THE SECRETS OF SECOND BEACH

A THOMAS AUSTIN CRIME THRILLER

BOOK 11

D.D. BLACK

“A man never stands as tall as when he kneels to help a child.”

– Anonymous

“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.”

– Pericles

“What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.”

– Albert Pike

A Note on Setting

Although Second Beach is a real beach, Harrows Bay is not a real town. While some locations in this book are true to life, details of other settings have been changed.

Only one character in these pages exists in the real world: Thomas Austin’s corgi, Run. Her personality mirrors that of my own corgi, Pearl. Any other resemblances between characters in this book and actual people is purely coincidental.

In other words, I made them all up.

Thanks for reading,

D.D. Black

PART 1

BLOOD IN THE WATER

CHAPTER ONE

Harrows Bay, Washington

Tuesday

Alyssa Howard didn’t want to make a sound.

She wasn’t sure why, but something about the air on this cool, beachside morning told her to be as quiet as she could. Maybe it was just that she was used to the constant presence of her phone, her fans, her followers. She was on that thing ten hours a day, and the silence of the morning, of nature, was disconcerting. She almost laughed at herself. If she couldn’t stand twenty minutes in nature without looking at her phone, she needed to get back into therapy.

Plus, there was something she liked about the discomfort of silence. She was twenty-three years old, beaming with charisma, beautiful, and increasingly successful as an Instagram and TikTok influencer. And yet, she knew there was so much more to life than views and likes and money. So much more to her.

If only she could discover it. Manifest it.

And that’s why she’d come back to Harrows Bay. To find herself. To tell a story that would help the community. To become the person she’d always thought she could be.

Thin ribbons of mist wove through the evergreens to her right and, to her left, the immensity of the ocean was like an unseen force, drawing her in. She paused, inhaling the damp tang of salt air mixed with the scent of old cedar. The chill was sharper than she’d expected—even for November—and the outskirts of Harrows Bay felt different than they had when she still called this place home. As a kid, this little trail only half a mile from the beach had seemed immense and bright and full of life. Now, everything was smaller and—somehow—darker.

She closed her car door slowly, careful to muffle the sound of the latch, then opened the back door and retrieved her camera rig, adjusting the strap over her shoulder. She shoved her cellphone in her back pocket, then walked lightly along the gravel shoulder off the coastal road, which was shrouded in the soft gray light of dawn.

She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for, but the pull to return here was undeniable. The footage she’d captured yesterday lingered in her mind—the beauty of the trails, the shoreline, and the beach, and that small boat, moving through the mist and beaching where it shouldn’t. Something was happening here, and she needed to see it for herself.

She loved Harrows Bay too much to ignore it.

She followed a narrow path, ducking under low branches and wincing as twigs snapped gently beneath her vintage Nikes. The faint murmur of waves guided her forward, and she could feel the sky opening up just beyond the last line of spruce. As she neared the bay, muffled voices floated over the ridge. She froze, pressing herself against the rough bark of a tree, straining to make out the words.

The trail spilled out onto a small, pebbled inlet, and Alyssa crouched behind a cluster of ferns. Out on the shore, two figures moved under the gray morning light. One hefted a crate from a skiff grounded on the sand, while the other stood near a flatbed truck just above the high-tide line. The marina where the fisherman docked was a couple miles south, and what the hell was a truck doing on the beach?

Alyssa’s heart quickened as she raised her camera. Through the viewfinder, she caught glimpses of shapes carrying the crates—indistinct in the poor light, but the urgency of their movements gave her pause.

She recorded a few seconds of video, her hands shaking slightly. The tension in the men’s movements, the way they glanced over their shoulders, told her this was important. More important than she’d anticipated.

A bird cawed and flew out from behind a tree. Alyssa tensed, shifting her weight and causing a twig to snap beneath her shoe. She froze.

The men stopped moving suddenly. One of them stepped forward, his face briefly illuminated in the faint light as he scanned the treeline. Holding her breath, Alyssa shrunk lower into the ferns. Only the distant rhythm of the waves filled the silence.

Then, from the darkness, she heard the faint rustle of movement. And it was growing closer. Her pulse quickened. Still crouched behind the ferns, she tried to shift her weight, but her shoe scraped over gravel, the sound magnified in the stillness.

“Who’s there?” a voice barked.

Panic shot through her. She gripped her camera tightly, its matte metal cool against her palms. Her mind raced. If she ran, they’d hear her. If she stayed, they might find her anyway. Her throat felt like sandpaper as she swallowed, forcing herself to stay still.

A shadow moved ahead. Alyssa’s breath caught as a figure emerged from the gloom. She tensed to run, every instinct screaming that this was it.

Her fingers fumbled for the phone, the device slippery against her chilled hands, as her mind churned through escape scenarios. The phone seemed heavier than it should have, her grip unsteady as if her fear had made her weaker. Every muscle in her body begged her to run, but she forced herself to stay frozen, hoping the shadows might shield her a little longer. Her heart pounded as she unlocked the device, the glow of the screen too bright in the dim light. She opened the first app she saw, Instagram, her thumbs trembling over the keyboard.

As the footsteps grew closer, she typed one word: “HELP.”

Attaching her most recent photo without looking at it, she hit Post. The screen went dark as she quickly locked the phone. Clutching the phone against her chest, Alyssa braced herself, fear coursing through her like a frayed wire.

Her legs made the decision to run before her mind caught up. Breath coming in shallow gasps, she bolted back up the trail toward her car. Branches clawed at her sleeves, twigs snapping beneath her boots as the sound of her own frantic footsteps filled the silence. The distant crash of waves grew fainter with every step.

She didn’t dare look back toward the voices, toward the heavy footsteps, toward the men.

She rounded a bend in the trail, picking up speed, then another. All those days running intervals on the treadmill were finally paying off.

Her car came into view and relief surged through her as she fumbled for the keys in her pocket. The footsteps behind her had gone quiet. They’d given up.

Her chest heaved with exertion as her trembling hands pulled the keys from her pocket and dropped them in the gravel. Kneeling, she grabbed them, listening.

No footsteps. She waited five seconds, then ten, then twenty. The men were gone.

She stood.

A sound froze her in place—the faint crunch of gravel near her car. She turned, heart trying to escape from her chest, and saw a figure, shadowed under a giant cedar tree. Then another stepped from behind the tree. Oh no. They must have cut off the path and somehow circled around, gotten behind her.

The two men stood in the shadows, their outlines barely distinguishable against the misty backdrop. She took a single step toward her car.

“Don’t,” one of the men said. The voice was strangely familiar, but she couldn’t make out his face in the shadows.

She tried to speak, but couldn’t. She positioned the keys in her hand, ready to thrust and stab and fight.

“Give me your phone,” the man said.

The second man had edged alongside her. He wore a red ski mask and, all of a sudden, he lunged for her, gripping her bicep.

She tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat as the masked man yanked the camera from around her shoulder.

Wednesday

The silent gray light of dawn crept over the Harrows Bay marina as Lars Strand guided his old skiff away from the dock. As he turned toward Second Beach, the engine let out a low, steady vibration that seemed to settle deep in his chest. The air was heavy with salt and brine, sharp and cold, stinging his nose with each breath. But there was nowhere he’d rather be.

He reached for the inside pocket of his jacket for his pack of cigarettes, stopping a second later when he realized it wasn’t there. Old habits die hard.

Sleep had been elusive, as it often was. Lars didn’t keep track of how many nights he’d spent staring at the ceiling, his mind a tangle of restless thoughts and vague unease. But he knew it was well over half of the nights since he’d quit smoking. He’d been told it would get easier.

Now, only the ocean calmed him.

He steered the boat toward a secluded stretch of shore, the kind the bigger boats overlooked. The fog clung to the surface of the water like a second skin and he breathed it in as deeply as possible, hoping the fresh air would undo a little of the damage of thirty years of Marlboro Reds, which he’d quit only a month earlier. He knew it was somewhere between wishful thinking and total BS, but he couldn’t help himself.

This was his time, these early hours before the town woke. Out here, there were no voices, no sideways glances, no one asking questions he didn’t want to answer.

As he rounded a rocky outcrop, something pale broke the monotony of the shoreline. His first thought was driftwood, some bleached log cast up by the tide. But the closer he got, the clearer the shape became.

His stomach twisted. A body. Young, female, with light brown hair.

He killed the engine, the sudden silence jarring. The boat drifted closer, the water slapping softly against the hull. The figure lay half-submerged, hair tangled with kelp, soaked bluejeans and a black sweater clinging to lifeless limbs.

Lars stared, unable to breathe. His first instinct was to pull out his phone. He’d resisted getting one for years, but he had to admit, he felt safer out on the water now that he had one.

He scanned the shore, eyes darting to the shadows of the treeline. Nothing moved. His phone in one hand, his other gripped the tiller, cold sweat creeping down his back.

Who was she? How had she ended up here?

Lars stepped closer to the edge of the boat, his boots creaking on the damp planks. What was he supposed to do? He knew he should call the police, but they were always accusing him of stuff he didn’t do. Small stuff, usually. But what if they accused him of this? What if they didn’t believe that he’d come across the body randomly? He’d read a book about a local police officer who’d pinned a murder on a local drunk just because the guy had beat him at darts in front of a woman he was trying to impress.

He put his phone away. Nothing good ever came from talking to the police.

He stood frozen, mind racing, staring at the pale figure and the dark water lapping at her legs. He reached again for the cigarettes, cursing under his breath when he didn’t feel the familiar shape in his jacket pocket.

His pulse roared in his ears as the first rays of sunlight painted the bay in muted gold, turning the scene into something both beautiful and grotesque.

For a long moment, Lars Strand did nothing. He simply stared at the lifeless body, pressure building in his mind as though the weight of the sky were pressing down on him. He shoved his phone back in his pocket, stashing it where the cigarettes used to go.

He knew what he needed to do.

CHAPTER TWO

Kitsap Sheriff’s Department, Silverdale, Washington

Thursday

“That was your worst shot yet,” Austin said, reaching out a hand in Ridley’s direction.

Ridley crumpled another piece of paper and handed it to him. “Fine, but I’m still up four to three.”

Austin squinted at the little garbage can on the other side of the room. “This is for the tie,” he said.

Lining up the shot, he threw it. The paper ball sailed wide right.

Ridley laughed. Balling up another piece of paper, he said, “First to five buckets, right? I’m going to end this now.” He lined up his shot and then tapped on the table to get Austin to look at him. Slowly, carefully, he closed his eyes, paused for a half second, then launched the paper. It sailed over the little table in the conference room, landing perfectly in the garbage can.

Ridley opened his eyes. “Boom,” he said. “I win. Five to three.”

Austin shook his head, then stepped over to Ridley and shook his hand. “It’s good to have you back, even if only temporarily.”

Ridley had once been the lead detective in the Kitsap Sheriff’s Department, and Austin’s boss, but had now been Washington’s governor for over a year. As part of his duties, he was conducting a visit to every county in the state and had stopped in at the Sheriff’s Department to hang out for the afternoon.

“There’s something else they don’t tell you,” Ridley said.

“About what?” Austin asked.

Ridley turned and leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, right,” Austin said. “About having kids.”

One of the reasons Austin had been happy for Ridley’s visit was that he needed someone to talk with. It had been two months since he’d found out his girlfriend, Sy, was pregnant. For the first month, he kept the news to himself, probably in a panic more than anything else. Finally, he told his mother, who, of course, had been thrilled. The first time he’d met Sy, long before they’d been dating, his mother had looked up pictures of her on the internet within five minutes of hearing about her. And since learning that Sy had moved out to Washington state, she’d been imagining their “tall, beautiful children.”

Austin hadn’t shared the news with Lucy or Jimmy yet, and he was happy to have a chance to talk to someone who had been through it all.

“What they don’t tell you,” Ridley said, “is the cost, both in money and freedom.” He held up both hands, as though anticipating an objection. “Now, I’m not saying either of these are bad things,” Ridley said. “They’re just things that one needs to know about. If you want your kids to have a better life than you had growing up, it’s going to cost a lot of money. And your schedule will start to be determined by their sleep schedule and playdates and school calendars. And if you and Sy are both working... that’s a whole other story.”

“I’m sensing there’s a but coming,” Austin said.

“I would hope that the way I’ve lived my life means the ‘but’ is implied. Yeah, it’s expensive, and yeah, it changes your life completely.” He paused, shaking his head. “But for me, it’s the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. And even that doesn’t explain it right. ‘Rewarding’ sounds like you got a pat on the back from your boss or feel good about yourself after you finished your first marathon. Children, well, they’re something else. When you’re a good parent, it’s like you’re getting a pat on the back from the universe, or from God, or from your ancestors—or maybe all of the above at the same time.”

Austin smiled. “Sounds pretty good. You heard Jimmy and Lucy are having a kid too, right?”

Ridley nodded. “I heard.” He shook his head. “That’s going to be... interesting.”

Austin chuckled. “Jimmy told me the other day he hopes the kid has Lucy’s intelligence, Lucy’s red hair, Lucy’s integrity, and Lucy’s temperament.”

“And?” Ridley asked. “Usually there’s a ‘and my blank’ at the end of that kind of sentence.”

“That’s just it,” Austin said. “He hopes the baby’s just like Lucy.”

Ridley laughed. “Well, the guy has damn good muscle structure, that’s something. Maybe the kid will end up like an athletic version of Lucy.”

“What about the money part?” Austin asked.

“At first, there’s not much they need. But later... clothes, food, sports, camps, lessons, college.” He shook his head. “Start saving.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Austin said.

“Speaking of money...” Ridley stood and began walking a slow lap around the desk... “what they don’t tell you about being governor is similar to what they don’t tell you about having kids. The money pressure is insane. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but I certainly didn’t think I was going to spend half of my time fundraising. That’s part of why I’m doing this trip to every county in Washington. Sure, I’m doing listening tours and meeting with schools and unions and the like, but I have donor events every day. My staff tells me I need to raise a quarter million bucks a month between now and the next election just to have a shot of being competitive.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder what I’m becoming.”

Austin didn’t know a lot about politics, but a quarter million a month sounded like a ridiculous amount. Ridley looked tired, or something beyond tired. He looked worn down, the kind of fatigue that couldn’t be fixed with a good night’s sleep. Austin didn’t know what to say, so he said, “I’m hoping my child will cost me a little less than running for governor.”

Before Ridley could reply, there was a soft knock at the door, and Samantha popped her head in. “Hey, boss,” she said to Ridley.

“I’m not your boss anymore. You know that.”

“I know, but you pulled me straight outta college to work here, and as governor, you’re kind of everyone’s boss, right?”

Ridley shook his head. “I hope not.”

Another young woman stepped in behind Samantha. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, Austin thought. She had bright red hair and multiple facial piercings and stood halfway behind Samantha like she was trying to hide.

Samantha stepped aside and pushed her forward.

“Can I have your autograph?” the young woman asked timidly.

She was speaking to Ridley, and Austin noticed that he forced a smile that didn’t look especially authentic. “Sure,” he said, reaching out for the photo she was holding.

“I’ve got to ask you,” the young woman said. “What were you thinking running through that stadium like that? I mean, not like what were you thinking, but what was going through your mind?”

Every month or two, a video of Ridley running through the football stadium in Seattle went viral. It had been captured during a thwarted terrorist attack, and was one of the things that had gotten him elected governor. People couldn’t stop sharing it, and Austin could understand why. It made him look like a superhero, an action star.

“What’s your name?” Ridley asked, signing the photo.

“Kimmy,” the young woman said. “I’m a friend of Samantha’s here. I’m in tech, too.”

“Truth is, I wasn’t thinking,” he said, handing her back the photo. “Sometimes, when you’re trying to do stuff, you just do it.”

Kimmy contemplated this and smiled, clearly in awe. “You should put that on a t-shirt.”

Samantha took her by the arm. “I think Nike might have a problem with that.” Then she led the fawning fan out.

Turning at the door, Kimmy mouthed, “Thanks.”

“How often does that happen?” Austin asked.

“When the video pops back up it happens more.” Ridley frowned. “It’s funny how this country works. People usually don’t want the governor’s signature, and I don’t blame them—politics is embarrassing. Running through a stadium like a badass? That gets people’s emotions involved.” He shrugged.

“Do you ever miss it?” Austin asked, kicking his feet up on the table. “Miss this?”

Ridley squinted at him, considering the question. “You see this suit I’m wearing?” he asked.

It was a standard brown suit that held Ridley’s frame well, though it looked a little too big. Austin couldn’t help but notice that Ridley, while still large, had lost some of his muscle bulk. Probably not as much time to work out.

“My PR guy said I had to put it on this morning,” Ridley said. “Later today, I’ll be clinking champagne glasses in a different suit. Maybe even a tux. My wife says I look good in my tux, but I think it makes me look like a black penguin.”

Austin laughed.

“You ask me if I miss hanging out in the office with you guys?” Ridley asked. “Every damn day.”

Austin’s phone vibrated on the table and he glanced at the screen—a number he didn’t recognize.

“Take it,” Ridley said, leaning back in his chair.

Austin hesitated, his hand hovering over the phone. He didn’t usually answer unknown numbers, but he thought the area code was from the coast. He picked up. “Austin.”

“Detective Elaine Turner, Harrows Bay Police Department,” the voice on the other end said. “I apologize for calling you directly. I got your number from Lucy O’Rourke—we met at a conference last year. She said you were on duty.”

Her tone wasn’t hurried or casual; it was direct, with a clipped professionalism that told Austin she wasn’t one to waste words. Still, it was clear that she wanted to make sure she had his attention before continuing.

“Hello,” he said. “Detective Turner, was it? What’s going on?”

“Call me Elaine, and yeah. I’ve got a situation out here,” Elaine said. “Do you know where Harrows Bay is?”

“Out on the coast, near Second Beach, right?” Austin asked.

Austin loved Second Beach. He’d visited once with his corgi, Run, who was used to the gentle waves at their local beach and had initially balked at the roar of the Pacific. But once she got over her hesitation, she tore across the wide, driftwood-strewn sand, chasing gulls and running herself into exhaustion. She’d been so tired that she’d slept through the magnificent sunset.

“Exactly,” Elaine said. “We’re just south of there. Anyway, we’ve got a body—a young woman named Alyssa Howard. Heard of her?”

“Should I have?”

“Only if you’re young.”

Austin paused. “I’m not.”

“Anyway, young social media influencer. She washed up on Second Beach yesterday morning. She was killed somewhere else, though. Whoever dumped the body likely didn’t understand the tides well. Anyway, she grew up in Harrows Bay, resided lately in Los Angeles, but she’d been in Kitsap County recently. No official time of death yet, but I’m guessing 24-48 hours based on decomp.” She paused. “But here’s where it gets tricky.”

Austin glanced at Ridley, who was watching him now, eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Go on.”

“She made a few posts before her death. Her very last post was a single word: ‘Help.’ Alongside a selfie of her on a beach eating a fried clam grinder. Post before that was about meeting her ex-boyfriend—Matt Delgado, who’s a Kitsap County resident. And from what I can tell, they had... issues. I need someone local to track Delgado down, talk him up, and lock him into a story. I’m not sure he’s involved, but I can’t afford to lose the chance to pin him down before this story breaks widely, which it will. She was pretty well known.”

Austin rubbed his jaw. “Why me?”

“Because Delgado is in your backyard. I’m giving you a head start before this spirals. Or, to be a little more honest, I’m asking you to help me get a head start before this spirals.”

“You mentioned that she was killed,” Austin said. “How do you know it wasn’t a drowning or another kind of accident.”

There was a pause, and then his phone buzzed again. “I just sent over the crime scene photos,” she continued. “Take a look yourself. And if the fact of a dead twenty-something isn’t enough to convince you to help us out, maybe the photos will be.”

Austin let the phone fall away from his face and looked at the first photo, the details burning into his mind instantly, even though he didn’t linger on them. He swiped, and swiped again, then brought the phone back up to his ear, his other hand tightening into a fist. “Send me everything you’ve got on Delgado,” he said after a moment. “I’ll handle it today.”

Elaine exhaled. “Thanks, Austin. I’ll owe you one. Lucy was right about you.”

The line went dead, and Ridley raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

Austin swiped through the rest of the photos Elaine Turner had sent, starting with the “before” images. Alyssa Howard, radiant and carefree, posed on a sunny beach, her hair catching the light just so. Another showed her laughing with friends at a café in Los Angeles, a latte held high like a trophy. She was vibrant, full of life, the kind of person who made strangers want to hit the like button on their phones.

Then came the crime scene photos.

The body was swollen and slick, the skin stretched and pale, waterlogged beyond recognition. Her face, once full of life, was a map of violence—deep bruises pooling under translucent skin, jagged gashes carving through flesh like a shoreline battered by waves.

The swelling had warped her expression into something unnatural, her lips split and bloodless, one cheek torn open to expose raw tissue beneath. Strands of dark hair clung to her face, tangled with seaweed and grit, as if the ocean itself had tried to claim her.

Her arms twisted grotesquely, elbows bent in the wrong directions, wrists slack where they should have been rigid. One hand had stiffened into a loose claw, fingers curled inward, as if she’d been reaching for something—or someone—before the end.

Austin felt bile rising in his throat. In the earlier photos, she had been vibrant, smiling, her eyes bright with something unspoken. That person was gone. What remained was a thing the water had ravaged, stripped of warmth, of dignity, of anything human. He exhaled sharply, forcing himself forward, and flipped to the next image.

“Austin?” Ridley’s voice broke the silence. “It’s bad, isn’t it? I can tell by the look on your face.”

Austin shook his head, slipping the phone into his pocket. “The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three.” He exhaled slowly. “I know violent crime is going down statistically, but it sure doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”

Ridley nodded grimly. “Want to tell me about the case?”

Austin considered his response. With everything else Ridley had on his plate, Austin didn’t want to drag his former boss into the fresh horror that had just appeared on his screen. “Just another case,” he said. “You know how it is.” He reached out and shook Ridley’s hand. “Good catching up, old friend. Let’s talk soon.”

CHAPTER THREE

The rain was the first serious downpour of the season. It had been a gorgeous summer, but the gray had settled in now, draping the landscape like a wet blanket. Austin sat in his truck, listening to the rhythm of it on the windshield, going over the email Elaine had sent him with the file. At the moment, he was focusing on the screenshots of Alyssa’s final posts on social media.

In one, she was standing in front of a sign that read “Welcome to Kitsap County,” the kind of sign that might greet you as you got off a highway exit. Smirking at the camera, she offered a playful thumbs-down gesture. The caption read, “We are never ever ever getting back together.”

Austin stared at the words. He didn’t know much about the current trends on social media, but he knew this was a Taylor Swift lyric and that, most likely, the post was intended as a shot at her former boyfriend, Matt Delgado, the man Austin was here to interview.

