures of him. I might even see about getting some Christmas cards made with those. Nothing says happy holidays like a puppy wrapped in multicolored lights.

Rebecca took a sip of the coffee and glanced around, pleased at how cheery the house looked. She’d set up a nativity scene on the coffee table. A real Christmas tree stood festive guard in the space between the dining room and front room, covered in glittering ornaments.

Humphrey had also loved that. And drinking straight from the Christmas tree stand as soon as she’d filled it with water. Apparently sap water was the holiday drink of choice for him.

Now all I need to do is bake some cookies. Maybe invite a few friends over. Oh, maybe I’ll finally get a chance to have a margarita. Those are year-round drinks, right?

Her phone rang, breaking that line of thought. She reached for the device. “This is West speaking.”

“Boss.” Elliot’s voice was terse, hinting at urgency. “Sorry to call you at home, but I thought you might want to know there’s been an accident on the bridge.”

Crap. A car accident wasn’t uncommon, but it could really mess with the morning routine on the island, as so many people used the bridge to get to work on the mainland. Traffic was going to be a mess. “Are Darby and Frost already on their way? And do we have any details?” She took another sip of her coffee.

“Still coming in. But the caller said there was a casualty. An older man.”

Rebecca set down her mug. A twinge of something cold slithered down her spine at his words.

“I’m on my way.” She jumped over Humphrey and ran to get dressed, praying that her gut reaction was wrong and Simon Lankford hadn’t been killed minutes away from the protection he’d counted on her to provide.

The End

To be continued…

WHAT’S NEXT?

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If you enjoyed the Shadow Island Series, I’d love to introduce you to my Sky Stryker Series.

Fatal Secrets (Sky Stryker Series: Book 1)

Sky Stryker arrives in New York armed with a pen and an eye for true crime. When she's pulled into the world of elite modeling by her gorgeous cousin, she expects to be writing about fun and glamor...not human trafficking and murder. When her cousin disappears, Sky finds herself working the case with the help of a handsome fashion COO, a sharp supermodel, a private investigator, and a retired FBI agent. As Sky delves into the secrets, scandal, and seediness of the modeling world, she doesn't realize the killer has a new target: Sky Stryker.

SERIES READING ORDER

Shadow’s Edge (Shadow Island Series: Bonus Story)

Shadow’s Secret (Shadow Island Series: Book One)

Shadow’s Captive (Shadow Island Series: Book Two)

Shadow’s Deadline (Shadow Island Series: Book Three)

Shadow’s Force (Shadow Island Series: Book Four)

Shadow’s Watch (Shadow Island Series: Book Five)

Shadow’s Hostage (Shadow Island Series: Book Six)

Shadow’s Ritual (Shadow Island Series: Book Seven)

Shadow’s Conspiracy (Shadow Island Series: Book Eight)

Shadow’s Mystery (Shadow Island Series: Book Nine)

Shadow’s Darkness (Shadow Island Series: Book Ten)

Shadow’s Flame (Shadow Island Series: Book Eleven)

Shadow’s Hoax (Shadow Island Series: Book Twelve)

Shadow’s Escape (Shadow Island Series: Book Thirteen)

Shadow’s Loss (Shadow Island Series: Book Fourteen)

Shadow’s Siege (Shadow Island Series: Book Fifteen)

Shadow’s Fate (Shadow Island Series: Book Sixteen)

Shadow’s Doom (Shadow Island Series: Book Seventeen)

Shadow’s Sacrifice (Shadow Island Series: Book Eighteen)

Shadow’s Collision (Shadow Island Series: Book Nineteen)

Coming Soon

Shadow’s Reckoning (Shadow Island Series: Book Twenty)

HAVE YOU READ MY OTHER SERIES?

Latest Series:

Journey Russo Series

Sky Stryker Series

More Series:

Emma Last Series

A Villain's Story Series

Winter Black Series

Amelia Storm Series

Ellie Kline Series

Stella Knox Series

Kylie Hatfield Series

Psychological Thrillers:

Don’t Tell

Gone Viral

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

How does one adequately express gratitude to all those who have transformed a shared dream into a stunning reality? Let us attempt to do just that.

First and foremost, our families deserve our deepest thanks. Their unwavering support and encouragement have been our bedrock, allowing us the time and energy to translate our collective imagination into the words that fill these pages. Their belief in our vision has been a constant source of strength and inspiration.

As coauthors, our journey has been uniquely collaborative and rewarding. Now, with Mary also embracing the additional role of publisher, our adventure has taken on an exciting new dimension. This transition from solely writing to also publishing has been both a challenge and a joy, opening doors to share our work more directly with you, our readers.

We are immensely grateful to the entire team at Mary Stone Publishing — a group who believed in our potential from the very beginning. Their commitment extends beyond editing our words; it encompasses the tireless efforts of designers, marketers, and support staff, all dedicated to bringing our stories to life. Their expertise, creativity, and passion have been vital in capturing the essence of our tales and sharing them with the world.

However, our greatest appreciation is reserved for you, our beloved readers. You took a chance on our book, generously sharing your most precious asset—your time. It is our fervent hope that the pages of this book have rewarded that generosity, offering you a journey worth taking and memories that linger.

With all our love and heartfelt appreciation,

Mary & Lori

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nestled in the serene Blue Ridge Mountains of East Tennessee, Mary Stone crafts her stories surrounded by the natural beauty that inspires her. What was once a home filled with the lively energy of her sons has now become a peaceful writer's retreat, shared with cherished pets and the vivid characters of her imagination.

As her sons grew and welcomed wonderful daughters-in-law into the family, Mary's life entered a quieter phase, rich with opportunities for deep creative focus. In this tranquil environment, she weaves tales of courage, resilience, and intrigue, each story a testament to her evolving journey as a writer.

From childhood fears of shadowy figures under the bed to a profound understanding of humanity's real-life villains, Mary's style has been shaped by the realization that the most complex antagonists often hide in plain sight. Her writing is characterized by strong, multifaceted heroines who defy traditional roles, standing as equals among their peers in a world of suspense and danger.

Mary's career has blossomed from being a solitary author to establishing her own publishing house—a significant milestone that marks her growth in the literary world. This expansion is not just a personal achievement but a reflection of her commitment to bring thrilling and thought-provoking stories to a wider audience. As an author and publisher, Mary continues to challenge the conventions of the thriller genre, inviting readers into gripping tales filled with serial killers, astute FBI agents, and intrepid heroines who confront peril with unflinching bravery.

Each new story from Mary's pen—or her publishing house—is a pledge to captivate, thrill, and inspire, continuing the legacy of the imaginative little girl who once found wonder and mystery in the shadows.

Discover more about Mary Stone on her website.

www.authormarystone.com

Lori Rhodes

As a tiny girl, from the moment Lori Rhodes first dipped her toe into the surf on a barrier island of Virginia, she was in love. When she grew up and learned all the deep, dark secrets and horrible acts people could commit against each other, she couldn’t stop the stories from coming out of the other end of her pen. Somehow, her magical island and the darkness got mixed together and ended up in her first novel. Now, she spends her days making sure the guests at her beach rental cottages are happy, and her nights dreaming up the characters who love her island as much as she does.

Connect with Mary online