But it was her final post that left him confused. Why post the word”HELP” with a fairly typical photograph of herself eating a sandwich? Elaine had mentioned in one of her messages that the location of the last photo was a little stretch of beach just down from a clam shack, and that it had been checked out and no evidence found. Apparently, Alyssa had gone there for a sandwich the day before she’d been killed. So why use that photo?

If she was in danger, why not use her phone to call the police? Austin was well aware that he didn’t understand young people and online culture in general, but surely a whole generation hadn’t decided it was safer to post on social media than to call the police. And even assuming she was going to use social media to announce that she was in danger, why not post a picture of her location, or, even better, her attacker?

He glanced through the sheets of rain up to Matt Delgado’s second floor apartment, deciding to focus on him instead. The building was three stories tall, plain, and worn down, with external walkways that reminded Austin of a cheap motel. Scanning the file, it was all pretty straightforward. Delgado was a furniture restorer in his late twenties, maybe five or six years older than Alyssa. Lean and not especially healthy looking, he had prematurely graying hair. He had a couple of police complaints on record—a vandalism charge at nineteen that stemmed from a dispute over a video game. And, two years later, a bar fight with the new boyfriend of a girl who’d dumped him. Minor stuff, but paired with the breakup and Alyssa’s social media posts, it painted a picture of someone who didn’t let things go. Didn’t let people go.

Austin sighed and grabbed his jacket, then crossed the parking lot, the rain soaking his boots as he climbed the creaky stairs to the second floor. Apartment 2B.

He knocked, three quick raps.

There was a shuffle of movement inside before the door opened a crack. Matt Delgado stood there—sharp features, tired eyes, and a shadow of stubble on his jaw.

“Yeah?” Delgado’s voice was tight, impatient.

“Detective Thomas Austin,” he said, holding up his badge. “Mind if we talk inside?”

Delgado’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, yeah. I do mind.” His voice carried a tired, bored tone, as if everything and everyone was a waste of his precious time.

Austin kept his expression neutral and stepped back slightly. “Fine. We’ll talk out here.”

Delgado stepped onto the small walkway, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. “What’s this about?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Alyssa Howard,” Austin said, watching Delgado carefully for a reaction.

“What about her?”

Austin thought he noticed something subtle—a little flicker in Delgado’s eyes, too quick to pin down. “She’s dead,” he said flatly, studying the young man’s face.

“Dead?” Delgado’s voice dropped. “What happened?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Austin said. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

Delgado’s gaze drifted toward the rain-soaked parking lot. “Few days ago. We weren’t together anymore.”

“Few days ago,” Austin repeated. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah. Monday. Why?” Delgado’s tone sharpened, and he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Because she posted about you that day,” Austin said. “Something about ‘never ever getting back together.’ Seemed like there was still... unresolved business. Unresolved feelings.”

Delgado’s face tightened. “That post? That was just Alyssa being Alyssa. She liked to make everything public, blow it out of proportion. And, of course, she had to reference Taylor Swift. You didn’t know her and I’m telling you, she had serious issues.”

“Did you two argue much?”

He nodded slowly. “Don’t tell me you think I had something to do with this. Do you?”

Austin ignored the question. “What kinds of things did you argue over?” Austin asked.

“We argued, okay? Couples argue. Over money usually. I was six years older than her, helped her get started. She borrowed a lot and never paid it back. Said it wasn’t my business what she did with it.” He laughed bitterly. “That was Alyssa. Always playing the victim. And when her socials popped off, she still never paid me back.”

“Popped off?”

“Damn, you’re old.” Delgado shook his head. “Got big, went viral. She got pretty famous, if you count like Instagram famous. She was making money, though, okay?”

Austin tilted his head slightly. “On Monday, I believe she drove out to Harrows Bay after she left. What did you do after she left?”

“Worked,” Delgado said quickly. “At my studio, then here. Working on furniture all night. I didn’t leave.”

“And the next morning?”

Delgado thought for a moment. “Slept til probably eleven or so. Watched TV for a bit. Met some friends for pizza at one, then came home, slept some more, then worked into the night.”

“Anyone who can confirm that?”

“My friends would confirm the pizza lunch,” Delgado admitted. “But I work alone. No one else was there. I was depressed because she’d come to see me on the way out to the coast and made it clear that we were done.”

“Weren’t you already broken up?” Austin asked.

“Yeah but we’d broken up before. I’d done my thing. She did what she had to do. Always thought, you know, she’d come back.”

Austin nodded slowly. So she’d stopped by three days ago, told him it was over for good, then gone out to Harrows Bay. The next morning, she’d been brutally beaten and murdered. His gaze shifted to the cluttered apartment, visible through the crack in the door—sawdust on the floor, tools scattered across a table. On a shelf, a mug caught his attention. It was mostly wedged behind two books but just enough stuck out to notice a letter A adorned with pink roses. He wondered if it meant “A” for Alyssa.

“You work at home?”

“Sometimes.” He leaned on the wall. “I’m not supposed to but I just bring small projects here sometimes.”

“Mind if I ask how you scraped your knuckles?” Austin said, nodding toward Matt’s right hand.

Matt glanced down quickly, his posture stiffening. “Working with tools. Sometimes you slip. What does that matter?”

Austin studied him for a moment. “Because right now, you’re the last person we know Alyssa was in contact with, other than a B and B manager who’s eighty-one years old and the clerk at a clam shack who’s sixteen and is in a wheelchair. Your name’s all over her final posts, and she gave you final notice twenty-four hours before she died.”

“That’s BS,” Delgado snapped, taking a step forward. “I had nothing to do with whatever happened to her.”

Austin just stood there, waiting to see how far Delgado would let his anger take him.

Then, as if remembering to be concerned, Delgado said, “She’s really dead? This isn’t like some hidden camera prank for her Instagram?”

Austin shook his head. “Assuming you had nothing to do with this, you won’t mind answering a few more questions.”

Delgado exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging. “Fine. Ask.”

The rain picked up, drumming harder on the overhang above them. Austin noticed the defensiveness in Delgado’s tone and the way he avoided direct eye contact when Alyssa’s name came up. The mug, the scrapes, the rushed answers—they all suggested there was more to his story than he was letting on.

Austin recalled the cliché: it’s always the one you least suspect. In his experience, that wasn’t always true. In fact, it was usually false.

Most often, it was the one you most expected. Most often, that was the husband or the boyfriend.

“You have any plans to leave the state?” Austin asked.

Delgado shook his head.

“Just to be clear,” Austin said, tell me the timeline as you recall it. “From the moment Alyssa left, covering the next two days.”

Delgado thought. “She texted me Monday to meet for lunch at our old favorite spot, Silver City Brewery. Rubbing my nose in it if you ask me. Told me it was for real over this time. I asked her for the two grand back that I’d lent her to get her first camera and lighting set, and she blew me off. Then she did her victim thing, talking about how hard it was to be famous. How in LA kids stop her on the streets and whatnot. Said she wanted to get into more serious content, like journalism almost, instead of just makeup tips and BS. After lunch, I worked and smoked weed late into the night. Then, like I said, slept in, pizza with the guys, then slept more.” He thought for a moment. “Can’t you like, use the ping on my phone or whatever to tell where I was and stop wasting my time?”

“For now,” Austin said, “that won’t be necessary. But if it’s something you’re willing to do, it might help.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Austin sat at the desk in his home office, his fingers moving slowly over the keyboard. He had cracked the window slightly so he could hear the sound of the gentle waves, and the room smelled of salt air and coffee. Finishing the report on his interview with Matt Delgado felt like trying to push water uphill, his lack of typing speed making the task drag.

He leaned back, rubbing his temples, then picked up a few of the photos of Alyssa Howard that he’d printed up from the file. He hated paperwork, but keeping images of the victim close at hand often motivated him to do the best job he could. The words on the screen recounted every detail he’d observed—the fresh scrapes on Delgado’s knuckles, the shaky alibi, the tension that rolled off him in waves. It all painted a picture, but whether it was the right one wasn’t Austin’s call to make. He squinted, rereading his last paragraph before adding the piece about Delgado volunteering his phone.

From the kitchen, Sy’s voice carried through the partially closed door. “Are you almost ready? We’re going to be late!”

“Almost!” Austin called back. He and Sy had planned a rare evening event at his little cafe, general store, and bait shop: the launch of his first cookbook.

With a final tap, he sent the report to Elaine Turner and pushed back from the desk. The chair creaked under his weight as he stood. When he stepped into the kitchen, Sy was waiting, tall and striking in a black dress and a white scarf. Her long black hair fell in soft waves, and a touch of red lipstick made her usual natural beauty even more captivating.

“Wow,” Austin said. “You’re a little overdressed for the bait shop. But hey, at least the commute’s short—what, five seconds?”

At the sound of Austin’s steps on the kitchen floor, Run, his corgi, trotted in excitedly. She paused, her head tilted slightly, watching Sy as if evaluating the competition. Suddenly, she rolled onto her back, wriggling dramatically for attention, tiny paws paddling in the air.

Austin chuckled, reaching down to scratch her belly. “Sorry, Run, you’re staying home tonight. You’re overdressed, too, by the way.”

Sy bent down to pet Run, earning an enthusiastic lick on her cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Sy cooed. “We’ll bring you back something special.”

Run jumped back onto all fours, seemingly satisfied, though Austin was pretty sure the little corgi was still plotting revenge for missing the evening’s events. And the evening’s food.

Sy rolled her eyes, though her smirk gave her away. “Now let’s go. You can’t be late for your own party.”

“Andy can wait,” he said, but still he grabbed his jacket off the chair and slipped into his boots quickly. “Ready.”

“Just a sec,” Sy said.

Austin leaned against the kitchen doorway as Sy adjusted her earrings in the reflection of the microwave door. “This is going to be a busy night,” he said. “But today is my Friday and I’m off through the weekend. So tomorrow, let’s do absolutely nothing. Like, not even get out of bed.”

Sy turned to him with a small smile, the kind that still caught him off guard even after all these months together. “Maybe for coffee. But that’s it.”

Austin chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Coffee, yes. We need a break.”

The truth was, they hadn’t had much time for anything lately. Between the café, the cookbook launch, and the steady demands of his job, every day seemed to blur into the next. And Sy had been busy, too. After moving out west, determined to start a new career in the wine business, she’d been back and forth from an internship in the Walla Walla Valley. And when she was around, she was studying constantly. Moments together had been fleeting, reduced to quick exchanges over breakfast or a few shared minutes before collapsing into bed at night.

And then there was the baby.

The thought struck Austin hard and fast, as it always did when it surfaced—We’re going to have a child. It felt monumental, impossible even, and yet, they’d barely had the chance to talk about it. There was so much to figure out, but every time the subject seemed within reach, something else demanded his attention. Work. The café. The endless stream of tasks that never stopped piling up.

He glanced at Sy, who was slipping into her coat. Her calm, composed expression didn’t give anything away, but he wondered if she felt it too—that unspoken weight hanging between them.

Run had settled in contentedly for a nap in the dead center of the kitchen.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, they’d stop. Slow down. Maybe even figure out how to start the conversation that had been waiting for them.

Together, they stepped out into the cool, misty air. The lights from the café glowed warmly against the gray, and through the windows, Austin could see Andy bustling behind the counter, preparing for the evening’s event.

“In half an hour,” Sy said, “the place will be packed.”

Austin considered this. “I never should have let Andy convince me to do that cookbook.”

The crowd was good, especially for a cold night in November. Andy, whom Austin had recently made a full partner in the café, had prepared a selection of favorite dishes from their regular menu and the new cookbook. After greeting everyone as they came in, Austin stood in the doorway, watching the bustling crowd.

Even though it was dinner time, little trays of banana pancakes and mini waffle sandwiches were being passed around by a waiter, along with mini-burgers and assorted vegetable dishes. The formality of service felt ridiculous in his little beachfront café.

Along the wall, entrees were set out, including seared salmon with hazelnut pesto and their new signature dish—chicken and chicken of the woods and dumplings. A twist on classic American chicken and dumplings, the dish featured local ingredients like hard apple cider and chicken of the woods mushrooms.

Austin made his way through the crowd, greeting people and chatting as he went. Even though Andy had done most of the work on the cookbook, Austin signed a few copies, making sure Andy signed along with him. By the end of the evening, they had sold one hundred ten copies of the cookbook, translating to a $550 donation to the Kitsap Humane Society, which was receiving all profits from the project.

Despite all the positivity around him, he felt odd, isolated from the enjoyment of good food and the tastes of Pacific Northwest wines Sy was pouring. He knew that he needed to learn to set things like Alyssa Howard’s murder aside and enjoy the good moments. Everyone said it. But no one told him how to do it. He envied the people who could do their best at work, then set it aside one hundred percent. But he wasn’t one of them. Even as he made small talk with Mr. and Mrs. McGuillicutty and received compliments on the food, he couldn’t shake the images of Alyssa’s bruised and waterlogged body.

As the evening wound down, exhaustion settled into Austin’s bones. But more than that, he couldn’t shake the feeling of a growing, unspoken conversation between him and Sy—one that needed to be had. It was like a pressure building inside him, dying to be relieved. But it was unlike any pressure he’d ever felt. The knowledge that his child was growing minute by minute, would soon be in front of him, then crawling, then walking, then in school, then... He was letting his mind wander way too far into the future.

He just needed to talk to Sy.

When they returned home, leaving Andy to shut down the cafe, Austin kicked off his shoes by the couch, rain rattling against the windows in steady sheets. Sy followed, stepping lightly as she handed him a glass of red wine.

“Andrew Will Cabernet,” she said, settling in beside him. “Made over on Vashon, though the grapes come from Central Washington. They always get this amazing balance—dark fruit, a little earthy, with just a hint of spice.”

Austin took a sip, nodding like he understood. All he tasted was something smooth and rich, worlds better than the bottles he’d pick out on his own. “Tastes great to me,” he said simply.

Sy smiled, tucking her legs under her on the couch. “I guess that’s what matters.” She took the glass from him and inhaled deeply, then took a sip so tiny he was sure she’d mostly taken in air.

Since becoming pregnant, she hadn’t had a full glass of wine, instead focusing on aromas and thimble-sized sips of glasses she handed to him.

The living room was small but comfortable, its modest furnishings and warm lamplight softening the storm outside. The wind whipped against the panes, and the rain rolled down in jagged streaks, but inside, it was quiet except for the occasional creak of the building settling.

Sy’s gaze wandered to the windows. After a moment, she said, “We should talk about the baby.”

Austin set his glass down on the coffee table, turning toward her. “Yeah. We should.”

She hesitated, interlacing her fingers slowly. “I told my parents today. I didn’t want to bring it up too early. My mom had always said it was bad luck to talk about it before four months.”

“And?” Austin asked.

“They were thrilled. Beyond thrilled.”

“They like me that much?” Austin joked.

She chuckled. “They want grandkids so bad I could have told them I was having the child of a three-time felon with a gambling problem and they would have been happy.”

Austin cocked his head.

“I told them you were only a two-time felon.”

“Thanks,” he said. “That’s good to know for when I finally meet them.”

Sy met his eyes, her expression suddenly uncertain. “Do you really want this, Austin? A baby? With me?”

The question hit him harder than he expected, not because he doubted his answer but because she did. “Of course I do. Why would you even ask that?”

She reached over and took his wine glass, inhaling deeply at its rim, then turning it slightly in her hands. “Because we’re in our forties. Because we’re not married. Because I lived on the east coast until a few months ago. Because we’ve barely had time to talk about it. And because you’ve already got so much going on. The café, your job… I just—I don’t want this to be something you feel like you have to do.”

Austin reached for her hand, his grip firm. “Sy, I want this. I want you. And yeah, I’m scared, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want it. This is just... huge. I’m not sure anyone can ever feel ready for something like this.”

Her lips twitched into a faint smile, though her eyes stayed serious. “They can’t. But that doesn’t make it any less real.”

The rain beat harder against the windows, the storm growing louder. Austin shifted slightly, his knee brushing against hers. “Ridley said something to me,” he began. “He said no one tells you how much time and money it costs to have a kid.”

“He’s not wrong,” Sy said softly. “Everything is going to change.”

“I’m not worried about the money,” Austin said, his voice low. “I’m never going to be a rich man, but between the job and the café, we’ll be fine. It’s the time. That’s what I keep thinking about. I don’t want to be one of those dads who’s always working, always too busy. I want to give our kid time, Sy. But I can’t do that if I’m running the café and working as a detective.”

Sy studied him carefully. “You’ve been thinking about this.”

“Yeah. Maybe I need to sell the café.”

Sy tilted her head slightly. “I mean, isn’t Andy doing most of the work these days?”

“A lot of the day-to-day, but there’s still ordering, taxes, license stuff. It adds up.”

“Maybe,” Sy suggested, “you need to stop being a detective. That’s the one that takes most of the time.”

Austin leaned back, the couch groaning under his weight. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, the words circling in his mind. “You worry about me. I get it.”

“Of course I do,” she said, leaning toward him. “It’s not just a job, Austin. You’re knocking on doors, tracking down suspects, putting yourself in situations that—” She cut herself off, exhaling sharply. “It’s dangerous. And now, with the baby…”

He reached for her other hand, holding both of hers firmly. “I’ll stay safe,” he said. “I promise. No risks. No chasing trouble. I’ll keep things low-key from now on.”

Sy watched him, her expression softening slightly. “I hope you mean that.”

“I do,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.” As he said it, a wave of guilt overcame him. As much as he wanted it to be true, he wasn’t sure it was.

Outside, the wind had died down, leaving a sudden, eerie silence between them.

An hour later, Sy was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, the quiet humming filtering into the bedroom. Austin slid under the covers, the weight of the day finally catching up to him. He reached for his phone on the nightstand, planning to set an early alarm and turn it to sleep mode.

He wasn’t working tomorrow—he’d promised himself that—but he still wanted to get in a run first thing in the morning. The thought of becoming a dad had shifted something in him. He was still in decent shape, but if he was going to be chasing a toddler around someday, he wanted to be in the best shape he could. If he couldn’t control the emotional overwhelm of having a child, at least he could train for it like an athlete.

As he was about to power it down, the phone’s screen lit up. A text from Elaine in Harrows Bay.

Elaine Turner: Delgado’s alibi was BS. He had pizza with his friends the day after Elaine died, but security cameras at his apartment building show him leaving for his lunch with Alyssa—which we also confirmed with the brewery—but not returning until AFTER his lunch with pals the next day. Plenty of time to tail her up to Harrows Bay and make it back in time for lunch. Hell, maybe he even brought a couple of his buddy’s with him to “help.” Bottom line: I’m gonna come down to Kitsap first thing tomorrow, meet us there?

Austin frowned, sitting up in bed. His instincts about the man hadn’t been wrong, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

Another message followed before he could respond.

Elaine Turner: We’d like you to liaise or act as a guest investigator. His false alibi is probable cause to detain him and ask a hell of a lot more questions. The thing is, we don’t have a formal arrest warrant in hand yet—just strong evidence that he lied and probably knows more than he’s letting on. And since we’ll be stepping outside our county to pick him up, we’d rather not roll in there alone. If you’re there to coordinate—showing the locals that we’re not just barging onto their turf without reason—it’ll make the whole process smoother. Bottom line: we want to do this by the book. Your presence helps keep everything clean and above board.

“Damn,” Austin whispered.

And not because he didn’t want to do it. It was because he did want to.

He could already picture it—meeting Elaine at the station, diving back into the case, figuring out exactly where Delgado’s alibi unraveled. But his eyes drifted toward the bathroom door, where Sy’s voice hummed a soft tune between the brushing of her teeth. Some song about the wine Gods of ancient Greece and Rome.

He had made her a promise, and promises like this were becoming more important by the day.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard before he started typing: No, you’ve got this. I’ll send Detective Kendall. Or, I’ll ask Lucy to send her.

He paused, then added: She’s another officer in the Kitsap County Sheriff’s Department. Just as good as me, maybe better.

Satisfied, he hit send and set the phone face down on the nightstand. He leaned back against the pillow, feeling the tension leave his shoulders.

Sy emerged from the bathroom moments later, her hair pulled back and her face fresh, a soft glow from the lamplight warming her features. She climbed into bed, glancing at him curiously. “What are you thinking about?”

Austin stretched out, folding his hands behind his head. “How nice it’s going to be to take a day off for once.”

Sy raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re actually going to take the whole day off? Not sneak out before dawn or run off after lunch?”

He grinned. “Just coffee and a jog. Nothing else, I swear.”

She laughed, curling up beside him. Outside, the rain picked up, quiet and steady, as the apartment settled into stillness.

CHAPTER FIVE

Friday

He was falling.

Brooklyn Bridge, night time, the city a blur of lights behind him. Wind tore past, deafening, weightless, endless. The black water below rushed up to meet him, and then—impact.

Cold. Violent. The river swallowed him whole.

The current yanked him under, spinning, dragging, crushing. He kicked, reached, fought—but there was nothing to grab onto. The city was up there, far above, blurred and unreachable.

He kicked his legs desperately, trying to surface. The river had other plans.

His lungs burned. His arms slowed. The weight of his clothes, his gun, his gear—pulling him down, deeper.

Then the worst part. He didn’t black out. Didn’t slip away.

He stayed. Fully aware. Trapped inside his body, sinking, lungs on fire, the world growing darker, heavier, pressing against him.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be saved.

A boat. A hand pulling him from the water.

Not this.

Not—

As he drowned, images floated through the dark water. Fiona’s face, her mouth forming words he couldn’t hear. Sy’s hand brushing his, warm and steady, grounding him—gone now, lost in the current. And the baby. Their baby. A future that had felt so distant, so surreal, now something he’d never touch.

He opened his mouth to scream, but the river filled it first.

And suddenly, he could taste it.

A burger, charred green chilies seared into the patty. The first menu change he’d made at the café. The one that made people pause, take a bite, nod in approval. Wines that Sy had chosen for him, each sip expanding into color, into memory. A Bordeaux with soft tannins, a Roussanne bright as afternoon light on a fishing dock.

But then the flavors shifted.

Something sharp, metallic. Rust. No—iron. Like biting down on the inside of his cheek, but deeper, darker. Then something colder, deeper still—black licorice, but bitter and wrong. Burnt and stale and so intense he gagged. It was the taste of absolute, unrelenting fear.

He wanted to spit it out, but he was still drowning.

His chest spasmed, instinct clawing at his body, demanding breath. He fought, thrashed⁠—

And sank.

No hand to pull him up.

No air left.

No way out.

Austin jolted awake, the taste of the bitter licorice still burning his tongue.

The room was dark, the air too still. His pulse slammed against his ribs. He rolled onto his side, exhaled, pressed a hand to his face.

Just a dream.

He’d had it once or twice before since his fateful trip to New York City, since the fall off the Brooklyn Bridge that should have killed him. But it had never ended that way. His synesthesia had never come into the dream. It had never felt so real.

The room was quiet—too quiet. He blinked at the clock on the nightstand and frowned. It was past 7 AM.

He sat up slowly, confused. Sy wasn’t next to him, and the alarm he’d set for his morning jog hadn’t gone off—or maybe it had, and he’d slept through it. That rarely happened to him, but between the café, the various investigations, and the mountain of paperwork from the last couple of months, his exhaustion wasn’t surprising.

The silence was unsettling, though. The apartment felt off. Then he heard it—a soft, uneven sound. Crying.

He froze for a moment, listening. Sy was crying.

He’d never liked hearing people cry, especially someone he cared about. But now, with her carrying his child, the sound twisted something deep in him, sharp and visceral, protective and almost animalistic. He jumped out of bed and hurried toward the sound, already running through possibilities in his head.

When he found her, she was in his office, standing by the desk, her back to him. Something was in her hands.

“Sy,” he said gently, stepping into the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

She turned slowly, her eyes red, and, when he saw what she was holding, his heart sank. They were the photos Elaine had sent him, which he’d printed the night before. The photos of Alyssa Howard, both before and after her murder.

“I didn’t mean for you to see those,” he said quickly, stepping toward her and reaching for them.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, holding them tightly. “I was looking for empty coffee mugs to start the dishwasher, and I found them.” She looked down at the photos again, then back at him. “This is what you were working on yesterday?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s bad.”

Sy handed him the photos, and he set them on the desk, face down. Even now, the images were burned into his mind—the beaten body, waterlogged and broken, discarded like nothing. Alyssa’s life had been erased so brutally, and there was no forgetting that.

“I really didn’t want you to see those,” he said.

“I know.” She wiped at her cheeks. “It’s just... horrible. She was so young.”

Austin exhaled, glancing toward the window where the rain streaked the glass. “It’s odd,” he said. “I’ve seen cases like this, dozens of them. Mostly back in New York, but we’ve had some bad ones here as well.” He paused, thinking. “I don’t know what it is about this...”

“It’s because now you’re going to be a dad.” She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re becoming a more emotional person.” Austin didn’t have time to consider this before she continued. “Was it the officers working the case who texted last night?” she asked.

He let out a breath. “Elaine Turner from Harrows Bay. She wanted me to help with the investigation.”

Sy frowned slightly, searching his face. “And?”

“I told her no,” he said, leaning back against the desk. “I told her Kendall could handle it.”

“Kendall’s good,” Sy said. “Isn’t she?”

“She’s great,” he said. He looked down at Run, who was nipping at his heels, probably wondering why he hadn’t yet taken her to the beach. “And not just because she has a corgi.” He was trying to sound light, to change the subject from the photos.

Sy nodded, but didn’t look convinced. She glanced at the desk again, where the photos lay. “Austin,” she said quietly, “if you want to work on this case, you should.”

He shook his head. “Sy⁠—”

“Of course I don’t want you to go,” she interrupted, stepping closer. “Of course not. But those photos...” Her voice caught for a moment before she steadied it. “They’re horrifying. If there’s even a chance you can help catch whoever did that, maybe you should go.”

Her words lingered. Austin knew what she was thinking, feeling. She didn’t want him to leave, but she couldn’t ignore what they both knew—someone needed to be held accountable for what had happened to Alyssa Howard. But he didn’t know if she took this to the next place his mind tended to go: how can we bring a child into this world? A world where young women like Alyssa Howard are thrown into the ocean after being murdered.

He looked at her, at the way her hand rested lightly on his arm. “I promised I’d take the day off,” he said softly.

“And I’d love that,” she said. “But I also know you. You won’t really take the day off with that case hanging over you.”

He didn’t want Sy to be right, but she was. “I’ll think about it,” he said after a long pause.

She stepped back, nodding. “I’ll make the coffee, and we need to take Run out for a walk.”

Run knew exactly what that meant, and she took off at a sprint, leading them out of the office and into the kitchen in a kind of bouncing sprint.

Sometimes Austin envied his little corgi. She was always positive, always ready for the next adventure. And, best of all, oblivious to the fate of victims like Alyssa Howard.

Three hours later, Austin pulled into the parking lot outside Matt Delgado’s apartment complex, his windshield wipers smearing rain across the glass in lazy arcs. The building was as unremarkable as he remembered—weathered siding, a few crooked blinds, and a sagging drainpipe spewing rainwater onto the pavement below.

Under a small overhang by the entrance, a uniformed officer stood with his arms crossed, his shoulders hunched against the damp air. He had sandy blond hair combed neatly back, the ends curling slightly from the humidity.

Austin grabbed his coat and hurried across the parking lot, avoiding puddles as best he could. “Deputy Tiernan?” Austin called as he approached. When he’d texted Elaine Turner to tell her he’d meet her at Delgado’s, she’d mentioned that she was driving down with Blake Tiernan, another Harrows Bay officer.

The man glanced up, his expression flat, but not unfriendly. “Yep,” he said, giving a short nod. “Call me Blake. You Detective Austin?”

Austin extended a hand, which Blake shook briefly before letting his arm drop back to his side. “Good to meet you,” Austin said.

“Yeah,” Tiernan replied. “Elaine said we’d be joined by the semi-famous Thomas Austin.”

Austin ignored the sarcasm in Blake’s tone. “Where’s Elaine?” he asked, keeping his tone easy.

“I read about the Holiday Baby Butcher case, the sick bastard with the tools over on Bainbridge Island, the thing with your wife back in NYC.” He cocked his head. “You always seem to end up at the center of things, huh?”

Austin shrugged.

“And now you’ve inserted yourself into our case, too.”

Austin wasn’t sure what this guy had against him, but he’d heard enough. “Elaine—your boss—asked me to be here. Where is she?”

“She’s across the street at the diner,” Blake said, jerking his chin toward a squat building with a flickering Open sign. He seemed to have dropped his animosity all at once. “Had to get her coffee. She’s one of those eight cups a day or I’ll kill someone types. Won’t start an interview without a paper cup in her hand.”

Austin smiled. “Good to know.”

Blake adjusted the collar of his jacket, his gaze drifting toward the apartment’s rain-streaked windows. “She’s the organized one. I guess that’s what all the caffeine is for. I just try to keep up.”

Austin leaned against the edge of the overhang, watching Blake. He looked to be around thirty-five, with a sturdy build and an air of confidence that didn’t quite tip into arrogance.

“First time in Kitsap?” Austin asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Blake snorted softly. “Nah. I mean I’ve passed through a few times. Tell you what, though—couldn’t pay me to live in Kitsap County.”

Austin raised an eyebrow but kept his expression neutral. “That’s honest. But why?”

“I mean, I live on the beach,” Blake said. “Not to mention, we’ve got great hunting out there. And it’s cheap.”

“We have quite a few beaches here.”

“Pebbly little sad patches on the Sound. I’m talking about the ocean.”

Austin enjoyed the local beaches just fine, but he couldn’t argue about their lack of oceanfront property.

“I mean, Bremerton’s fine,” Blake continued, “if you don’t mind the smell of shipyards and wet concrete.”

Austin raised an eyebrow.

“Just calling it like I see it,” Blake said, shrugging.

The rain dripped steadily from the overhang, pooling in tiny rivers that streamed toward the lot’s edges. Austin straightened, brushing some water off his sleeve. “You’ve been working this case since the beginning?”

“Since the call came in,” Blake said, shifting his weight. “But you probably already know that, given that Elaine dragged you out here to educate us coastal morons.”

Austin smiled faintly. Blake seemed to waver between sarcasm and thinly-veiled hostility. Whether it was a territorial thing or something else entirely, he didn’t know, but he filed it away for later. “They just thought I might have some insight. It’s not my intention to step on anyone’s toes.”

“Sure,” Blake said, his lips curving into a humorless smile. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself. “Anyway, she’ll want to give you the rundown herself. Probably with a cup of black magic in hand.”

Austin nodded, stepping back under the overhang. He glanced toward the diner, where he was happy to see Elaine Turner striding across the parking lot, a to-go coffee cup in hand and a purposeful set to her jaw. She moved with the confidence of someone who’d been in her role long enough to know what she was doing but not so long that it had worn her down. Her sharp eyes swept over him and Blake, assessing the scene as she approached.

“Detective Austin,” she said as she gave him a quick nod. “Deputy Tiernan.”

“Sergeant Turner,” Blake replied.

Elaine stopped under the overhang, shaking the rain from her sleeves. “We’ve got Alyssa’s laptop from the B and B,” she began, holding her coffee in both hands. “It’s back in Harrows Bay with forensics. We’re waiting on a warrant to get into it—privacy issues. There’s also a wrinkle with the sister. Maria Howard doesn’t seem keen on us digging through it, and I don’t know why. She’s holding back on something, but we’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

Austin frowned. “Any idea what’s on it?”

“Not yet,” Elaine said. “If there’s anything on there about Delgado or her last days, it could be critical. Officers didn’t find anything else in her room at the B and B. Just clothes, a couple books. Everything of value was on her computer and phone, I’m guessing.” She paused, looking toward the apartment building. “For now, we focus on him.”

Austin nodded. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll take the lead,” she said. “You’re here as backup—jump in if you see an opening. If your read on him yesterday was right, he knows more than he’s letting on.”

Blake shifted his weight slightly, but said nothing.

“You gonna asked for his phone?” Austin said. “That could clear up some things.”

Elaine shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Just handing over his phone doesn’t prove anything—he could’ve left it at home while he went out, or even given it to someone else. So the location data isn’t much. And even if the data does show something useful, we need consent in writing. I prefer to get it on video too, so later he can’t claim he was pressured or didn’t understand what he was agreeing to. If we’re using his own phone to clear or implicate him, I don’t want any gaps a future lawyer can exploit.”

Austin nodded. “What about texts and emails and whatnot?”

Blake smirked. “If he’s dumb enough to let us see those, I’ll buy the beers tonight.”

The three of them moved to the apartment, climbing the concrete steps in single file. When they reached the door, Blake knocked hard and stepped back.

The door opened a crack, and the smell hit immediately—a sharp, pungent wave of weed that wafted out to greet them.

Delgado stood in the doorway, tall and wiry, his dark hair a tangled mess and his eyes bloodshot. His gaze swept across the three of them, lingering briefly on Austin before locking on Blake.

The change was immediate. Delgado’s body stiffened, his jaw tightening as his hand gripped the doorframe. His eyes burned with something raw and unfiltered—rage.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Delgado spat, his voice low.

“Matt,” Blake said evenly, though his shoulders squared slightly. “So nice to see you again, old pal.”

Elaine glanced from Blake to Delgado to Austin, apparently confused.

Austin shrugged. He had no clue what was going on.

Delgado let out a bitter laugh, his breathing sharp and shallow. “You’re really here for this? You?”

Elaine stepped forward. “Mr. Delgado, we’re here to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”

Delgado didn’t look at her. His focus stayed locked on Blake. “No, you can’t come in.”

“Then we’ll talk here,” Elaine said. “How about we start with what the hell is going on right now? Do you know Deputy Tiernan somehow?”

When Delgado didn’t respond, she turned to Blake, eyebrow raised.

Blake stared at Delgado. “We’ve only met once or twice.”

Delgado stepped into the doorway fully, arms crossed over his chest, his frame blocking their view inside. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Austin exchanged a brief glance with Elaine. Whatever was between Delgado and Blake, it was personal. And personal had a way of blowing up fast.

CHAPTER SIX

The tension in the doorway burst like a dam giving way.

Before Elaine could get out another question, Delgado barked, “Actually, screw you.” He stepped back and tried to shut the door, but Austin held it open with his boot.

“You won’t be doing that,” Austin said.

“Fine,” Delgado said, giving in easily. “But what the hell is he doing here?” His glare fixed on Blake, the kind of look that didn’t just see the present but dredged up every piece of history between them. “You think I forgot? You think you can just walk in here like nothing happened?” Delgado leaned in, trying to look menacing.

Blake didn’t flinch. He straightened slightly, his arms loose at his sides, but there was a crackle in the air around him, a readiness. “Step back, Matt,” he said, his voice low.

“Or what?” Delgado’s laugh was hollow, ugly. “You gonna show me what a big man you are again? Just like you did with Alyssa?” He smirked. “She told me you weren’t nearly as big as you wish you were.”

Austin glanced at Elaine, whose face showed shock.

Delgado turned his shoulder slightly, as though he might be heading back into the apartment, then sprung like a drunk cat toward Blake, arms outstretched like he was going to strangle him.

Blake stepped aside deftly, dodging easily. Before anyone could stop him, he punched Delgado square in the ribs. The impact drove the man backward, his shoulders slamming into the doorframe. He grunted in pain, doubling over and falling back into the apartment.

Blake stepped in after him and pulled his leg back like he was going to kick Delgado while he was down.

“Blake, that’s enough!” Elaine barked, her tone cutting through the chaos.

That was enough to get Blake to stop the kick, but he wasn’t done. Leaning down, he pulled Delgado to his feet and, gripping the front of his shirt, shoved him further into the apartment then slammed him against the wall. “Say it again,” Blake growled. “Go ahead.”

Austin moved fast, his hands grabbing Blake by the shoulders and yanking him back with a force that sent both of them stumbling. “Get off him!” Austin barked, stepping between them.

Blake tried to push forward again, his breath coming fast, but Austin shoved him back with a hand to the chest. “I said enough!” Austin’s voice was commanding. “I don’t care what he said. This is not how we do things.”

Delgado leaned against the wall of the messy apartment, his hand clutching his ribs as he straightened slowly. His face was pale, his breaths shallow, but his eyes burned with a raw, undiluted rage. “Still the same insecure bastard?” he said, his voice rough. “Makes since you’d have to pack a gun given that you ain’t packin’ anything else.”

Blake stiffened, his fists curling at his sides, but he didn’t move again.

“Blake,” Elaine said sharply, “outside. Now.”

Blake hesitated for a fraction of a second before turning on his heel and storming out, his angry footfalls pounding against the concrete steps.

Elaine turned to Delgado, her expression hard. “You’re done. There’s no interview now. We’re taking you in.”

“For what?” Matt spat. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Lied about your alibi,” Elaine said as she pulled out her cuffs. “Security cameras from the apartment building have you leaving for your lunch with Alyssa and not coming back until the next day. Plus—and I don’t know what’s between you and Blake—but you just attempted to assault an officer. Turn around.”

“I can explain about the security camera thing,” he said.

“And you’ll have a chance to do so,” Austin said. “Turn around.”

Delgado didn’t resist as Elaine cuffed him, but his smirk returned, colder this time. “You want the truth? Fine. You can have it.”

Elaine glanced at Austin before stepping closer. “Go on,” she said.

Delgado tilted his head toward the door Blake had just walked through. “Your boy? The one who just tried to cave my ribs in? He’s why Alyssa and I fell apart the first time, like two years ago. She cheated on me with him when she went back for her mom’s funeral. Said it was a one time mistake. Said it didn’t mean anything. But after that, nothing was the same. That’s when she started pulling away.”

Elaine’s grip on the cuffs didn’t falter, but Austin caught the briefest flicker of something in her eyes—shock, maybe, or anger. From his read on her, she was professional enough that she never would have brought Blake along if she’d known.

“Let’s get him in the car,” she said flatly, guiding Matt toward the door.

“Let’s go,” Austin said, leading Delgado out the door.

As they crossed the lot, the rain continued falling, soaking through their clothes. Delgado climbed into the back of the patrol car without another word, his earlier defiance replaced by a brooding silence.

Near the passenger side, Blake lingered, his jaw tight and his movements jerky. “Did he say anything else?”

Elaine held up a hand. “Damn you, Blake. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Blake shrugged. “Who else were you gonna bring? Marnie?”

Elaine shook her head. “We’ll talk about this later, but you’re on the thinnest ice. I’m talking paper thin.”

Austin caught a glimpse of a scratch on Blake’s cheek, the faint smear of blood against his skin.

Blake shrugged, as though suddenly carefree again. “I’ll be back,” he muttered, turning toward the diner across the street. “Need to wash up.”

When he was gone, Elaine turned to Austin, lowering her voice. “He’s actually a good officer. A bit of a hothead, yeah. But sometimes we need that in our line of work.”

Austin nodded, though he wasn’t so sure.

“I need a favor,” Elaine said.

Austin had felt this coming. “What kind of favor?”

Elaine hesitated, her gaze darting briefly toward the car where Delgado sat cuffed, staring out at the rain. “I think you know.”

That night, Austin sat in his home office, the desk lamp casting a pale circle of light over the cluttered surface—a few pens, a half-empty coffee mug, and a small stack of printouts about Alyssa Howard. He hadn’t known her name until this case, but now he couldn’t escape it.

Every news site and social media platform had picked up the story of her death and he was realizing how out of touch with celebrity culture he’d become.

Rising Social Media Star Alyssa Howard Found Dead in Apparent Homicide

The Dark Side of Influencer Fame: Alyssa Howard’s Tragic Final Days

Murder Mystery in Harrows Bay: What Happened to Alyssa Howard?

Austin scrolled through an article on his computer, the words blurring slightly from fatigue. There was a photo at the top—a bright-eyed, sunlit Alyssa standing on a Los Angeles beach, her hand in a playful peace sign. At least the photos of her body hadn’t leaked.

Of course, none of the articles had any actual information, but the fact that she had a pretty face and was dead, was enough to get the clicks they wanted.

She was a new kind of celebrity, someone Austin wouldn’t have heard of in a hundred years if not for her death. But, apparently, everyone under twenty-five knew Alyssa. Her photos, meticulously curated posts, and perfectly casual captions had earned her millions of followers. He’d watched a few of her videos and, despite the fact that they were fundamentally uninteresting to him, he could see the appeal. She had a way of mixing everyday makeup and cooking tips in with humor and an undeniable charisma that made her fun to watch. She often played up her girl-from-a-small-town-trying-to-make-it-in-LA angle, which set her apart from many of the more polished influencers out there.

He closed the browser when a soft knock interrupted his thoughts. The door creaked open, and Sy stepped in, holding a steaming mug of coffee. Her hair was tied back, and there was a faint smudge of ink on her hand—she’d probably been working on her wine assignments again.

“Decaf,” she said, handing him the coffee. “I thought you’d be done for the day.”

Austin took it, setting it down on the desk. She’d convinced him only to drink decaf after noon, to help him sleep better. “Yeah, so did I.” He leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. “Elaine Turner wants me to stay on this case.”

Sy raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Why?”

“They’re in over their heads,” he said, tapping the printouts on the desk. “This case is... big. Too big for Harrows Bay. And one of their main detectives has a major conflict. He slept with the victim while she was still dating the main suspect.”

“Are you serious?” Sy asked.

“Couple years ago, but the wounds are fresh. I don’t think he’s a bad officer, but he’s immature. But it’s not only that. They don’t have the resources to deal with the tech side—Alyssa’s accounts, her laptop, all of that. Plus, it’s already gone national.”

“And Elaine knows you’re in good with Ridley,” Sy added.

Austin nodded. “She does. Harrows Bay is small, Sy. They don’t have the money or the manpower for something like this. If I make a call to the governor’s office, we might be able to pull in some state support before this thing gets out of hand.”

Sy folded her arms, watching him carefully. “And you told her no?”

Austin hesitated, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Not exactly. I’ve seen small towns get ruined by cases like this.”

“Austin.”

He met her gaze, holding up a hand. “I told her I’d think about it. And Sy, I’m going to do it.” Before she could object, he continued hurriedly. “But this is it. After this, I’m done. No more fieldwork. I’ll talk to Lucy about a desk job—something stable.” He grinned. “Maybe I can hand out parking tickets or something.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he said.

Her shoulders relaxed slightly. “You’re sure this is the last one?”

“I’m sure,” he said firmly.

She let out a small sigh, stepping closer to lean against the edge of the desk. “Okay. But I want one thing from you.”

“What’s that?”

She gave him a faint smile. “When you get to Harrows Bay, send me a picture of the beach. I’ve heard the beaches there are some of the most beautiful in the country, but I’ve never seen them.”

Austin smiled faintly. “Deal. I think they were in some movie.”

Sy crossed her arms. “Twilight, the whole series. You didn’t see them?”

Austin shrugged. “Any good?”

“Not my thing, but they’ve got great beaches and a love triangle, so, I made it through.”

Austin laughed.

“And while you’re out chasing suspects,” Sy continued, “I’ll be here studying for my WSET exams. Don’t keep me waiting too long.”

He smiled. “Remind me again, what’s that stand for?”

“Wine and Spirit Education Trust,” she said, mock-exasperated. “I’m working on the Level Three diploma. Advanced stuff—blind tastings, regional specifics, pairing theory. The works.”

“Sounds intense,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be the real wine expert in this house.”

“Already am,” she shot back, her smile softening. “I’ll be the real wine expert in the county! Although it makes it harder when I can only have an ounce a day.” She leaned down, brushing her hand lightly across his shoulder as she straightened. “Austin...”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful out there, okay?”

He nodded. “Always. Zero unnecessary risks.” He knew it was a lie as it came out of his mouth, and it felt terrible. The truth was, he took all sorts of risks he shouldn’t. Always had. Many of them were calculated risks, sure. But he couldn’t claim to be an especially conservative detective when it came to personal safety.

As she left, closing the door behind her, Austin turned back to his desk. The lamp cast sharp shadows over the papers, the smiling photo of Alyssa catching his eye again. He took a sip of his coffee, letting the warmth settle him. He wished it had the usual caffeine, but it tasted good nonetheless.

This is the last one, he told himself. It has to be.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Saturday

Austin guided the truck onto the main road and cracked the window. The air outside felt heavy, saturated with the scent of rain-soaked pine and earth. In the distance, gray clouds stretched low over the tree line, leaving the morning dim and colorless.

The first miles passed slowly, the hum of the engine filling the cab as Sy’s words echoed in his head.

He glanced at the clock, calculating the hours left to Harrows Bay. The stretch of road ahead wound lazily through forested hills, but his focus wasn’t on the route.

He’d made a promise to Sy. No more fieldwork after this. He hadn’t said the words lightly—they felt heavy enough to carve into stone—but the unease didn’t go away. For years, he’d thrown himself into his work with a singular kind of drive. The job wasn’t just what he did; it was who he was. And now?

Now there was Sy. And the baby.

A part of him—the part that had always believed in structure and purpose—was unsettled. He wasn’t used to feeling divided, pulled between two things that mattered equally. Maybe this was what fatherhood did to a person, he thought. Changed the way they saw themselves. He didn’t have an answer for it, and that, more than anything, left him uneasy.

The trees closed in again as he drove, towering above the road, their branches sagging with leftover rain. His gaze drifted to the dashboard, where a photo of Fiona still sat tucked into the corner. Her warm, laughing smile stared back at him, and the familiar pang hit just below his ribs.

Fiona.

The years had softened the edges of her absence, but some wounds didn’t heal completely. Finally solving her murder had brought him peace—he couldn’t deny that. But becoming a father now, with Sy, had reignited the ache in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

He and Fiona had talked about kids. It was part of the future he’d pictured with her, the one that had been ripped away. And now, with that future about to happen in a different way, it was tugging at him again, a mix of sorrow and guilt he couldn’t quite untangle.

It wasn’t Sy’s fault, of course. None of it was. She had nothing to do with the past. And it wasn’t fair to her to move forward with any regrets. But the weight of that past, the life he and Fiona never got to live, felt closer now than it had in a while.

The landscape began to open up, revealing glimpses of the Hood Canal to his right. The water was steel gray, choppy under the cold wind, its surface dotted with a few hardy fishing boats. The peaks of the Olympics loomed in the distance, their outlines softened by mist.

The miles blurred, towns like Port Ludlow and Sequim slipping past, quiet and subdued in the late season. By the time he passed the weathered sign for the Quileute Indian Reservation, his thoughts had settled into a kind of rhythm, looping between the case, Sy, and Fiona.

Send me a picture of the beach, Sy had said before he left. He could hear the faint smile in her voice, the warmth that always came when she tried to draw him out of his head.

The beaches had fairly bland names considering they were some of the most stunning he’d ever seen. Near La Push, Washington, they were sequentially named based on their geographical positions relative to the Quileute tribal village. First Beach was the closest to the village, followed by Second Beach and then Third Beach, each accessible by separate trails.

He passed a sign marking the final stretch to the coast. The clouds overhead lightened slightly, allowing a thin, pale sunlight to streak across the road. The brief brightness added a strange clarity to the moment, as if the day itself was reminding Austin of its existence.

Alyssa Howard’s case had already gone national, her name and face plastered across headlines. It wasn’t just another case anymore. Not for Harrows Bay, not for Elaine, and definitely not for him.

The road narrowed as the little town came into view as Austin crested the final hill, the road sloping down toward a collection of buildings that reminded him of Hansville, his own little beach town.

The difference was that Harrows Bay seemed to be huddling against the cold gray expanse of the Pacific. He rolled down the truck window, letting in the briny tang of the ocean mixed with the faint metallic bite of damp pavement. The drizzle had grown heavier, leaving streaks on the windshield as he passed a row of low buildings—weathered clapboard facades, a combination of homes and shops with peeling paint in muted greens and browns. A small marina sat off to his left, its docks lined with fishing boats tethered tightly, their hulls rocking slightly in the tide. A seafood shack had an A-frame sign out front reading Fresh Halibut Today in chalk that was already starting to smudge from the rain.

The police station was a plain, boxy building just past the main street, its siding washed out and dull in the drizzle. Austin pulled into the lot and parked near a marked cruiser. As he stepped out of the truck, he spotted Blake Tiernan standing under the awning, his arms crossed. Blake’s eyes flicked toward him, and a scowl spread across his face like it had been waiting for this exact moment. Austin shut the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the damp air, and started toward the entrance.

Austin nodded as he approached, and Blake nodded back, but neither said a word as they walked side by side into the police station. It was as though they’d agreed to work together, but felt no compulsion to speak. The air inside was thick with the musty warmth of too many people crammed into a space too small to hold them. The front desk sat cluttered with papers and a coffee mug sporting the department’s faded logo, but all the attention in the room was on the wall-mounted television just above it.

A local news anchor spoke in measured tones, the words “Celebrity Murder Victim Photos Leaked” emblazoned across the bottom of the screen. Austin froze as the broadcast cut to an image: Alyssa Howard’s lifeless body, blurred just enough to obscure the worst of the injuries but still leaving no question about the brutality she’d endured. The shot of her face, pale and waterlogged, had been softened to near ghostliness, but the sight still sent Austin’s stomach lurching.

“Damn,” one officer muttered.

“Those photos were locked down,” Elaine said, glancing back at Austin, her tone sharp with disbelief. She looked at Blake, then at a couple other uniformed officers. “How the hell did this happen?”

“Coulda been hacked,” a tall, skinny officer pointed out. “You know how I’ve been saying our system is outdated.”

Elaine let out a frustrated breath. Austin knew the look on her face. She was trying to hold together a small town police force with duct tape and the loose change she could find in her couch cushions. It wasn’t an easy job.

Austin’s attention moved back to the TV screen, which now displayed excerpts from the article that had run along with the leaked photos of Alyssa’s body.

The byline was impossible to miss, an unwelcome blast from the past: Anna Downey.

The sight of her name hit him like an icy punch. He hadn’t thought of Anna in months, but here she was, back in his life in the worst way imaginable. She’d been the first woman he’d dated after moving to Washington State. A talented and fiery reporter, they’d worked on a couple cases together and then fallen into a romance that had ended with a bang when she’d betrayed him. Not with another man, but by leaking information she’d stolen from him.

Blake’s voice broke through Austin’s thoughts. “Could have been hacked. But if not, only a handful of people had access to those pictures. Someone in this room screwed up.”

Officers began muttering, looking around amongst themselves.

Elaine stepped into the middle of the group. “Everyone, stop. We need to figure this out fast.” Her gaze shifted from the screen to the people standing beneath it, scanning each face like she was already forming a list of suspects. “Who saw these photos?”

“Only a few of us,” one officer replied. “And no one outside the station—at least, that’s what I thought.”

Elaine exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she turned to Austin. “This is bad,” she said. “Did you⁠—”

The sound of the station door opening cut her off. A gust of cold, wet air rolled in, carrying with it the faint patter of the drizzle outside. Every head in the room turned.

Standing in the doorway was Anna Downey. Her blue coat hung loose on her slender frame, and her sandy blonde hair, damp from the rain, stuck in strands against her cheek. Her eyes scanned the room briefly before landing on Austin.

“Can I help you?” Elaine asked.

It was clear from the reactions of the officers in the room that none of them recognized her as the woman who’d just published the photos of their murder victim.

“Well,” Anna said to Austin, a hint of something between amusement and apology in her voice, “you’re the last person I expected to see here, but I guess I saved you the trouble of calling me.”

Austin’s fingers twitched at his side, the only outward sign of the punch to the gut he hadn’t seen coming. A cold pressure settled in his chest, spreading like a slow, deliberate vice tightening around his ribs. His mind raced through a dozen memories he’d long since buried—some warm, some sharp, all laced with the bitter knowledge of how it had ended.

He glanced at Elaine. “This is Anna Downey.” He nodded up at the TV, which was going back and forth between pieces of her story and the horrific crime scene photos. “The reporter who just screwed you over.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Let’s go,” he said to Anna, nodding toward the parking lot.

Anna hesitated for half a second, her expression unreadable, then fell into step beside him as he led her across the cracked pavement. The sky was dull gray, the kind of color that made everything feel colder than it was.

She glanced at his truck as they approached. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Austin pulled open the driver’s side door and climbed in. After a beat, she followed, settling into the passenger seat like she had dozens of times before.

She ran a hand over the worn dashboard, tracing a scratch near the radio. “We had some good times in this truck,” she said. “Driving out to interviews, getting coffee, listening to the one terrible playlist you made.”

Austin started the engine, letting the heater blow out a weak gust of warm air. “We’re not here for memory lane, Anna. I think you know that ship has sailed.”

“Then why are we here? Why are you here, by the way, in Harrows Bay? Long way from Kitsap.”

“I could ask you the same question. But I guess I know. You want to follow up on the photos you leaked.”

She sighed and turned toward him. “I didn’t leak anything. I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job?” Austin exhaled sharply, rubbing the space between his eyebrows before turning to her. “Do you even understand how much damage leaking crime scene photos does in the first few days of an investigation?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It taints witness testimony. People see those images online, and suddenly they ‘remember’ details that never happened. It fuels speculation, theories that have nothing to do with the actual case. And worst of all, it tells the killer exactly what we know.”

Anna’s expression tightened, but he wasn’t done.

“We hold back certain details for a reason,” he continued. “A specific wound pattern, a missing piece of jewelry, the way a body was positioned—those are things only the killer should know. If we get a confession or a tip, we compare it against what wasn’t released to the public. But now? Now that information is out there. You think you’re reporting facts, but all you’ve done is help someone cover their tracks.”

Anna leaned back slightly, arms crossed. “You make it sound like the press should just sit on their hands and wait for the police to spoon-feed them information.”

“I make it sound like the press should know when to back off long enough to let us do our damn jobs,” Austin shot back. “It’s not about hiding things. It’s about protecting the case. Protecting the next person who might end up like Alyssa.”

She opened her mouth, then hesitated, pressing her lips together. After a long pause, she shook her head. “People want answers. If they don’t get them from me, they’ll get them from someone else. At least I report the truth.”

Austin exhaled through his nose. “Truth isn’t just about speed. It’s about accuracy. And sometimes, waiting is the difference between getting justice and letting someone walk free.”

The cab of the truck went silent, the only sound the hum of the heater.

Anna looked down at her hands, then out the window. “I always liked our walks on the beach with Run,” she said suddenly, her voice quieter, almost nostalgic. “Despite what you think, I do regret what happened.”

Austin studied her for a moment, wondering if she knew. About Sy. About the baby. It stayed unspoken between them, but the thought lingered.

“How is Run?” she asked.

“How did you get those photos, Anna?”

She smiled sadly.

He knew there was no way in hell she’d answer. He reached for the door handle. “Run’s fine.” Then he stepped out, leaving her sitting in his truck as he walked back toward the station.

CHAPTER NINE

The conference room of the Harrows Bay police department smelled faintly of burnt coffee and damp wool, the kind of mix that clung to old buildings like this one. The fluorescent lights cast a pale glow on the mismatched folding tables and chairs, giving everything a washed-out look.

Elaine stood at the front, her shoulders squared and the faint shadow of rainwater still dampening the edges of her coat. The whiteboard behind her, smeared with faded remnants of old cases, was now dominated by two bold lines of fresh writing: CELL PHONE: MISSING and LAPTOP: LOCKED.

Austin sat with his arms crossed, his chair angled slightly away from Blake, who was bouncing his pen between his thumb and forefinger like a metronome. The clicking sound was just enough to grate on Austin’s nerves, but he stayed silent. He kept his focus on Elaine, though his thoughts flickered to the elephant in the room: Blake’s history with Alyssa Howard.

His past with Alyssa complicated everything. Especially now that Matt Delgado, Alyssa’s ex, was their prime suspect and sitting in a holding cell not far from here. Austin didn’t trust Blake to keep his emotions in check, but for now, he kept his doubts to himself.

Elaine picked up a marker, tapping it against her palm as she began. “We’ve gone through everything that’s publicly available. Not much help. Just endless speculation online. Here’s where we are: no cell phone was found on the body. Most likely, the killer took it, and that’s bad news. And we still don’t know where the murder took place.”

“Team searched Delgado’s apartment,” Blake added. “No surprise. Her phone wasn’t there. No blood, no weapons, nothing that helps us at all.”

Elaine nodded. “So if Delgado had anything to do with this, we better get him talking.” She turned to the board, underlining MISSING twice before adding, “It could have been dumped, or it could still be on the killer. Either way, we need to find the phone.”

Austin shifted in his chair, glancing at Blake, who had stopped clicking the pen but was now doodling something on the corner of his notepad.

“We do have Alyssa’s laptop,” Elaine continued, “but like I said yesterday...” She added another line to the board: NEXT OF KIN: OBJECTION.

Austin frowned, and Elaine turned to face the room. “Maria Howard—Alyssa’s sister—has objected to the warrant we filed to access it. According to her, the laptop contains Alyssa’s private therapy records and personal journals. She’s concerned that if we dive in without restrictions, we’ll be violating her memory and her family’s trust.”

Blake leaned back, folding his arms. “Not to be a cynical bastard here, but it’s also possible that laptop is full of embarrassing crap and sister Maria wants to capitalize on Alyssa’s social media influence for personal profit.”

“That’s bleak,” Elaine said. “Even for you.”

“But it’s not crazy,” Austin said, surprised to hear himself defending Blake. Since she’d died, many of Alyssa’s videos and posts had resurfaced, going viral. Austin didn’t know the details of the finances involved, but he knew that videos with tens of millions of views made money, and that now that money would eventually find its way to Alyssa’s next of kin, Maria.

“So, what’s the plan?” Blake asked.

Elaine’s mouth tightened briefly before she spoke. “Victim laptops require the same burden of proof as suspect devices. We have to show a direct connection to the investigation before we can touch it. The judge overseeing this? He’s not easy to convince. Strong on privacy. Assuming we get the go ahead eventually, though, I have someone who can get us in and find what we need.”

Austin exhaled through his nose, his eyes narrowing at the board. The phrase NEXT OF KIN: OBJECTION felt like a brick wall standing between them and what could be the key to the entire case. “This judge,” he said, “what are the chances he approves it?”

Elaine’s brow furrowed as she set the marker down on the edge of the board. “It’s fifty-fifty. Maybe worse. But we don’t have a choice. We play this by the book, or it blows up in our faces later.”

Blake tapped his knuckle lightly against the table, drawing a glance from Austin. “In the meantime, what are we supposed to do? Wait around?”

Elaine’s gaze sharpened. “No, we don’t wait around. We dig into everything else. Neighbors, coworkers, Alyssa’s online presence. There’s enough to keep us busy while we get the warrant sorted. Not to mention, Delgado. This isn’t going to be quick, and it’s not going to be easy. But if there’s something in that laptop—or anywhere else—we’re going to find it.”

“What about the body… who found it?” Austin asked.

Elaine turned to face the whiteboard and wrote: BODY DISCOVERED: LARS STRAND, 5:30 AM WEDNESDAY.

“Originally the call came in anonymously, from a payphone thirty miles down the coast.” She shook her head. “Lars Strand, a local fisherman.”

“How do you know it was him?” Austin asked. “You said the call came in anonymously.”

Elaine smiled. “Short answer: dude is a dumbass. Forgot how small this town is. Woman in the call center recognized his voice and told me the next morning.”

“But that begs the question,” Austin said.

“Exactly,” Blake agreed. “Why go to the effort to call it in anonymously?”

“He says,” Elaine explained, “that he doesn’t trust cops, and that checks out. Guy is a bit paranoid. Kind of dude who spends eight hours a day on his boat and eight more online reading conspiracy theories. Anyway, according to his statement, he was out on his boat early that morning, heading toward a secluded stretch of shoreline. He initially thought it was driftwood or debris washed up by the tide but realized it was a human body as he got closer. That was around five thirty in the morning. Called it in an hour later.”

Elaine paused and tapped the marker against her palm. “We know she was beaten. Brutally. And that she was dead before she hit the water. The medical examiner has confirmed the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, likely inflicted with an object that hasn’t been recovered. Any DNA the killer may have left is probably at the bottom of the ocean, unfortunately. The time of death is estimated to be roughly twenty-four hours before the body was discovered, which matches perfectly with her final social media post. The HELP photo she posted at 5:11 AM Monday.”

Austin leaned forward slightly. He glanced briefly at Blake, who sat stiffly beside him, staring at the table. “Blake, you’re youngish,” Austin said. “Why would she have posted HELP with that photo?”

Blake smiled. “I actually asked my girlfriend the same thing. She’s younger than me and a big phone person, or whatever. She said that on Instagram you can’t just post text like you can on Facebook. So, assuming she was in a panic, she opened the first app she saw, typed it in, then attached her most recent photo.”

“So when we find her phone,” Elaine said, “I’m betting that photo from the clam shack is the most recent.”

Austin nodded. It made sense, in theory, but he wondered if there might be more to it.

“Now,” Elaine said, writing POTENTIAL EVIDENCE on the board, “here’s where it gets more complicated. We believe she may have had camera equipment with her because of a lens cap found in her pocket.”

“And,” Blake added, “Brian at the crab shack mentioned that she had a real camera with her on Monday and spoke about doing a story on the town—it’s past and future.”

“So we can assume,” Austin added, “that she may have something relevant on that camera.”

Elaine set the marker down. “Maybe. But since we don’t have it, it’s Matt Delgado and Lars Strand, that’s all we’ve got.”

“And we have no idea where the murder took place?” Austin asked.

She shook her head. “That would be a big help, but no. Could be damn near anywhere.”

“And Lars?” Austin asked. “His story?”

“Strand’s story checks out for now,” Elaine said. “He has no connection to Alyssa, at least none that we’ve found. But it’s worth noting that this isn’t the first time he’s stumbled into trouble—he has a record. Minor things, mostly, but it’s enough to make me wonder. Definitely possible he killed her, then felt guilty, or just wanted credit, and called it in.”

“Not likely,” Austin said. “But not impossible.”

She glanced around the room as though she might find evidence in one of the corners. “We’re working with what little we have, and the clock’s ticking. Until we get access to her laptop or find her phone, we need to focus on finding the location of the murder, on Lars, and on Delgado. Any questions?”

The meeting was winding down when the door creaked open, and in stepped a woman who didn’t so much walk into the room as claim it. She was all wiry energy, with appraising eyes and a smirk that suggested she’d heard every lie a suspect could muster before they even opened their mouth. Her flannel shirt was tucked haphazardly into faded jeans, and her rain-spotted jacket looked like it hadn’t been washed in decades. She carried a battered leather folder under one arm and a steaming mug in her other hand.

“Well, look at this,” she said, her voice a low, gravelly drawl that carried a hint of amusement. “The big city boy in our humble little station.” She nodded at Austin. “You’re Detective Austin, aren’t you? Or is it Agent? Or Consultant? Hell, I don’t even know what to call you.”

Austin stood, instinctively extending a hand. “Big city boy?” he asked. “My town has a population of a few thousand.” He smiled. “Smaller than Harrows Bay. But call me Austin. And you are?”

She shook his hand with a grip like steel cable, giving him a once-over as if she were sizing up a piece of livestock. “Marnie Baker,” she said. “Been in this department longer than most of these rookies have been alive. Some folks around here think I came with the building, but I assure you, I’m mortal. Mostly.”

Blake let out a soft groan, but Marnie ignored him.

“Let me guess,” Austin said. “You’re here to tell me how things really work around here?”

“Oh, honey,” Marnie said, settling into Elaine’s vacated chair with the kind of familiarity that came from years of claiming space. “I wouldn’t waste my breath. I hear you’re sharp enough to figure that out yourself. But if you’re lookin’ for a guide, I do take bribes. Usually in the form of decent coffee, though I won’t say no to a bottle of something stronger.” She took a long sip from her mug, grimaced, and muttered, “And this ain’t decent coffee, in case you were wondering.”

Elaine crossed her arms, leaning against the table. “Marnie, if you’re here to do your stand-up routine, maybe pick a better crowd. We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

Marnie set the mug down with a clatter, fixing Elaine with a mock-serious expression. “I’ll have you know I’m not here to entertain, Chief. I’m here to enlighten.”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Marnie, if you’ve got something, spit it out.”

She turned to Blake, her smile sharpening. “Spit it out? You kiss your mama with that mouth, Tiernan? Oh, wait—probably not. She must’ve been too busy apologizing for you to the rest of the county.”

Blake stiffened and Austin fought back a smile.

“Can we get back to it?” Elaine said. She looked from person to person, and when everyone had gone silent, she continued. “Bottom line is, here’s the suspect list—the ex-boyfriend, Matt Delgado. Lars, who found the body and is acting strange. We’ve also got a couple of rival influencers the victim had beef with online.”

“Aren’t most of those so-called beefs drummed up for content?” Blake asked.

Elaine nodded. “Probably. Anyway, Austin, you and me are gonna talk to Delgado. Marnie and Blake, go talk to Lars. See if you can get another read on him. Or more details.”

Austin turned toward a strange whooshing sound as a seagull landed on the open windowsill and stared in at them, as though surprised they were all sitting in what it seemed to think was its room.

Marnie tilted her head toward the window. “A gull inside before dawn means we’re still missing truth at sea.” She said it like the old wise woman who lived in a cave in some movie Austin had half-watched with Sy.

“It’s not before dawn,” Blake said.

Austin stared at the bird, which stared right back at him, then it flew straight for his head.

CHAPTER TEN

The bird cocked its head, as if considering Marnie’s ancient wisdom. Then, with a sudden burst of movement, it hopped inside. Wings flapped wildly, sending a stale draft through the room.

“Damn,” Blake shouted, pushing back his chair. The seagull skittered across the desk, knocking over a pile of folders. A stack of papers drifted to the floor like oversized confetti.

Blake grabbed the nearest weapon—a broom leaning against the wall. “Get out, damn bird!” He lunged at it, swinging wildly and missing by a foot.

Elaine stepped forward, hands open, voice level. “Don’t spook it. Just guide it back toward the window.”

The gull flapped harder, ricocheting off a metal file cabinet. More papers scattered—an old patrol roster, half-torn and curling at the edges.

Austin spotted an old fishing net hanging near the door. He grabbed it and moved fast. Blake took another swipe with the broom, but his foot caught the edge of the table. He went down hard, cursing as he hit the floor.

The gull flapped once, twice—then Austin and Elaine moved in tandem, steering it toward the open window. With one last wingbeat, it launched itself back into the cold gray dawn.

Silence settled, except for Blake groaning from the floor.

Marnie smirked. “See? Even the birds know we’re working with one wing tied.”

Austin let the net drop.

Between the ragtag crew of investigators, the fact that he was away from Sy and working the weekend on a case that wasn’t even his, Anna’s reappearance, and now this, Austin had a bad feeling about where this all might be headed.

Austin and Elaine stood outside Matt Delgado’s holding cell as Elaine explained the situation. “We can’t hold him in there much longer,” she said. “What I want out of this is some clarity. Blake can be a bastard, but that doesn’t give Delgado the right to assault him, especially over something that happened a couple years ago. And I spoke with Blake—he says he had no idea Alyssa had a boyfriend when they hooked up.”

“So what are we looking for here?” Austin asked.

“A clearer vision of Alyssa Howard and your read on Delgado himself.”

Austin nodded and, without a word, followed Elaine down the hall to where Delgado was being held.

The holding cell was barely more than a converted storage room—six by eight feet, with cinder block walls and a large overhead light that buzzed faintly. A metal bench, bolted to the floor, ran along one side, and a narrow window, too high to see out of, let in a sliver of morning light.

Back in his apartment, Delgado had been all piss and vinegar, but now Austin saw that something in him had changed. When they walked in, his head was in his hands, shoulders shaking. As the door clicked shut, he looked up, clearly embarrassed, his face quivering. He quickly wiped the tears from his eyes and stared at Austin as though trying to toughen up, but he couldn’t. Within seconds, his face started shaking uncontrollably, the tears running again as he buried his head in his hands.

Austin grabbed a tissue box from a side table and slid it in front of him. “What’s going on, Matt?”

No reply, just more sobs.

Elaine took up a position along the wall, clearly letting Austin take the lead.

Austin let the man cry for another minute, then pulled up a chair next to him. “No real questions here, Matt. Just let me know what’s going on with you.”

Matt looked up as though he was going to meet Austin’s eyes but began rubbing his own to clear the tears. “You know how when someone is better than you and you love them for it but also hate them for it? You want them to succeed, but you’re also jealous? Why is it that we hate the people we love the most? When she left me, why couldn’t I just have been indifferent to her?”

Austin didn’t have a good answer, so all he said was, “I understand. But do you understand, Matt, that it’s also possible that the people we love most are the ones we root for the most? That it’s possible to surround ourselves with people who are better than us and want them to succeed?”

“I felt that way about Alyssa sometimes,” Delgado said. “But when she cheated on me...” He trailed off.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Austin said. “Tell me what happened.”

Delgado became suddenly robotic, as though reciting a memory he couldn’t allow himself to feel. “Alyssa grew up here and knew everyone in town. She was probably the most famous person ever to come out of this place. Sometimes she’d stay with me at my place over in Kitsap, sometimes she’d come out here. Obviously, in the last year or two, she was back and forth from LA a lot.”

“Tell me about what happened,” Austin said. “The cheating.”

“There’s not a lot to the story. She came back from LA after her first move there, stayed with me for a few days. We were officially ‘together’ then, whatever that means. But we got in a fight, and then she had to come out here for her mom’s funeral anyway. Told me not to come with her. She had to ‘clear her head.’ A week later, she came back through Kitsap. We were supposed to talk about me moving to LA with her. Instead, she seemed distant. I asked her what was wrong, and she admitted it right away. Said she’d slept with an older guy and regretted it. Now that I think about it, I think she was just trying to blow up the relationship because she didn’t want me to move to LA with her.”

“Why do you think that?” Austin asked.

Delgado’s face began quivering again. “I mean, look at me. I smoke pot and sleep ‘til noon and make furniture. And look at her. She was already a star, and when her channels blew up, she was making half a million a year from them. And she was about to start getting sponsors, free travel. Everything.” He shook his head. “Problem with her was she didn’t know she was too good for me—until she did. Went down to LA, lost ten pounds, started drinking green juices and eating wild fish instead of burgers and shakes. She’s at parties with movie stars, musicians, other celebrities. I’m making furniture, earning forty grand a year, can barely afford my rent, smoking weed and watching old cartoons until three in the morning.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m a frigging loser, detective. Would you have wanted me to move to LA with you?” He let that hang in the air, then added, “But I never once hurt her. Never would have. I hate myself more than I ever could have hated her.”

“This is all a nice sob story,” Elaine interjected. “And I’m glad to see you showing some remorse. But here’s the thing—you lied to us about your alibi.” She held up a hand, silencing Delgado’s potential objection. “And before you offer me any more BS, tell me this—why should we believe a single thing you’re saying now? Men are always full of regret after they hurt the women they love. I’ve seen it a million times. But just because they’re full of regret doesn’t mean they didn’t hurt them.”

Austin agreed with her in principle. But he didn’t think Matt Delgado was a killer.

Delgado exhaled hard, dragging his hands down his face. “Okay. I lied about my alibi. But not for the reason you think.”

Elaine crossed her arms. “Enlighten us.”

Delgado hesitated, then looked at Austin. “Part of my business, making custom furniture—I, uh, buy wood off the black market.”

Austin blinked. “There’s a black market for wood?”

“Yeah. Sounds ridiculous, right?” Delgado let out a humorless laugh. “But it’s a real thing. Most people don’t know, but some of the best wood—old-growth stuff, trees that have been standing for hundreds of years—you can’t legally cut those down. Too rare. Too protected by all the BS environmental regulations. But there’s always someone willing to sell it if you know where to look.”

Austin leaned in. “And where do you look?”

“Guys who don’t ask questions,” Delgado said. “Some of them sneak into national forests and cut trees illegally. Others work at legit mills but skim off the top, passing stuff through back channels. I don’t deal with them directly. I pay a guy who pays another guy. That way, I don’t have to know too much.”

Elaine let out a sharp breath. “And your customers are okay with this?”

“You think they care?” Delgado scoffed. “The rich bastards I make chairs and armoires for don’t want to know the details. And anyway, I usually tell them it’s ‘reclaimed wood,’ recycled, you know? Makes them feel better.”

Austin frowned. It wasn’t often someone admitted so freely to a crime, but, when facing a murder charge, admitting to buying black market wood was certainly preferable if it provided a solid alibi.

“Anyway,” Delgado continued, “that’s where I actually was the night Alyssa got attacked. Meeting a supplier down in Tacoma. I couldn’t exactly tell you that, because if it got out, my business would be done.”

“Details,” Austin demanded.

“I had lunch with Alyssa, like I told you. After she left I had a beer alone at the bar. Then another. Then I drove down to Tacoma to meet my wood guy, like I do every month. Met him around six, packed up my truck, and stayed the night at the Pacific Mist Motel. Got hammered alone, woke up late, then hightailed it back to Kitsap to meet my friends for pizza.”

Austin let that sit for a beat. The guy was breaking the law, sure, but it wasn’t exactly murder. “What’s the name of the wood supplier?”

Delgado shook his head. “No way. Arrest me for murder if you have to. I’m no snitch.”

Elaine glanced at Austin, weighing something unspoken between them. Perhaps she was thinking what he was—that most motels have plenty of security cameras. If Delgado was at the Pacific Mist Motel all night, it wouldn’t be difficult to confirm.

Then she shifted. “Let’s go back to Alyssa. What kind of person was she?”

Delgado hesitated, staring down at his hands. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “She always told me she wanted to be a reporter. But since that’s not really a thing anymore, she became an influencer.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “Always said she was going to find out about the Collective.”

Austin cocked his head. “The Collective?”

Delgado lifted a shoulder. “No clue what it was. She just called it that. The Whitecap Collective. Said she was going to expose something big. I used to make fun of her because, like, journalism is dead, right?”

Austin said, “She told the guy at the crab shack that she was working on a story. Any chance she came back here to work on that specifically?”

Elaine straightened. “The Collective is mostly a myth. And they’re not killers.”

Austin met her eyes, but it was clear she wasn’t going to go into any more detail in front of Delgado.

Her phone buzzed and she pulled it out, glanced at the screen, then tapped Austin on the shoulder. “Step out with me.” She turned back to Delgado. “We’re gonna keep you here while we check with the folks at the Pacific Mist.”

Austin followed her down the hallway, far enough that they wouldn’t be overheard. She put the call on speaker.

Blake’s voice came through, irritated. “We’ve got a problem. Lars didn’t show up for the interview.”

Austin exchanged a look with Elaine.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“That’s the thing,” Blake said. “Wasn’t at home, wasn’t at his normal bar. We went down to the marina. He’s gone. His boat was floating a couple hundred yards out, like someone had tried to let it loose, or maybe he transferred to another boat and just left it. Keys in the ignition. No sign of him anywhere.”

Marnie’s voice cut in. “No blood, no struggle, no note—just gone.”

Austin ran a hand through his hair, which was feeling thinner than he remembered. “So either he took off on his own, or someone made him disappear.”

“Exactly,” Blake said. “Either he’s running because he’s guilty, or somebody got to him first.”

Elaine was already moving toward the exit. “We need to see his place.”

“Already ahead of you,” Blake said. “Marnie and I are en route back there. Meet us?”

Austin nodded to Elaine. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lars Strand lived in a double-wide trailer on five acres just outside of Harrows Bay, only five minutes from the police station. Austin opened his door as soon as Elaine stopped her cruiser behind Blake’s SUV about halfway down the gravel driveway.

The land around them was quiet, the winter air still. The trees—mostly towering cedars and firs—pressed in from all sides, their dark silhouettes stretching long in the afternoon light. A thin layer of frost clung to the grass and the edges of the gravel, catching the pale sunlight.

Austin spotted Blake and Marnie approaching the trailer, Blake already reaching for the door handle. He heard the sound of gravel kicking up behind him and turned. A white Porsche 911 had pulled into the driveway behind them, its sleek frame looking absurdly out of place among the mud-streaked trucks and salt-worn vehicles common in a town like this. The sports car idled near the turn-in, as if the driver was hesitant to commit.

Elaine had gotten out of the car as well and Austin tapped her on the shoulder. “Look.”

Elaine followed his gaze, frowning. “I don’t recognize the car.”

“Maybe they’re just turning around,” Austin said, squinting to make out the driver. But the shadows from the trees and the glare off the windshield made that impossible. He stepped toward it, then took off at a jog.

The Porsche hesitated for a second more before peeling out of the driveway, its tires kicking up a storm of gravel. The roar of the engine shattered the quiet as it shot back onto the main road, fishtailing slightly before straightening out.

Elaine was already shifting into gear. “Get in the car, Austin. We’re following it.” Next, she called up to Blake and Marnie, who’d made their way back down the steps. “Check the trailer again, see if Lars is there. If no one answers, wellness check.”

She hopped in the car, and Austin followed her.

As she backed down the driveway, she grabbed the radio. “We’ve got a white Porsche 911 fleeing the home of Lars Strand out on Dovetail Road. We’re in pursuit.”

When she hit the main road, she gunned the cruiser down the narrow, tree-lined stretch that led toward town. The Porsche was already far ahead, its low profile hugging the asphalt as it weaved through the roads leading toward the coastline.

Austin braced himself against the door as Elaine took a sharp curve at speed, the rear tires skidding slightly before gripping the road again. “This guy knows how to drive,” she muttered.

But so did Elaine.

The chase took them off the main road and onto one of the narrow side routes that wound through the dense coastal forest. Rare sunlight filtered through the evergreens in long, broken beams, flickering against the windshield as they sped past. The road twisted and dipped, the occasional patch of frost gleaming in the shadows.

The Porsche was smooth, precise—never hesitating, never overcorrecting. Austin could feel it slipping further ahead, gaining distance with every turn. Elaine pushed the cruiser harder, but the road wasn’t built for speed, and the heavier police vehicle couldn’t match the sports car’s agility.

As they crested a sharp bend near a turnout overlooking the cliffs, the Porsche disappeared around a curve far ahead. By the time they rounded it, the road was empty.

Elaine swore under her breath and slowed, scanning the road for any sign of the car. “They must’ve ducked off somewhere,” she said, eyes flicking to the narrow driveways and pull-offs visible between the trees. She reached for the radio. “Dispatch, be advised. White Porsche 911, last seen heading west past Mile Marker Twelve. Vehicle evaded pursuit. Notify state troopers to keep an eye out.”

A pause, then the radio crackled. “Copy that, Harrows Bay PD. We’ll put out a BOLO.”

Austin exhaled, his pulse still high from the chase. “Who the hell drives a Porsche out here?”

Before Elaine could answer, the radio crackled again—Blake’s voice coming through. “We searched the place. Lars isn’t here. No sign of struggle, nothing out of place. Just… empty, like his boat.”

Elaine exchanged a look with Austin. “Meet us at the marina,” she said into the radio. “Let’s check out that boat.”

“Copy,” Blake said. “See you there.”

“I wouldn’t have let him lose me,” Blake said, pacing on the wooden slats of the marina.

Austin shook his head. “You weren’t in the car,” he said. “Elaine drove like a beast. But no one would have kept up with that guy.”

Blake scoffed. “Please. I was gonna be a NASCAR driver, man. Spent my teenage years tearing up dirt tracks, training with a guy who actually raced in Daytona. Problem was, you need cash to get anywhere in that world, and let’s just say my parents weren’t exactly rolling in sponsorship money. But put me in a real car, and I’d eat that guy alive.”

A low groan of straining ropes cut through the damp air as a small fishing boat was slowly hauled toward the dock. The marina was quiet except for the occasional clang of metal rigging against aluminum masts and the distant squawk of a gull somewhere beyond the fog.

Strand’s boat, untethered and drifting just a few hundred yards out, had finally been roped in by the harbormaster and a couple of deputies, their voices carrying over the water as they worked. The mist clung thick to the docks, rolling in and out in slow waves, swallowing the farther pilings into a gray void.

“Be that as it may,” Austin said, “I got the plates, and Marnie is on it.”

Marnie came up to stand next to them, tucking her hands into her coat. “And I just got them back. No matches. Nothing.”

Austin frowned. “Nothing?”

A deputy on the dock gave a sharp whistle, signaling that the boat was almost in. It rocked slightly as they maneuvered it into place, the worn blue hull slick with sea spray.

Marnie crossed her arms. “The plates don’t come back to any registered owner. No DMV record, no stolen vehicle report, nothing. It’s like they don’t exist.”

“Which means they’re fake,” Austin said.

Elaine nodded. “Not just fake—professionally done. This isn’t some cheap knockoff with a swapped-out sticker or a number scuffed up to confuse a plate reader. Whoever did this either had access to a blank plate before it was ever issued or had the right equipment to manufacture one from scratch. And that’s not something you buy online. It takes serious connections, either inside the system or deep in the kind of circles where forged identities and ghost vehicles are used for high-end crimes.”

Austin frowned. “So we’re dealing with someone who knows exactly how to stay off the grid.”

Marnie crossed her arms. “And that makes locating them trickier than finding a crab pot in a riptide.”

A thud echoed from the dock as one of the deputies hopped onto Strand’s boat, peering down into the cabin. He turned back, shaking his head. They’d already assumed no one was aboard, but now that it was confirmed, they could search the boat.

Austin glanced toward the water, where the mist curled around the pilings like fingers. “So we’ve got a missing fisherman, an empty house, an abandoned boat, and now a ghost car. What the hell is going on here?” When no one answered, he remembered something Delgado had said during their interview. “And can anyone tell me anything else about the Collective?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Elaine let out a slow breath. “Depends on who you ask.”

Marnie crossed her arms. “Locals call them the Whitecap Collective. No one knows exactly how they got started, but the story goes that a bunch of fishermen banded together years ago to help each other out when times were tough. Not just here but up and down the coast. Some say they still operate that way—just a loose network looking out for their own. Others say it’s something more.”

“More?” Austin asked.

Blake shrugged. “Rumors, mostly. People whisper about them harvesting shellfish from restricted areas, selling off the books to restaurants up in Seattle. But no one’s ever caught them red-handed. And it’s not like they have a clubhouse with a sign out front.”

Elaine nodded. “If they are doing anything shady, they keep it quiet. No flashy cars, no big stashes of cash turning up anywhere. They blend in. Just regular folks working the water.”

Austin frowned. “So why hasn’t anyone leaned on them harder?”

“Because there’s nothing solid to lean on,” Marnie said. “No arrests, no major crimes, no big busts. People talk, but no one seems to know anything for sure.”

Blake shifted his weight. “And even if someone did, they wouldn’t exactly advertise it. If these people are breaking the law, they’re careful about it. No one’s lining up to snitch.”

Austin stared toward the mist-covered water, watching Lars’s boat bump lightly against the dock as the harbormaster finished tying it off. “And Alyssa?” he asked. “Matt Delgado mentioned she was asking about them. Said she was curious, maybe thinking about looking into them.”

Elaine shook her head. “If she was, she wouldn’t have been the first. And there’s never been any sign that these people are violent. If anything, it’s the kind of thing that gets overlooked. Half the guys out there working the boats have brothers or cousins in law enforcement. Nobody’s in a hurry to bust a bunch of fishermen trying to make a living. State laws don’t always account for how hard it is to keep a fishing boat afloat. Folks in Olympia don’t see it the way people here do.”

Elaine was about to lead the way onto the small boat when Austin turned toward the parking lot. He wasn’t sure why at first—just a prickle at the back of his neck—until he saw a man in jeans and a black blazer leaning against an old light pole.

As soon as Austin locked eyes with him, the man dropped his gaze, pretending to study the pavement.

Slowly, without turning his head fully, Austin murmured, “I think we’re being watched. Don’t look, but there’s a guy leaning on the light pole back there.”

Blake immediately turned and looked.

Austin exhaled sharply. “Dammit, Blake⁠—”

Too late.

The man pushed off the pole and started walking away.

Austin scanned the parking lot, half expecting to see the white Porsche idling somewhere nearby. It wasn’t there. Just the same smattering of old cars and trucks that had been there when they arrived. If whoever this was had followed them here, they hadn’t done it in the Porsche.

The man wasn’t running, though, just walking through the parking lot casually. Austin sensed that he wasn’t a threat, but he also knew for sure that the man had been watching them with more than a little curiosity.

“Let me handle this, okay?” Austin said, glancing at Elaine for permission.

She gave him a nod and Austin took off at a jog.

PART 2

WHISPERS ON THE TIDE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jogging through the parking lot, Austin’s mind flashed on Sy.

He’d promised not to take any risks, so why the hell had he followed this guy? It was because this wasn’t a risk, he told himself. His instincts on these things weren’t always right, but usually they were. If this guy was out to hurt cops, he wouldn’t have come alone and stood fifty yards away in broad daylight.

But then the man glanced back and started running. And as he reached the end of the parking lot, Austin picked up his pace to match.

The chase veered away from the marina, past the last row of trucks and skiffs, and straight toward the industrial sprawl of an old shipyard. The man was fast, but Austin was younger, stronger, and he knew he could catch him if he didn’t lose him in the maze ahead.

Massive dry docks loomed before them, their rusted scaffolding tangled with ropes and pulleys. Small stacks of shipping containers created narrow alleys, while half-disassembled boats sat abandoned on their cradles, their hulls stripped to weather-worn bones. Austin wasn’t from here, but even he could tell the place had been around forever.

A dented chain-link fence ringed the yard, though it was barely a deterrent. The man ducked through a wide gap where the metal had been peeled back, his blazer catching briefly before he slipped inside.

Elaine stepped onto the deck of Strand’s boat, pulling on a pair of latex gloves as she scanned the deck. The sun had peeked out, making the whole scene strangely bright.

Blake was already moving toward the cabin. “I’ll check below,” he muttered, disappearing down the short steps.

Elaine took her time, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the light. The boat was quiet and gave her nothing. No broken fishing poles, no blood smeared across the deck. Just an empty fishing boat.

She ran a gloved hand along the wheelhouse controls. Everything was intact—throttle, radio, engine switch. A few tools sat in a red bag on the deck, but that wasn’t unusual.

“Clear down here,” Blake called up from the cabin. “No body, no blood, no nothing.”

Elaine exhaled. That was almost worse.

She moved back to the railing, watching the harbormaster and his crew smoking cigarettes and watching them. “So where the hell is he?” she muttered.

Austin crept forward, keeping close to the hull of a dry-docked trawler. The shipyard was vast, and full of places to hide. Thick ropes coiled on the ground, heavy chains hanging from rusted cranes. It smelled like old oil, wet wood, and salt.

Ahead, he noticed movement, almost like a shadow behind the fog.

“Let’s stop this charade.” The voice came from right ahead of him, but Austin could not see anyone.

“I just want to talk,” Austin called out, keeping his hands visible. “No trouble.”

Another step and he saw him standing near a stack of crates, partially illuminated by a flickering floodlight.

He was older than Austin had expected—maybe mid-fifties, with a lean build that suggested he worked with his hands. His dark hair was peppered with gray, his skin weathered from years outdoors. A jagged scar shaped like a crescent moon ran from his temple down to his cheek.

His hands came up, palms out.

“You a cop?” he asked. His voice was rough and carried a faint Middle Eastern accent.

Austin kept his stance easy, but his muscles were coiled, ready. The guy wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t running anymore.

“Depends on who’s asking,” Austin said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Elaine stood on the dock, arms crossed as the evidence tech—just one guy in an oversized department-issued windbreaker—boarded Strand’s boat with a fingerprint kit. He didn’t look thrilled about being out here in the cold, but then again, neither was she. She needed a coffee badly. “Hey,” she called to him optimistically, “at least it’s not raining anymore.”

Blake stood beside her, watching as the tech got to work. “You know, we don’t need him,” he muttered.

Elaine turned her head slightly. “Austin?”

Blake scoffed. “We’ve got enough moving parts on this without adding someone who doesn’t know how things work around here.”

Elaine exhaled slowly. “He’s a good detective, Blake. Better than a lot of people we’ve had come through this department. And he’s not tangled up in this case the way some people are.”

Blake shot her a look. “You mean me?”

She met his gaze. “You knew Alyssa. You were involved with her. Maybe not recently, but it still counts. If I was anyone else, you wouldn’t be on this case either.”

“But you’re not anyone else, and you know I can still do this. It was a one-time thing with Alyssa. It’s not like we were engaged.”

“I trust you,” she said. “And I’m trusting Austin. But I have to ask—why don’t you want him here? What’s your real issue?”

Blake looked away, watching as the evidence tech dusted the wheelhouse for prints. “I don’t trust him.”

“Why?”

Blake hesitated for half a second too long. “I just don’t.”

Elaine frowned. “Bull.”

Blake turned back to her, his expression hard. “You just want him involved because of his connections. His pull with the governor—admit it. You know they’re friends.”

Elaine didn’t flinch. “I live in the real world, Blake. And in the real world, clout with the governor matters. If we need more resources, if we need the right people to pay attention to what’s happening here, Austin is our best shot.”

Blake exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “So that’s it. Politics.”

Elaine crossed her arms. “It’s survival.”

Blake softened slightly. “I guess that makes sense. And he doesn’t seem totally incompetent.”

They turned back toward the boat, watching as the evidence tech carefully lifted a print from the throttle. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. The water lapped against the dock, slow and steady, as the fog thickened around them.

Austin kept his stance measured, watching the man’s every movement. The guy hadn’t run far—just deep enough into the shipyard to make things complicated. Now, standing in the flickering light, hands up in a show of cooperation, he didn’t look rattled.

Austin took a step closer. “Why’d you run?”

The man scoffed. “I didn’t run. I hurried.”

Austin let the answer hang for a second. “That so?”

The guy nodded, dropping his hands a little but not completely.

Austin tilted his head. “Got a name?”

The man reached into his pocket slowly, pulling out a slim wallet and flipping it open. He held up a laminated card. “Darius Poole. Private investigator.”

Austin took the ID, glancing at the business card wedged behind the plastic. Tacoma address. Local number. The license looked legit—state-issued, not some cheap printout—but Austin had seen plenty of official-looking documents that ended up being well-crafted forgeries. Not to mention, he’d just seen license plates that were as good as any fakes he’d ever seen.

“Private investigator,” Austin repeated. “Who hired you?”

Darius slid the wallet back into his pocket. “A concerned party.”

Austin gave him a look. “That’s vague.”

Darius smirked. “That’s the job.”

Austin exhaled. “So let me get this straight—you’re hired to poke around a murder, you just happen to be standing near the spot where a potential witness’s boat is floating unmanned, and when I try to talk to you, you ‘hurry’ in the opposite direction?”

Darius shrugged. “I didn’t say anything about a murder.”

Austin realized he’d made a mistake. He’d mentioned that the boat belonged to a potential witness. It was possible Darius already knew this, but Austin was getting the sense that he may be looking into something else entirely. “Then what are you looking into?”

“A matter.”

Austin felt the heat rising in his chest. The man had broken no laws, other than a possible trespassing violation, so he couldn’t bring him in, but he wanted answers. Austin studied him. The guy didn’t look nervous, didn’t shift on his feet or glance for an exit. He was calm, smooth. Either he was exactly what he claimed to be, or he was damn good at playing the part.

“You got a problem with me being here?” Darius asked.

Austin held his gaze. “That depends. You got anything to do with the murder?”

Darius didn’t blink. “If you’re talking about that young woman, nope.”

“That implies you may have something to do with other murders.”

The man smiled. “That’s not what I meant. And you know it.”

“Lars Strand’s disappearance?”

Darius gave an easy shrug. “Who’s that?”

“What brought you down to the marina today?”

“A hunch.”

Austin crossed his arms. “Convenient how those work.” He wanted to push harder, but he had nothing to hold him on. No evidence, no clear reason to haul him in. Just a guy with a PI license and a well-rehearsed ability to sidestep questions.

After a beat, Austin nodded toward the parking lot. “You can go.”

Darius didn’t move right away. Just looked at Austin like he was considering something. Then he dipped his chin in a slow nod. “See you around, Detective.”

He turned and walked off, disappearing into the fog.

Elaine stood near the edge of the dock, arms crossed as the evidence tech worked his way methodically through the boat. The whole thing felt like a waiting game—no sign of a struggle, no body, nothing obvious. Just an empty boat and a dozen questions.

Blake leaned against a piling. “I don’t like this,” he muttered. “Too clean.”

Elaine nodded, but before she could answer, Marnie’s voice cut through the quiet. “Found something.”

They turned as she climbed out of the wheelhouse, a small notebook in her gloved hands.

“Where was it?” Elaine asked.

Marnie tapped the side of her boot against a loose floorboard near the cabin entrance. “Tucked under here. These boats have a few little hidey-holes if you know where to look.”

Elaine slipped on a new pair of latex gloves, took the notebook and flipped it open. The pages were lined with neat handwriting, a mix of numbers and names—some in full, some just initials.

It read like a ledger. A primitive accounting system.

“Looks like money moving around,” Elaine said. “Payments, maybe. Could be gambling, but—” She stopped as she scanned further.

Blake leaned in. “Flip some more pages.”

Elaine turned a few more pages and found a section that was more detailed.

03/15/2021 - Sold clams - Eastside Grill, Seattle - 47 lbs Razor - $620 late, no receipt

07/22/2021 - Wood deal - M&K Millworks - 1200 ft cedar - $8,900 routed thru T.J., no record

11/03/2022 - Boat fix - T. Meyers - engine work - $2,400 cash, no invoice

05/14/2023 - Gas - D.R. - 312 gal - $1,500 used too much, maybe sellin’ it?

09/30/2023 - More clams - S.R. (cash) - 22 lbs Geoduck - $480 no paperwork, pickup at dock

02/19/2024 - Took out cash - J. Foster - $5,000 took in chunks, keep quiet

Then she saw it, and Blake must have at the same time because his finger touched a name in the book.

Ridley.

The entry read:

08/05/2024 - Ridley - $57,000 Clearing the way in Olympia

Blake stepped back and let out a long breath. “Damn.”

Elaine met his eyes. “This is not good.” The ledger read like a list of small crimes and off-the-record transactions Lars had taken part in over the last few years. And it was the exact kind of stuff the Collective was rumored to be involved in. “Olympia,” she said. “$57,000. Governor Ridley. Any chance the Collective is a little more expansive than we thought?”

Footsteps on the dock made Elaine turn.

Austin was back. He slowed as he approached, scanning their faces. “What?”

Elaine hesitated. The notebook in her hands suddenly felt heavier. If the ledger showed what she thought it showed, she had no idea how Austin would react.

Elaine handed Austin a pair of latex gloves. Austin slipped them on and she gave him the ledger. “Marnie pulled it off Strand’s boat,” she said as he began flipping pages. “Hidden compartment. Evidence of shady deals, likely for the Collective. It has some names in it.”

She watched Austin scan pages, finding the same spot of detailed entries she and Blake had landed on.

Then he stopped. Frowned.

Elaine already knew what he was looking at. Ridley’s name.

Austin closed the notebook and exhaled, bringing his face back to an odd, neutral state. “I’m gonna need some time with this.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The café smelled like old wood and frying oil. Austin sat near the window, nursing a cup of black coffee, his eyes on the cracked linoleum table, which held the ledger in front of him. The place was mostly empty—just an older couple near the register and a trucker hunched over a plate of hashbrowns at the counter.

Behind the counter, a young woman was wiping down a coffee machine, dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, a silver nose ring glinting under the dim light.

She caught him looking and smiled, walking over. “You need a refill?” she asked.

Austin nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

She grabbed the pot from the warmer and refilled his cup. “You’re not from here.”

“Just passing through,” Austin said. It was a small town, and he preferred if people didn’t know he was working on the Alyssa Howard case.

She studied him like she was waiting for more. He gave her nothing. She nodded at the notebook in front of him. “That’s a lot of scribbling. Work?”

“Something like that.”

“What do you do?”

“This and that.” He closed the ledger halfway, enough to keep it private but not enough to make it obvious. “What’s the specialty here?”

“Fried razor clams,” she said. “Fish stew’s good, too.”

Austin took a sip of coffee. “I’ll take the clams.”

She jotted it down. “Jasmine, by the way. Jasmine Red Hawk.”

He nodded. “Austin. You a member of the tribe?”

She nodded. “Proudly so. We’ve been fishing these waters since before time began.” She winked. “That’s what my grandma says, anyway. But at least since the 1700s.”

Austin smiled.

She hovered for a second, then walked off, calling the order through a narrow window to the kitchen.

Austin reopened the ledger. It was worse than he’d thought. Lars Strand was into more than just fish smuggling—laundered cash, off-the-books shipments, fake invoices. The kind of small-town crime that stayed hidden because no one had the time or resources to dig. There was no evidence his deals were related to the Collective, but they seemed to fit.

And then there was Ridley’s name. It had only appeared once in the ledger, but, then again, Ridley hadn’t been governor for long.

Austin sat back, exhaling slowly as he stared at the entry.

08/05/2024 - Ridley - $57,000 Clearing the way in Olympia

Ridley had mentioned the relentless pressure of raising money for his campaign, the never-ending cycle of glad-handing and donor meetings. He’d looked exhausted when they last spoke.

But his name in this ledger? That was something else entirely. What could “Clearing the way in Olympia” mean if not providing some state cover to Strand’s illegal dealings?

Jasmine returned with his plate, setting it down in front of him. “Something wrong?”

Austin shook his head. “You ever see a man named Lars Strand in here?”

“Lars?” She made a face. “Yeah, he used to come in all the time. Had a tab. Never paid it.”

“Still owe you?”

She smirked. “One-twenty. My dad keeps all the IOUs in a little box under the counter.”

“Can I see it?” Austin asked.

She hesitated. “What is it you do again?”

Austin decided to go with the truth. “I’m a detective. Here helping out on the Alyssa Howard case.” He noticed the excited look on her face, as though she had a million questions. “And I really can’t say anything about it.”

“You think it was the Collective?” she asked suddenly.

“What do you know about them?”

“Nothing, but that’s what people are whispering. Me? I think the Collective is like Bigfoot. Probably not real but people like to believe, ya know?” She shrugged. “Anyway, sure you can have the IOU. Not like he’s coming back for it.”

She disappeared behind the counter, rummaged for a minute, then returned with a small stack of torn receipts and bar napkins. She flipped through them, then pulled one out.

Strand’s name. A scribbled $120, signed with a loose scrawl.

Austin held it next to the ledger. The handwriting was nearly identical. He wasn’t an expert, but it looked close enough. The loop on the “2” curved high and tight, just like in the ledger, and the downward stroke of the “S” in Strand’s name on the receipt had the same erratic tilt as every “S” in the ledger, as if he was always writing in a hurry.

Jasmine watched him. “That mean something to you?”

“Maybe,” he said. He folded the IOU in half. “Mind if I keep this?”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. My dad keeps those just in case someone actually pays up.”

“Do you think Lars is going to pay up?”

She snorted. “No.”

Austin tucked it into his jacket and pulled six twenty dollar bills from his wallet. “Call it even?”

She nodded. “Makes sense that you’re a cop.”

Austin raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

She shrugged. “Boyfriend is a cop. You’ve got that whole serious thing going on.” She wiped her hands on a towel.

“Speaking of serious,” he said, “that your SUV out front?” He’d noticed a brand-new, customized Cadillac Escalade in matte black on the way in. It had looked out of place in front of the little seaside diner.

She shook her head. “My dad’s.”

Austin glanced around the nearly empty café. “Nice car for a place this quiet.”

Jasmine smirked. “That’s what I said. But my dad likes nice things. Says he deserves ‘em.”

Austin studied her. “Your dad run the place?”

“Yeah. Frankie Red Hawk. He’s a pastor, too.”

That got Austin’s attention. “Pastor?”

“Yeah. Little church a few blocks over. Not many people come anymore, but he keeps it open. Doesn’t even lock the doors. Says people should be able to pray whenever they need.”

Austin took a slow sip of coffee. “That’s generous.”

Jasmine smirked. “That’s my dad.”

Everything in this town felt somehow wrong. The empty café, the white Porsche, the luxury SUV, the shadowy group called the Collective that everyone seemed to know and not know about.

Then Jasmine grinned. “Oh, hey, if you’re here working on the case, you work with Blake, right?”

Austin kept his expression even. “Blake?”

“Yeah, Blake Tiernan. That’s the boyfriend I mentioned.”

Austin nodded slowly. “That so?”

“He’s a great guy,” she said. “I mean, yeah, he’s got that whole rough-around-the-edges thing, but he’s solid. You’d like him.”

Austin took another sip of coffee. “Yeah, I am working with him.” He said it as neutrally as possible and she seemed to be satisfied.

When she left, he glanced at the ledger again, at Ridley’s name scrawled between figures that shouldn’t exist. He suddenly felt overwhelmed. Lars Strand was missing, a private investigator with no clear loyalties was poking around, and Elaine—though good at her job—seemed a bit out of her depth. And he couldn’t blame her. Murders like this rarely hit towns like Harrows Bay.

He pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and dialed.

“Jimmy,” he said when the line picked up. “Any chance you and Lucy can spare a day?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Saturday

The air was cool, damp with the lingering mist that clung to the trees. Austin stood outside the small police station, hands in his pockets, watching as a familiar SUV rolled into the lot. The doors opened, and Jimmy stepped out first—broad, solid, dressed in a dark T-shirt and jeans that made him look more like a bouncer than a detective. Lucy followed, her red curls slightly frizzed from the damp air, her hand braced instinctively on her stomach as she climbed out.

She was more pregnant than Austin had realized and seemed uncomfortable as she walked. He knew she was around six months along, but somehow today she looked different than the last time he’d seen her less than a week earlier.

“Lucy,” he said as they approached. “How are you feeling?”

Lucy shot him a look. “I’m pregnant, not broken, Austin.” She patted her belly. “I can still outwork you.”

Jimmy grinned. “Lucy O’Look-what-I-can-do.”

She stopped and punched Jimmy in the arm. “Lucy O’Unfortunately-gonna-have-to-drag-her-moronic-husband-to-childbirth-classes.”

Austin chuckled. “Lucy O’Lucky-she-hasn’t-murdered-you-in-your-sleep.” He stepped back to let them inside. “Good to see you both.”

He led them through the station and into the conference room, where Elaine and Marnie were already setting up for the day. Papers were spread across the table, the crime board covered in photos and maps.

Elaine looked up. “Morning. Where’s your coffee?”

Austin pulled out a chair. “Didn’t stop.”

Marnie shook her head. “Rookie mistake.”

Austin turned to Elaine. “Where’s Blake?”

“Following up on Matt Delgado’s alibi,” she said after taking a long sip from the largest paper cup of coffee Austin had ever seen. “He’s got the hotel in Tacoma looking over security cam footage.”

Austin nodded, then gestured to Lucy and Jimmy. “This is Detective Lucy O’Rourke, and that’s Jimmy. Married, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Jimmy said. “She’s glowing, I’m ruggedly handsome—it all makes sense.”

Elaine smirked. “Austin said you two were good. And we can use the help. Welcome to the circus.”

Everyone took a seat around the conference table and they got to work quickly. The ledger was at the center of everything now. The names, the numbers—everything pointed to Lars Strand being involved with the Collective. But the question that stuck with all of them was simple: if Lars had anything to do with Alyssa’s murder, why was he the one who called in her body?

“That’s what doesn’t track,” Austin said, flipping through pages of old reports about the Collective, none of which amounted to much, and none of which led anywhere. “If he’s guilty, why bring attention to it?”

“Maybe he thought she’d be found anyway,” Jimmy offered. “Figured if he was the one who reported it, he’d look less suspicious.”

“Maybe,” Austin said. “Or maybe someone else forced him to take the fall.”

Marnie leaned back in her chair. “By the way, I checked out the PI,” she said. “Darius whatever-his-name-was.”

Austin nodded. “Looked legit, but no idea who hired him.”

“Well,” Marnie said, “he’s the real deal—licensed PI, runs a legit business. But no white Porsche, no shiny trinkets, nothing flashy tied to his name. We still don’t know who’s paying his tab, but he doesn’t seem like the type to be sailing in the Collective’s waters.”

“Which leaves us with Ridley,” Elaine said carefully. “The ledger puts him on the list. We have to ask—could he be taking bribes? Is there any way he could be wrapped up in this?”

The room went silent for a beat. Austin had filled Lucy and Jimmy in on the ledger and Ridley’s presence in it. As much as possible, he’d tried to deliver the facts neutrally to let them draw their own conclusions.

Lucy scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Elaine folded her arms. “Lucy⁠—”

“No way in hell,” Lucy cut in, sitting forward. “I’m sorry. That man is my mentor. I’d bet anything on him. As dirty as politics is, he’s not.”

Austin wanted to agree. Hell, he did agree. But right now, in this town, nothing felt certain.

Before anyone could respond, the door opened, and a young woman from the front desk leaned in. “Elaine?”

Elaine turned. “What is it, Olivia?”

“You’ve seen it?” Olivia asked.

Elaine frowned. “Seen what?”

She looked frazzled. “The news. The new story about Alyssa Howard.”

Austin straightened. “What story?”

“Anna Downey just put out another report,” Olivia said. “She’s quoting Lars Strand. Isn’t he the witness who’s missing.”

Everyone froze.

Marnie’s brow furrowed. “Lars Strand is giving quotes? That’s like a ghost sending postcards.”

Olivia shrugged.

Austin exchanged glances with Lucy and Jimmy.

Elaine grabbed her phone, already searching for the article.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Austin leaned against the wall of the conference room as Blake stepped inside, shaking off the lingering damp from the misty morning outside.

Austin gestured toward Jimmy and Lucy. “Blake, this is Lucy O’Rourke, lead detective out of Kitsap County, and her husband, Jimmy. They’re both on loan for this case, informally, but trust me, they know what they’re doing.”

Blake gave them a long look, then exhaled through his nose. “I’ll admit,” he said, crossing his arms, “I wasn’t convinced anyone from Kitsap could be useful out here. But I was wrong. You guys want to help? Fine. We could use it.”

Austin was surprised. “Wow. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t push it,” Blake muttered. Then, addressing the whole room, he said, “Delgado’s alibi checks out. He’s a dirtbag, sure, but not a killer. He spent the night of the murder in Tacoma, got himself good and drunk at some hotel bar. I talked to the manager, reviewed the security footage. He checked in at 8:17 p.m., barely made it to his room, and didn’t check out until the next morning. The timing works out well with his story that he went straight to the pizza lunch with friends. No gaps, no chance he slipped away to Harrows Bay. He’s clear of the murder, though we still have the illegal timber angle, though I don’t think that’s a reason to hold him.”

Elaine nodded. “And you’re not pressing charges for the little incident?”

Blake smirked. “Nah. I deserved it. I shouldn’t have been at that interview in the first place. That was on me.”

Austin hadn’t expected Blake to admit fault. Maybe the guy had more self-awareness than he let on.

“Alright,” Elaine said, setting her pen down. “Let’s move on. Marnie, pull up the article.”

Marnie turned to the flat-screen mounted on the far wall and mirrored her laptop. The headline flashed across the screen in bold, black letters:

NEW DETAILS EMERGE FROM KEY PLAYER IN ALYSSA HOWARD MURDER CASE

The article was short, just a few paragraphs and Austin read it silently along with everyone else in the room.

Alyssa Howard, a 23-year-old social media influencer, was found dead last week on the shores of Second Beach, a secluded stretch of Washington coastline near Harrows Bay. Authorities have confirmed that Howard, known for her travel posts, makeup tips, and other social media content, was the victim of a homicide.

Lars Strand, a local fisherman and the man who initially alerted police to the presence of the body, has provided new details about the crime.

“When I found her, I knew she’d been in the water for about twenty-four hours, maybe a little more,” Strand told this reporter. “I don’t know what she was doing out here from LA, but she was always looking for a story. Maybe she found something she shouldn’t have.”

Strand also hinted that Howard may have been alone the night she died.

“She was probably out there with her camera,” he said. “She was asking around. People noticed.”

When asked if he had any suspicions about who might be responsible, Strand’s response was cryptic.

“Some things you don’t want to stick your nose into,” he said. “Not unless you’re willing to deal with the consequences.”

Austin leaned forward, eyes still locked on the screen. Strand was still missing. No one had seen him since last night, and yet, somehow, he was giving exclusive interviews to Anna Downey.

What the hell was going on?

And then there was what he actually said. The details in his quotes weren’t outright confessions, but they were enough to make any investigator’s stomach turn. How did Strand know Alyssa had been in the water for twenty-four hours? That wasn’t common knowledge. And what the hell did he mean by “deal with the consequences”? It almost sounded like a threat.

Elaine muttered a curse under her breath. “This makes no sense. If Strand wanted to make himself look guilty, he couldn’t have done a better job.”

Marnie turned to Austin. “You know Anna, right? From what I hear she’s a damn good journalist. Pesky, but good. You think she got played?”

Austin exhaled sharply. “She’s good. But this story is impossible. Strand is in the wind. No way she got these quotes from him directly.”

“And even if she did,” Jimmy said, “why would he say all that?”

Elaine leaned back in her chair. “She the kind of person who could have made them up?”

Austin shook his head. “No chance. Anna’s tough, but she doesn’t fabricate. Someone fed her these quotes. She might not even know she’s being used.”

Elaine sighed. “We’re working on a search warrant for Strand’s laptop. Maybe we’ll find something there.”

Austin nodded. “Do that. In the meantime, I need to talk to Anna. She won’t give me much, but maybe I can figure out where these quotes came from.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“How in the hell did you get those quotes?” Austin’s voice cut through the light drizzle, his breath visible in the cold air.

He and Anna stood under the overhang of a weathered boathouse near the marina, away from the small clusters of fishermen unloading their early morning hauls. The wooden dock beneath them creaked with the movement of the tide, and the scent of salt and wet wood hung thick in the air.

Anna crossed her arms, tilting her head at him. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

She’d only agreed to meet with him after dancing through a series of objections on the phone, and he didn’t feel he had any time to waste.

“Not in the mood,” he said. He kept his stance firm, watching her carefully. “Did you make them up?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I?” Austin challenged. “Because I don’t know how Lars Strand—who, by the way, is missing—gave you those quotes when he shouldn’t have even known half of what he said.”

Anna let out a slow breath, shifting her weight. “Look, I know you don’t like reporters. And I know you don’t like me anymore. But those quotes are real. Every single one. I didn’t mishear them. I didn’t make them up.”

Austin’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then explain it to me. Why would Lars say those things? He found the body. There’s no way he could’ve known Alyssa had been in the water for twenty-four hours. Average folks can’t judge that from a glance in the dim dawn light. There’s no way he could’ve known she was out with her camera that night. We don’t even know that. No camera has been found. Just a lens cap in her pocket. No site where the murder took place. It’s like he was handing us his confession on a silver platter.”

Anna shrugged. “Maybe he’s not that smart. Or maybe he has a guilty conscience.”

Austin frowned, watching the drizzle pattern against the rippling water beyond the docks. The thought of Strand being a fool wasn’t exactly reassuring. If he’d been working for the Collective, maybe he’d been sloppy enough to let something slip to Alyssa, or let her see something she shouldn’t. And maybe his self-sabotaging quotes weren’t so far-fetched. But that didn’t explain why he called in the body in the first place.

“What do you know about the Whitecap Collective?” Austin asked.

Anna snorted. “Only what I’ve read online. I haven’t looked into them much myself. I’m here to report on a murder. A handful of down-on-their-luck fishermen grabbing a few extra crabs doesn’t get me up in the morning.”

“So you don’t know anything firsthand? Lars Strand didn’t say anything?”

She shook her head, eyeing him carefully. “Would I be shocked if Lars worked for them? No. Would I be shocked if he took Alyssa out because she was going to expose something on social media? Again—no.” She studied Austin’s expression, her voice turning quieter. “You’re thinking that’s what happened, aren’t you?”

Austin didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded photograph. He hesitated for a moment, then handed it to her.

Anna took it, her face unreadable as she unfolded the page. Then, her expression changed. The photo of Alyssa’s battered, waterlogged body was stark even in the dull morning light. A slow exhale left Anna’s lips, but she didn’t look away.

Austin studied her reaction. “I know why you do what you do. You want the clicks. You want the story. But somewhere in you, you also want the truth. You want to find out why this happened. Who did it. If Lars did this, then tell me where he is. Tell me how you got in touch with him. Tell me how he got in touch with you. Anything.”

Anna didn’t respond immediately. She folded the photo carefully, tucking it into her coat pocket. Her fingers flexed around her phone, her thumb hesitating over the screen before she finally tapped it open. Austin watched as she navigated to her maps app, dropped a pin, and took a screenshot of the location.

Then she turned to him. “You still have the same number?”

“Yeah.”

She tapped a few times, and a second later, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“That’s where I met him,” she said. “I don’t know why he gave me those quotes, but it was my job to run them. He looked... not good is all I’ll say. Anyway, I wouldn’t be doing this for anyone else, Austin.”

Austin pulled out his phone and looked at the location. It wasn’t far. “I appreciate it.”

When he looked back at Anna, she was watching him. “Be careful, Austin. If Lars Strand really is tied up in this beyond discovering the body, he may be surrounded by some unsavory characters.”

Austin slipped his phone back into his pocket, nodding once before stepping out from under the overhang and back into the rain.

The drive took him about ten minutes outside of Harrows Bay, where the road narrowed, winding through thick cedar and hemlock. The drizzle had picked up, turning the dirt road slick, the scent of pine thick in the air. Anna’s location pin had led him to what looked like an old logging camp, half-swallowed by the forest.

He’d called Elaine before leaving town, keeping it vague. “I’m going to check out one more thing. I’ll be back soon.”

The bunkhouse stood at the end of a trail, sagging like a wet piece of cloth. Its wooden frame was half-rotted, the deep eaves covered in moss. Dried sawdust still clung to the bases of ancient stumps, but fresh logs were stacked near the treeline, their cuts clean and recent. Someone had been here. Maybe not today, but not long ago.

Austin approached the bunkhouse carefully. The place felt abandoned, but he wasn’t taking chances. He checked the perimeter first, his boots gathering mud as he worked his way around the structure.

The windows were dark. No movement inside. Reaching what appeared to be the front door, he knocked once. Waited.

Knocked again.

Nothing.

Circling around the side, he peered into a window. Dust-covered surfaces. Empty shelves. A small table overturned near the back wall. It was empty.

Damn, he thought, Anna played me.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Maybe she hadn’t meant to, maybe she had. Either way, this wasn’t getting him anywhere. He started back toward his car, but halfway across the clearing, he hesitated. Anna had said Strand hadn’t looked good. If he was inside, maybe he was dead. Either way, Austin needed to know.

He tested the front door. It gave with a reluctant groan, the hinges stiff with disuse. Inside, the air was stale, the scent of damp wood and mildew thick. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he moved through the space, scanning for anything useful.

The first room was empty, just an old cot and a rusted-out stove. The second had more—a desk, a few scattered papers. And a map.

Austin stepped closer, careful not to disturb anything. The map was pinned to the wall with an old nail, the edges curled from moisture. It wasn’t just any map—it was covered in markings, notes scrawled along various plots of land. Timber properties. Private logging sites. Some crossed out, others circled.

Austin frowned, trying to piece it together. He wasn’t an expert on the timber industry, but he knew enough to recognize something wasn’t right. These weren’t active commercial sites—some of the circles appeared to be on protected lands, places where logging was either heavily restricted or outright illegal.

His pulse ticked up. This had to be the Collective. And he couldn’t get Matt Delgado’s confession out of his mind. It was clear that Delgado wasn’t the killer, but his connection to illegal timber was too much of a coincidence to ignore.

He snapped a few photos with his phone, taking in the coordinates, the property names, anything that stood out. Whoever had been using this place had ties to something bigger than just an occasional batch of illegal fish. This wasn’t just a hideout—this was a hub for something illegal, something organized.

As he turned to leave, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Elaine.

As he exited the bunkhouse, he answered. “Yeah?”

“Get back here. Now.”

“What’s going on?” Austin asked.

“It’s time to get the crap kicked out of us,” Elaine said.

The line went dead.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The atmosphere in the conference room was tense, all eyes fixed on the screen where they had read Anna’s article. Austin stood near the back, arms crossed, trying to push down the lingering unease from what he had found at the logging camp. He had barely been back for five minutes when Elaine had called them all in. Now, Lucy, Jimmy, Marnie, Blake, and Elaine sat around the table, waiting.

Then, the screen flickered and Austin’s stomach twisted.

Ridley’s face appeared on the screen.

Austin hadn’t expected that. He exchanged glances with Lucy and Jimmy, but they looked just as surprised as he felt. Ridley’s expression was calm, unreadable, his blue suit crisp, his backdrop the kind of polished office space that screamed politics. But his face was sagging, his eyes puffy. He was somewhere well past exhaustion. This wasn’t the guy who had been tossing paper balls at a trash can with Austin just days ago.

Elaine straightened. “It’s an honor to speak with you, Governor, but what is this pertaining to? It’s not often we get a direct call from Olympia.”

Austin knew that Elaine hadn’t yet alerted Ridley to the presence of his name in the ledger, but had he somehow gotten wind of it? He assumed so.

Ridley exhaled as if this was just another day at the office. “I wanted to reach out personally regarding this investigation. Alyssa Howard. I understand the level of concern and the media attention surrounding recent events, but I also want to encourage you all to take a broader look at the situation.”

Austin’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t what he’d expected.

“I know that some of the evidence you’ve uncovered may lead to an organization called the Whitecap Collective, or simply, the Collective,” Ridley continued, his voice smooth and rehearsed. “They are a misunderstood entity. A lot of the allegations against them stem from outdated disputes over land and resource rights. There are groups in this state that have long felt disenfranchised, particularly in relation to fishing and logging industries. What we’re seeing here, in part, is the byproduct of generations of economic struggle, not some grand criminal conspiracy.”

Austin stared at the screen, hardly believing what he was hearing. This was political obfuscation, plain and simple. The kind of thing Ridley never would have said back when he was a detective. It was carefully worded nonsense, meant to slow things down, to divert attention. And worse, Austin had the sinking suspicion that Ridley didn’t even believe what he was saying.

“It’s important,” Ridley went on, “that law enforcement at all levels work to de-escalate tensions rather than feed into alarmist narratives about shadowy organizations. The last thing we need is to turn a localized dispute into something bigger than it is.”

Austin clenched his jaw. A few days ago, they’d been joking in Kitsap. A few days ago, Ridley had seemed normal. Now? Now, he sounded like a stranger.

Who the hell was this guy?

When Ridley finally finished, the room was silent.

Then Elaine said, “With all due respect, Governor, I⁠—”

Ridley held up his hand to stop her, then some nameless aid popped in front of the camera. “I’m sorry, the Governor has an important meeting to attend.”

The screen went black.

For a long time, no one moved. Austin made eye contact with Lucy, who appeared shaken.

Before he could say anything, the door burst open, and Olivia, the secretary from the front desk ran in, her face pale.

“Elaine—” She stopped, catching her breath. “Lars Strand just stumbled into the lobby. He looks half-dead. What should I do?”

Austin leapt up, beating Elaine to the door, and pushed through the door into the lobby, barely registering the cold air rushing in from outside.

Lars Strand was slumped over the front desk, gripping the edge as though it was the only thing keeping him upright. He was soaked through, his hair matted, face smeared with dirt, his beard unkempt. His jacket was torn at the shoulder, and his right eye was swollen nearly shut, a deep purple bruise blooming across his cheekbone. His breathing was ragged and his body swayed like a drunk during a bar fight.

He looked like he might collapse at any moment.

Elaine was already beside him. “Lars,” she said, her voice urgent. “You need a medic.”

Elaine waved at Olivia, who got on the phone to call an ambulance.

Strand lifted his head slightly, his eyes bloodshot and distant. “No...” His voice was hoarse. “I need to talk.”

Austin moved closer, watching the way Strand gripped the desk. His knuckles were raw, like he’d been dragging himself through the woods, through something rough. The scent of rain and sweat clung to him. And, Austin thought, sawdust. Perhaps he’d been out at the logging site after all, perhaps Austin had just missed him. But why did he look like this?

“Need to talk about what?” Elaine asked, her voice measured.

Strand blinked, his breaths shallow. “Everything,” he rasped. “I’m done. I’ll tell you everything.”

Then his grip slipped, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The small hospital in Forks, Washington, was as unremarkable as Austin had expected—a low, gray building with outdated signage and a single ambulance parked outside.

It was the closest medical facility to Harrows Bay, and for someone in Strand’s condition, it was probably the best they could do without flying him to the larger hospital in Port Angeles.

Austin stood in the narrow hallway outside Strand’s room with Elaine, Blake, Jimmy, and Lucy. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above them, and the scent of antiseptic filled the air. The waiting area nearby was nearly empty aside from a tired-looking nurse at the desk and a woman flipping through an old magazine.

After Lars had collapsed in the sheriff’s office, Elaine and Blake had kicked into gear. Blake, who apparently had emergency medical training, had taken his pulse and kept him stable while they raced him to the hospital, unwilling to wait for an ambulance. Austin had followed in his truck, arriving just in time to see Strand wheeled into the ER, barely conscious, mumbling incoherently. They’d been waiting ever since.

Elaine checked her phone, then let out a small sigh of relief. “Judge signed off on accessing Alyssa Howard’s laptop,” she said. “There are some parameters, though. We can’t just dig through everything—only files relevant to the case. Any leaks, he’s going to blame me personally.”

“Sounds fair enough,” Austin said, happy to have something new to focus on. They’d been waiting for three hours for doctors to give them the green light to talk to Strand.

Elaine shoved her phone in her pocket. “I was expecting this, and I’ve got a tech expert coming out to get into it now that we have permission. Should be here soon.”

“That’s something,” Austin said.

Elaine nodded. “It’s hope, at least.”

Jimmy and Lucy had spent the last hour going over the ledger Marnie had pulled off of Strand’s boat. Now, placing it back in the large ziplock bag, Jimmy handed it to Elaine. “Alright, I get why this looks bad,” he admitted. “I do. But I also see why Lucy isn’t convinced.”

Lucy crossed her arms. “Because Ridley would never do something illegal or immoral. He just wouldn’t. Nothing in any stupid journal will convince me otherwise.”

“I get it,” Jimmy said. “I want to believe that, too. But come on, Luce. The payments, the names, the way it’s structured—it reads like someone was laundering money or moving funds through shell businesses. If Ridley was even adjacent to that, it looks bad.”

Lucy exhaled sharply. “We’ve all worked cases where things looked bad. Doesn’t mean they were bad. I made some calls while we were waiting, and you want to know what I found out? Other departments have been sniffing around the Collective for years. It’s bigger than we thought.”

Austin frowned. “How big?”

“Yeah,” Elaine agreed. “How big?”

“Skagit County has been investigating illegal fisheries linked to shell companies buying up independent fishing boats,” Lucy said. “They push locals out, then suddenly, those same boats are running at full capacity with crews nobody recognizes. There’s evidence they’re underreporting hauls and overfishing protected waters.”

Elaine rubbed her temple. “And I’m guessing that’s just the start.”

Lucy nodded. “Down in Grays Harbor, they’re looking into a network running undocumented workers through the seafood processing plants. No paper trails, no oversight. And in Oregon, the state police are investigating a group suspected of smuggling stolen timber—old-growth trees from protected forests. It’s all connected, different pieces of the same operation. Some call it the Collective, some call it something else, but it’s the same beast.”

Austin absorbed that. “So while we’ve been looking at this as a local thing, it’s actually all across the Pacific Northwest.” He looked at Elaine and Blake, both of whom had been running this case from the start. Had they known how big the Collective was? Had they let it happen under their noses? He doubted it. More often than not, what people thought were grand conspiracies were just incompetence or bureaucratic limitations. It was easy to miss the big picture when you were busy putting out small fires all day.

“Matt Delgado,” Elaine said. “He already admitted that he buys illegal timber from time to time.”

“Hell,” Austin said. “That was his alibi. Makes me think we should have tried harder to get a name out of him.”

“No way that loser is connected to the Collective,” Blake said. “Other than maybe buying their wood, three guys removed from the original crime.”

“I agree,” Austin said. “The more I think about it, the more I think it’s a coincidence. If the Collective really is as big as they seem—with hands all over the fishing and timber industries—half the people in the state may have ties to them. Hell, I may be using some of their illegal halibut for my fish and chips right now.”

“Fish and chips would really hit the spot right now,” Lucy said. She cleared her throat. “Sorry, eating for two these days.”

“It’s clear Lars Strand is our guy,” Austin said. “Not the mastermind, but an underling taking the fall. Maybe he killed Alyssa, maybe not, but even if he didn’t, he can lead us to whoever did.”

Elaine nodded. “I’m assuming he’s not the killer. But that means we have to get him to flip.”

Austin caught the scent first—something warm, sweet, familiar. It didn’t belong in the sterile hospital hallway, where the air smelled like antiseptic and overcooked cafeteria food. His brain struggled to place it as Marnie O’Dell strolled toward them, a peculiar look on her face.

She stopped in front of the group and put her hands on her hips. “Alright, folks. I got two pieces of news. Which do you want first—the good news or the incredibly strange news?”

Austin blinked. “Why does it smell like⁠—”

Before he could finish, Marnie whipped a brown paper bag from behind her back, opening it with a flourish. “Ta-da! Cookies. That’s the good news.”

Inside, a pile of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies radiated warmth, the scent suddenly overwhelming and even more out of place. She held the bag open, offering it like a peace treaty.

Austin frowned. “When did you have time to bake cookies?”

Marnie scoffed. “Oh, please. I bake ‘em right in the office. Got one of those little countertop ovens, y’know, the kind folks use for frozen pizzas but should really be using for more respectable things, like baked goods. But you have to watch them like a hawk in those little ovens, otherwise they burn and the whole office smells like burnt sugar and disappointment.” She waved the bag. “Now take one before I start regretting my generosity.”

Jimmy grabbed a cookie without hesitation. “I like this kind of briefing.”

Lucy took one, then shot Austin a look that said you better take one too.

Austin sighed and reached in. It was still warm. He took a bite. Damn, it was good.

Elaine, however, didn’t seem as amused. “Alright, Marnie, what’s the strange news?”

Marnie bit into her own cookie, chewed thoughtfully, then licked a crumb off her thumb. “Well,” she said, “despite being very, very dead… Alyssa Howard just posted a new video on social media.”

Austin lowered the cookie from his mouth, his mind spinning. “What?”

“Oh,” Marnie said, taking another bite. “I think you heard me.”

“Where do we find it?” Elaine cut in.

Jimmy already had his phone out. “Everywhere,” he said. “It’s absolutely everywhere.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Alyssa Howard’s face fills the screen, grainy in the dim evening light. She walks through the quiet streets of Harrows Bay, her phone held out in front of her. The date stamp in the corner reads Monday, 6:42 PM. A slight breeze moves her hair.

“Okay, hey guys… so, um, this is not my usual kind of video, obviously. And, like, I wasn’t even sure if I was gonna post this, but whatever, here we are.”

The camera swings around to show the quiet downtown stretch of Harrows Bay—string lights glowing above a narrow street, old brick buildings, a few parked cars. Then, back to Alyssa.

“Just had, no joke, the best sandwich of my life at the Crab Shack. If you know, you know. If you don’t? I’m so sorry for you. My parents used to take me there when I was a kid, and I swear, it still tastes exactly the same. Fried clams, toasted roll, that ridiculous tartar sauce. Little minced up pickles and some kind of savory tang.” She smacks her lips. “I can’t even.”

She sighs, glancing away for a second before looking back at the camera, a flicker of something more serious behind her eyes.

“Anyway, so… some of you already figured this out from my posts, but yeah, I’m back home. Harrows Bay, baby. Creaky dock noises in the background, mist that makes your hair frizz in five seconds flat, and that constant smell of salt and fish guts? But we love her.”

She laughs lightly, but it fades. The camera wobbles slightly as she switches hands.

“So—real talk, guys—I always wanted to be an actual journalist. Like, doing stories that matter, not just ‘here’s my five-minute makeup routine’ or ‘this is the best lip plumper for under ten bucks.’ Not that I don’t love that, because duh, but when I was younger, I thought I’d be writing deep-dive exposés for, like, The New York Times or maybe my own investigative blog or whatever.”

She shakes her head, smiling.

“But then social media happened, and it was like—oh. This is how people get heard now. So I went with it, and it’s been amazing. But there’s always been this tiny voice in the back of my head saying… Is this enough? Am I just… making noise? Adding to the never ending stream of content that keeps us entertained, yes, but also maybe distracted from what’s going on.”

She stops walking. Behind her, the street slopes down toward the marina. She turns so the camera captures the water—dark and endless, the reflection of harbor lights swaying on the surface. The view lingers for a few seconds.

“Look at that. I mean… wow.”

The camera swings back to her face. Her eyes are wet. She laughs awkwardly, swiping under one eye.

“Ugh, not me crying on camera.”

She takes a breath, steadying herself.

“This place raised me. These forests, these waters… they made me. But Harrows Bay is changing. Forests are disappearing. There’s not enough fish. People are struggling. And I don’t know—something about being back here makes me want to do something. Like, actually do something. Do you ever feel that way, guys? Like you’re just staring down at your phone and all of a sudden you’re like—is this why I was put on this giant rock hurtling around the sun through space? Just to pay bills and stare at my phone?”

She glances away, then back, voice softer now. “Okay, sorry, I’m getting all deep and woo-woo on you. Anyway, over the next week, you’re gonna see a different side of me. Don’t worry, I’ll still get back to my usual zany, borderline unhinged content, because obviously. But this? This is serious. I need to do this. I need to understand what’s happening here.”

She swallows hard, blinking at the camera.

“I love LA. I do. But being back here…” Her voice catches. She clears her throat, forcing a small smile. “It makes me appreciate it. Makes me want to protect it. For when I have kids.” She lets out a breath. “Tomorrow morning I’m going down to check out some local beaches and trails. Gonna talk to some people. See what I can find out.”

She lowers her voice slightly, glancing around as if someone might hear her.

“People have been whispering about something called the Collective. I don’t know if it’s real. I don’t know if it’s just small-town paranoia or… something bigger. But I know we’re almost out of fish and that half of the protected forests are gone. And I intend to find out who’s behind it.”

A small, tight smile. Then⁠—

“Okay. Enough serious stuff. You guys are probably like, where’s the dumb chaos I signed up for? Don’t worry, more soon.”

She grins, bright and genuine, and winks at the camera.

“Night, guys. Wish me luck.”

The video ends.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Austin felt something tighten in his throat.

They’d all watched the video on Jimmy’s phone in the lobby of the hospital, and, for a long moment, no one spoke.

Austin swallowed hard, but the feeling didn’t go away. Legacy. That word kept bouncing around his head. The idea of leaving something behind. Of protecting something. Alyssa had been thinking about the future when she recorded that. A future she never got.

And now, Austin couldn’t help but think of Jimmy and Lucy, about their baby on the way. About Sy, about their own future—one that still barely seemed real. He’d only been gone a couple days, but home felt like another lifetime. Other than a ten-minute video call with Sy and Run the night before, he hadn’t spoken to them.

Elaine broke the silence. “Setting aside the fact that she posted this after she died, this makes the Collective look guiltier than ever. She was looking into them. That’s the last thing they wanted.”

Jimmy exhaled. “Yeah, and in this new age, a social media influencer has way more power than a local newspaper. She had millions of followers. If she uncovered something, she wouldn’t just report it. She’d broadcast it.”

“Based on how little action there’s been on the Collective,” Lucy added, hand on her belly, “maybe she struck more fear in them than you guys.” She nodded toward Blake and Elaine. “No offense.”

Blake scoffed. “Come on, man. More power than the police? That’s BS.”

“Is it?” Jimmy shot back. “The second she posted something, it went straight to millions of people. No red tape, no political entanglements or budget restrictions. Just instant exposure. Seems like these folks were operating in your town for years and... nothing. Alyssa shows up for a day and they take her out.”

“And how often does any of that actually matter?” Blake countered. “You know what people do when they see an ‘exposé’ on their social media feeds? They like it, maybe they comment, maybe they get mad for five minutes, and then they scroll to the next thing. Especially these days, I don’t see how it matters unless the police get involved.”

“But here we are now,” Jimmy said. “Involved.”

Elaine held up a hand. “Enough. We don’t have time for this debate.”

Before either of them could respond, a high-pitched voice cut in from behind them. “If you boys are done measuring—whatever you’re measuring—I’m here to do some actual work.”

They turned to see a young woman standing a couple yards down the hall. Petite, wiry, with short, dark purple hair tucked behind her ears, a septum piercing, and tattoos creeping out from under the sleeves of her oversized hoodie. Austin thought she looked like she’d just come from a coffee shop that only served oat milk.

Elaine smirked. “Everyone, this is Riley. My little cousin. She’s a senior at UW, studying computer science, and she’s here to get into Alyssa’s laptop.”

To Austin she looked no older than twenty. “She’s your department’s tech consultant?”

Elaine nodded and Riley gave a little wave, her multiple rings catching the light. “I can already tell you guys don’t know jack about social media, so this should be fun.”

“Alright, then,” Austin said, “what are all the ways a post like that could have gone up after Alyssa Howard was killed?”

Riley snorted. “Well, duh, someone could’ve gotten into her phone. That’s obvious enough.”

Austin glanced at Elaine. “No word yet on her phone, right?”

Elaine frowned. “Nope.”

“But the obvious answer,” Riley continued, tucking a strand of her purple hair behind her ear, “is scheduled posts. Pretty much any influencer worth their salt schedules content ahead of time. TikTok, Instagram, YouTube, they all have built-in scheduling tools, or people use third-party apps. It’s normal.”

Blake raised an eyebrow. “So she could’ve set this up before she died?”

“Exactly.” Riley leaned against the desk, adjusting her hoodie sleeves. “People think influencers just wake up, record something, and hit post. Nope. They plan. They batch content. They shoot weeks in advance. Some people even schedule posts for months later. If Alyssa was serious about her journalism pivot, she was probably banking videos ahead of time.”

Austin said, “The video was date stamped Monday. She died Tuesday morning around five.”

Riley said, “Well then she shot it Monday, scheduled it to go out today assuming she’d have more content for the upcoming days. Sometimes people like her schedule posts then adjust the schedule. Possible today’s release was a placeholder she would have adjusted had she lived.”

Jimmy nodded. “Makes sense. And she was already teasing that she was gonna be dropping more. This could’ve just been the first of many.”

Elaine exhaled. “Alright. Riley, get started on the laptop. The judge gave us clearance, but there are limits. Stick to what’s relevant. No diaries or journal entries yet. Travel stuff, anything related to Matt Delgado because she was the last friend we know she saw. Anything related to the Collective.”

Riley gave a mock salute. “Aye-aye, boss lady.”

Before anyone could say anything else, a doctor stepped out from Lars Strand’s hospital room. He scanned the group, trying to figure out who was in charge, then looked at Elaine.

He was tall and lean, with graying hair at the temples and the kind of sharp, analytical eyes that had seen too much. His white coat was slightly wrinkled, his ID badge clipped to the pocket. “He’s awake. You can see him now.”

Elaine nodded toward Austin. “You and me. We’re handling this one.”

Austin followed her toward the door without a word.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Lars Strand looked like hell.

His face was bruised, his left eye still swollen, and a thin line of dried blood ran from his temple to his cheek. He sat propped up in the hospital bed, his wrists resting on top of the stiff white sheets. The heart monitor beeped steadily beside him, the only real sound in the room.

Elaine pulled up a chair and sat across from him, her expression soft. She glanced at Austin briefly, enough for him to get the message—she was going to ease into this, and he was supposed to be the one to apply pressure.

“How you holding up?” she asked. “Doctors treating you alright? You need anything?”

Strand gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Could use a cigarette and a nice cold beer. Coors, or Bud Light. None of that fancy microbrew crap.”

Elaine tilted her head, smiling slightly. “I can’t get you a beer or a cigarette, but I might be able to swing a fruit cup. Chocolate milk if you’re feeling fancy.”

He smirked, then sighed, leaning his head back against the pillow. “Man quits smoking after thirty years, thinks he’s doing the right thing, and then—bam—this happens. Should’ve kept at it. Damn doctor says my lungs are thanking me, but what the hell do my lungs know?”

Elaine chuckled as though she’d been thoroughly charmed by the man. Austin knew it was an act, but it was a decent one. “Chocolate milk then?”

“Sure,” Strand said. “Why not?”

To Austin’s surprise, Elaine stood up and walked out, leaving him alone with Strand. As she passed, she gave him a brief glance—not quite a warning, but something close. A look he took to mean: Get what we need.

The door shut behind her, leaving only the steady beep of the heart monitor between them.

Austin pulled his phone from his pocket and opened up the article Anna Downey had written, scrolling down to the section where Strand had given his quotes.

He cleared his throat before he began reading Strand his own words. “‘I knew she’d been in the water for about twenty-four hours, maybe a little more.’” He glanced up. Strand was staring at the ceiling. “‘I don’t know what she was doing out here from LA, but she was always looking for a story. Maybe she found something she shouldn’t have.’”

Strand didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even look at him.

Austin set the phone on his knee. “You really said all that?”

Strand blinked once, then exhaled slowly. “Reporters are all liars.”

“So the reporter made it up?” Austin asked.

Nothing. Just the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Austin’s fist had turned into a ball at his side and he had to will himself not to lose patience. “How could you have known Alyssa had only been in the water for twenty-four hours? What made you say that?” Still nothing. “Why do your quotes read like threats, or, if I might take a leap, a confession? What’s going on here?”

Strand shrugged, his fingers twitching slightly over the sheets.

“How did you get to the police station?” Austin pressed. “Were you staying out at that abandoned logging cabin? Is that where you spoke with the reporter?”

Strand turned his head slightly, finally looking at him. But he still said nothing.

Austin let the silence stretch, let the tension settle into the room. Then he shifted forward in his chair, lowering his voice. “We have the ledger. The little notebook full of names and numbers. We pulled it from your boat. And you know what it tells us? That you’re either the killer or you work for the Collective. Probably both.”

Strand pressed his hands into his cheeks, wincing slightly.

“You don’t have a lot of time left before we throw the entire weight of this department toward you,” Austin said. “And you alone.”

Strand swallowed hard. But still, he said nothing.

Austin sat back, feeling the frustration coil inside him.

The door clicked open behind him.

Elaine was back. Ignoring Strand, she leaned in, whispering in Austin’s ear. “Come with me. Riley’s already in the laptop.”

Austin glanced at Strand, still silent in his hospital bed, then rose without a word, following Elaine into the hall. As he closed the door behind him, Strand’s frustrated shout surprised him. “Where’s my damn chocolate milk!”

Elaine ignored the shout and led Austin down the corridor, past nurses stations and the occasional visitor. The smell of disinfectant and burnt coffee thickened as they approached a small, dimly lit cafeteria tucked into the corner of the hospital.

Inside, the rest of the team had taken over a table in the back, their presence standing out against the sleepy hum of hospital staff on break. Riley sat in the center, laptop open, fingers tapping rapidly on the keys. Jimmy leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, while Lucy peered over Riley’s shoulder, eyes narrowed in concentration. Marnie had her hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup, stirring idly, and Blake was drumming his fingers against the table, impatient.

Riley didn’t look up. “Took you long enough,” she muttered in Austin’s general direction.

Austin pulled out a chair. “Just tell us what you found.”

She smirked, tapping one last key before turning the screen toward him. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Riley leaned back in her chair, hands behind her head, a smug grin on her face. “Easiest password crack ever. Like, she didn’t even try. Just her dog’s name and her birth year. Honestly, she was lucky she didn’t get hacked before this.”

Elaine exhaled, unimpressed. “Alright, what did you find?”

Riley turned the laptop toward them. “First thing I checked was her scheduling app. She used one for all her platforms—Instagram, TikTok, YouTube. The video we saw? The one that posted after she died? That was her last scheduled post, at least on her main scheduling app. She uploaded it around 11 PM Monday. Nothing else is waiting to pop up. So, unless someone else has access to her accounts or she used another scheduler I haven’t yet found, that’s the last one we’ll get.”

Austin nodded. “So we’re not dealing with some mystery queue of videos.”

“Exactly. I went into her browser history. This is where it gets interesting. She was researching the Collective. Hard. Like, not just Googling random conspiracy theories—she was actually digging. Reddit posts, rumors on the Dark Web. Old blog articles.”

Riley clicked a few times and turned the screen again. “She had a few pages of disorganized notes, even some recorded conversations with locals. I had an AI transcribe them and I emailed them to Elaine, but a quick scan tells me it was mostly just rumors. Seems like the Collective was a secret that everyone knew about, if that makes sense.”

Austin nodded. Strangely, it made perfect sense.

Jimmy leaned in, scanning the screen. “So it’s open and shut. She was looking into the Collective before she even got here. She arrives Monday, shoots the video we saw and then, Tuesday morning, planned to shoot more video. Then, BAM, they took her out.”

“In everything she’d found,” Austin said, “the talks with locals, any evidence they were ever violent?”

Riley shook her head. “Not even a rumor about that.”

“Just because the Collective wasn’t violent before,” Jimmy said, “doesn’t mean they can’t change tactics.”

Lucy frowned. “We don’t know that. It’s a strong possibility, but there’s no direct evidence yet.”

“Besides the dead body,” Blake said, clearly growing frustrated. “Come on, Lucy. We’ve got her researching a shady organization, then turning up dead, and Lars Strand, who clearly worked for them, finds the body then incriminates himself. Connect the dots. Fifty bucks says he’s being set up by someone higher up in the Collective to take the fall.”

Austin agreed. “Now if we can get him to admit it.”

Elaine looked at him. “You ready to go back in?”

Austin exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah. But there’s someone I want to talk to first. See if I can get a better strategy.”

Elaine raised an eyebrow, but didn’t question it. “Make it fast.”

Austin leaned against the far wall of the hospital cafeteria, his phone pressed to his ear. The others were still huddled around Riley’s laptop, their quiet murmurs filling the space, but he needed fresh eyes—someone who wasn’t buried in evidence or drowning in the politics of this case.

Fitz Pembroke, III answered after a few rings. “If this is a social call, mate, you’ve caught me at a terribly inconvenient time.” He sounded tired, but the voice was smooth and unmistakably British. “I’m currently deciding whether the world deserves the rest of this bottle of Lagavulin. Or if I do.”

Fitz was an FBI profiler and psychological analyst he’d connected with via Claire Anderson, an agent he knew in the Seattle office who was now friends with Sy. She’d assured Austin that there was nothing he liked more than hearing himself speak, and Austin should call on him whenever he needed advice about how to crack a suspect.

“Fitz,” Austin said, rubbing his temple. “Tell me you’re at least moderately sober.”

“Moderately?” Fitz sounded genuinely offended. “How dare you? I am either entirely sober or spectacularly not, and tonight, my friend, I fall somewhere in the great chasm in between.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Life makes no bloody sense, mate. And anyway, I suspect you’re not calling to check on my hydration levels. What’s troubling you?”

Austin exhaled, glancing toward the table where Elaine and the others were still deep into the laptop. “I just spent the last twenty minutes interrogating a guy who looks guilty as hell. He’s twitchy, won’t answer direct questions, keeps stonewalling like he knows he’s done for—but the thing is, I don’t think he did it.”

Fitz made a thoughtful noise. “Ah. The eternal conundrum. He’s acting guilty, but your gut tells you he’s not. Always a fun one. Tell me about him.”

“Lars Strand. Fisherman. Tough guy, but something’s off. He doesn’t trust the police, barely even acknowledges me when I ask him straight questions, even though he stumbled into the station saying he was ready to talk. I think he might be more scared than guilty. And he’s recently had the crap kicked out of him.”

“Interesting,” Fitz said, sounding more awake now. “And when you pressed him?”

“Just shut down. Won’t confirm or deny anything. I read him his own damn words from an interview he gave, and all he said was that reporters are liars.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end, then a soft chuckle. “Ah, well. That’s useful.”

Austin frowned. “How?”

“You’re looking at this from a cop’s perspective. Facts, confessions, contradictions. But your guy? He’s not thinking like a man who’s guilty. He’s thinking like a man who has already been convicted—in his own mind, at least.”

Austin paced the length of the cafeteria. “So how do I break that?”

Fitz sighed dramatically. “You need to stop being a cop and start being a fisherman.”

Austin stopped. “What?”

“You’re never going to get him to talk by playing detective. He doesn’t trust you. But he trusts the sea, doesn’t he? That’s his world, his language. You need to stop dragging him into yours and step into his.” Fitz paused. “Ask him about the water. The tides. The boats. Don’t start with guilt. Start with what he knows best.”

Austin considered this. “You think that’ll work?”

“I think if you keep hammering at him like a cop, he’ll just keep retreating. But if you make him feel like he’s explaining something—something only he knows—he might just tell you more than he realizes. And that’s where you’ll find the truth.”

Austin glanced back toward the table, where Elaine caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.

“Alright, Fitz. Go finish your bottle. I’ll let you know if you’re right.”

Fitz laughed. “Oh, I’m right. I just hope you’re clever enough to use it properly.”

Austin ended the call and slid his phone back into his pocket.

He walked over to Elaine. “I’m going back in.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Elaine slipped into the hospital room, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall without a word. She didn’t need to say anything—Austin understood. She was giving him the room to work.

Austin sat down again, hands clasped loosely in front of him. “Lars, let’s talk about that morning.” He let the words settle, keeping his tone even. “Walk me through it.”

Strand stared at the ceiling, face tight, eyes closed.

“You were on the water early,” Austin continued, shifting slightly in his chair. “I don’t know much about boats, but I know a guy like you probably had to check the tides, make sure the conditions were right. What were you hoping to catch?”

Strand hesitated, then sighed, shifting in the bed. “Crab,” he muttered. “And rockfish, maybe. Depends what’s running. Damn I love that water.”

Austin nodded. “Weather good? Water calm?”

Strand swallowed. “Yeah. Little foggy, but calm.”

Austin leaned forward just a little. “Bet you wanted a cigarette.”

Strand let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Every damn second. Should’ve never quit.”

“I smoked for about a week in college,” Austin admitted. “Never took.”

“Lucky you.”

Austin let a small silence stretch between them before he spoke again. “What was the fog like when you saw her?”

Strand’s fingers twitched slightly over the blanket. He inhaled deeply, as if forcing himself back to that moment. “Thick. Thought she was driftwood at first. Big log, maybe a buoy. But then I got closer. Saw the hair. The jeans.”

“And what did you do?”

“Killed the engine. Let myself drift closer. Didn’t wanna touch her, but—” He swallowed. “Didn’t know what else to do.”

Austin let the words sit. He pulled out his phone and scrolled to the article Anna Downey had written. “You told the reporter, ‘I knew she’d been in the water for about twenty-four hours, maybe a little more.’ How did you know that?”

Strand met Austin’s eyes for the first time. “Didn’t. Just guessed.”

When he was talking about fish and fog, he was relaxed, easy. Now his tone had grown tight. Austin thought he was lying. “Hell of a guess.”

Silence.

Austin kept going. “You called it in from a payphone. Miles away. Why not from your own phone?”

Strand let out a slow breath. “Didn’t want the cops on me. Figured I’d get blamed.”

Austin nodded, as if conceding the point. “Were you staying out at that old logging cabin? That where you met Anna?”

His expression didn’t change. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Austin exhaled, sitting back. “Lars, we know you were tied up in something. Right now, you’re either the guy who killed Alyssa, or you’re the guy the real killers set up. And you don’t have a lot of time left to decide which one you are.”

Strand’s lips parted slightly, as if he might speak—but he didn’t. He looked down, his fingers curling into the blanket. For a long moment, nothing. Then⁠—

“I never should’ve made that call.”

Austin stilled. “What do you mean?”

Strand’s voice was rough, worn down. “I hate cops. Always have. But I saw the body, and I thought—I don’t know, maybe I could do one thing right in this damn life. Didn’t even think I’d get dragged into it. Figured I’d make the call, go home, forget about it. Maybe her family would get a funeral instead of just waiting forever to hear something. What did I get for it? First, you all thought I did it. Then, a couple days later, I get nabbed.”

Austin tasted lemon-lime—sharp, fizzy, with just a trace of sweetness, like the first sip of a freshly cracked Sprite. It sometimes hit him this way, a sensory flash just before a realization settled, the moment hanging suspended in his mind. Then, like carbonation rising to the surface, it clicked. “Nabbed how?”

Strand shifted against the pillow. “Couple guys pulled me off my boat. Pushed it out to sea. I woke up in that cabin. Was told to call the journalist. And say what I was supposed to say.”

“Who told you?”

Strand shook his head. “Didn’t see them. They were masked. But they said they were watching. Said if I did what I was told, I’d be allowed to live. I refused at first, they beat the crap out of me.”

Austin frowned. “And they said they were watching you how? There weren’t any cameras at the cabin. Not that I saw at least.”

“Don’t know,” Strand muttered. “Didn’t ask. Didn’t argue.”

Austin leaned forward. “And the ledger?”

Strand let out a slow breath. “It’s mine. But I was low level. Just moving fish, sometimes cash. Never even met anyone important. It was all over the phone—’Be here at this time, take this, drop it there.’ Made a couple hundred per job. Times have been hard catching crab.”

Austin studied him. “So you worked for the Collective?”

Strand exhaled sharply. “Stopped a year ago. I was out. And, you gotta believe me, when I called in the body I had no idea they were involved.”

Austin could feel himself starting to believe him. Strand wasn’t innocent—but he wasn’t their guy. He was just the one left holding the bag.

“One last thing,” Austin said. “A white Porsche. You know why one would’ve pulled into your driveway?”

Strand frowned. “No idea. But I can tell you one thing—no one working fish out here can afford a Porsche. Not if they’re on the up and up.”

There was a knock at the door and a head of deep purple hair poked its way in. Riley. “Um, sorry guys, is this a bad time?”

“What is it?” Elaine asked.

“Remember what I said about no more videos being queued up? I was wrong.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The video opens with the sound of gentle guitar chords, soft and melancholic, playing beneath the first image—Alyssa, around nine years old, sitting at a weathered picnic table outside the Crab Shack. A plastic basket of fries in front of her, a root beer float sweating in the afternoon sun. She grins, her hair wild from the salty wind, ketchup smeared at the corner of her mouth. A voice, older but unmistakably hers, overlays the scene.

“If I could go back and tell this little girl what was coming…” she laughs, and there’s something wistful beneath it. “I don’t know if she’d believe me.”

The screen flickers to life again, this time with Alyssa in the present day, walking along a quiet stretch of rocky shore, her phone held in selfie mode. The tide rolls in behind her, the water steel-gray under a sky stacked with heavy clouds.

“I wasn’t planning on posting this for a while, but I think it’s time. I’ve been thinking a lot about where I came from—this town, these people. It’s funny, when you’re young, you just want out. You think anywhere else has to be bigger, better, shinier. But now?”

She stops, turning the camera toward the horizon where a fishing boat bobs in the distance. A gull wheels overhead. She lets the moment breathe before bringing the camera back to herself.

“I said it in my last video: I always wanted to tell real stories. Like, real stories. But the internet doesn’t exactly love real. It loves fast, catchy, easy-to-digest. It loves drama. It loves scandal. It loves whatever makes people feel something in the shortest amount of time possible. And yeah, I played into that. You kind of have to if you want to survive in this world.”

The footage cuts again, this time to home video. Slightly grainier footage from a Christmas morning. A little girl—Alyssa, age six or seven—rips open a present to reveal a bulky, plastic camcorder. Her dad chuckles from behind the lens as she gasps, clutching it to her chest.

“No way, no way! I get my own camera?”

The clip fades into another scene—teenage Alyssa, maybe fifteen, standing on the dock at Harrows Bay, this time holding a cell phone. The wind whips her hair across her face as she talks animatedly into the frame. The audio is choppy, the wind overpowering her words, but she’s smiling.

Then back to the present.

“I pictured myself uncovering corruption, holding people accountable. But there’s no real space for that anymore. The algorithm decides what lives and what dies. And journalism? It’s been on life support for a long time.”

She walks a few more steps, her voice quieter now.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t still want to try. I love this place. I love the people here. And I think the stories that really matter are the ones happening in the places no one’s paying attention to. The stories that don’t go viral, that don’t trend on Facebook or Insta or X, that won’t make a million dollars in ad revenue.”

Another cut.

Alyssa at ten years old, sitting in the bow of a tiny fishing boat, her father’s hands steady on the motor. She dangles a line over the side, eyes full of wonder as she waits for a bite. Her father’s voice comes from behind the camera, rich with love.

“What do you think, kiddo? You gonna catch us dinner?”

She grins, toothy and confident. “Duh.”

Back to the present.

“That’s why I’m doing this. Because places like Harrows Bay? They deserve to be seen. Not just for the cute coffee shops and aesthetic beach shots, but for the real stuff. The good, the bad, the things that make a place alive. The people.”

She stops walking, looking at the camera for a long moment.

“I know I’m just one person with a camera. And maybe that’s not enough. Maybe it never will be. But at least… I can try.”

She forces a smile, but her eyes are glassy. The ocean stretches behind her, choppy and gray.

“Anyway,” she sniffs, laughing a little. “That’s all for now. Next week, I’ll be back to making fun of ridiculous LA influencers and showing you guys the best place to get a haircut for under sixty bucks. But… yeah. Just wanted to say this.”

She lifts her hand, gives a small wave, then hesitates, as if there’s something else she wants to say. Something important.

Instead, she just whispers, “Goodnight, guys.”

The screen goes black.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Out in the hallway, Austin finished watching the video on his phone. He looked up at Riley, who had been waiting patiently.

Elaine spoke first. “Where did it come from?”

“Apparently,” Riley said, “sometimes she uploaded to her master scheduling app, sometimes she uploaded straight into TikTok or Instagram. The previous video was the former, this one, the latter.”

Austin frowned at her.

“I haven’t gotten into her TikTok account yet because she has two-factor authentication, and we don’t have her phone,” Riley continued. “But she had been working on that video for a week, spliced in the recent footage and voiceover, and uploaded it Monday as well. Must have been up editing half the night. The girl was truly on her grind.”

Elaine leaned against the wall. “She really was laying out a whole story, and whatever she dropped about the Collective was going to be the finale.”

“Looks that way,” Austin agreed.

“Keep looking,” Elaine said to Riley, who turned and headed back to the cafeteria.

Blake came hurrying toward them, waving his phone as if that might somehow explain the urgency on his face.

“Two of our deputies think they found where the murder took place,” he said, his voice crackling with energy. “They’re out there now. It’s a big break.”

Austin exchanged a glance with Elaine. “Where?”

“Off one of the old logging trails,” Blake said. “Near the ridge past Second Beach.”

Austin pulled his keys from his pocket. “I’ll meet you there.”

The air was heavy with the fecund scent of wet earth as Austin moved ahead on the narrow trail. Moisture clung to the undergrowth, and the fading sunlight stretched thin through the towering trees, turning the forest into a shifting mix of light and shadow. The dimming visibility forced them to switch on their flashlights, beams cutting through the dusk.

Lucy, Jimmy, and Elaine stayed close, their movements careful, deliberate. The ground, softened by the day’s dampness, gave slightly underfoot, absorbing their presence as they scanned the path ahead.

They stopped where the deputies had marked off an area of interest—an uneven patch of dirt near the base of a large cedar. The ground was disturbed, like something heavy had been dragged through. Nearby, broken branches littered the ground, snapped unnaturally at various angles.

Lucy crouched, running her hand over the soil. “Looks like someone struggled here. See this? The way the dirt’s kicked up? There was a fight.”

Austin nodded. “She tried to run.”

Jimmy shone his flashlight further down the trail. “If she ran, the perp didn’t give her much of a head start. Look—there’s another patch of disturbed ground here, about ten feet ahead. Like someone went down hard.”

Elaine exhaled, stepping closer. “He caught her here.”

Austin studied the ground, then looked back the way they had come. “She was heading toward the road. It’s not that far from here. Maybe her car was there, and she almost made it.”

Jimmy swept his light along the nearby brush, his expression grim. “But she didn’t.”

Austin turned, focusing on a section of ferns that had been trampled down. “They pulled her back. See how the vegetation’s flattened in one direction? She was dragged this way.”

Lucy stood, scanning the treeline. “So what are we thinking? Think she was meeting someone out here? Or was she followed?”

Austin exhaled. “Maybe she came out here willingly. Maybe she thought she was meeting someone. In her first video, she mentioned getting more footage. The trail leads down toward the beach, right? Very possible she saw something she shouldn’t have.”

Elaine pointed her flashlight at a dark stain near the base of the tree. “And here’s where it ended.”

They all turned toward the spot, a stillness settling over the group. The stain was deep, embedded in the bark. Dried blood. A lot of it.

Elaine said, “Evidence tech was at a wedding. He’ll be here in an hour. But no doubt that’ll come back as Alyssa’s blood.”

“And if we’re lucky,” Lucy added, “the bastard who did this left some of his own DNA as well.”

Austin swept his flashlight across the scene again, something itching at the back of his mind. Something wasn’t right. He crouched, studying the dirt more carefully. The scuffle marks weren’t uniform—there were three distinct sets of prints, different sizes, different weights.

Not one attacker. Two.

“Hold on,” Austin muttered.

Elaine stepped closer. “What is it?”

Austin traced a set of prints, following how the weight distribution was different. One pair was heavier, deeper. The other was lighter, but just as aggressive. This wasn’t a single person overpowering Alyssa. It was two attackers, moving together.

He straightened, scanning the others. “We’ve been saying ‘he’ this whole time. We need to stop that. This wasn’t one person. This was two.”

Elaine crouched to inspect the prints. “I’m not seeing it.”

Austin leaned in, outlining the three different prints slowly, his fingers dancing just an inch above the ground.

“Got it,” Elaine said finally. “Lars Strand didn’t do this alone. If he did this at all.”

“Which I don’t think he did,” Austin said. “I already had my doubts, but I don’t think that guy is capable of teamwork. Not on a fishing boat, not when committing low level crimes, and not when committing murder.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Austin was still staring at the bloodstained tree, but in his mind, he was a thousand miles away. A different trail. A different case.

It had been just outside New York City—a stretch of woods in Westchester County, not far from the Hudson. A seventeen-year-old girl had gone missing after telling her parents she was going for a quick run before dark. Her phone had last pinged near a hiking trail she used all the time. Austin had been part of the search effort, walking that trail day after day, hoping, praying, but knowing deep down what they would find.

When they did find her, she was deep in the brush, half-covered in leaves, the bruises on her throat telling the whole story. They caught the guy who did it—some drifter with a record of assaults in three states. Said he saw her running alone and just acted. Like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

The case had been brutal, but that wasn’t what had stuck with him. It was the timing. Fiona had died that same week. He’d been standing in those woods, staring down at that girl’s body, and Fiona had called him. He hadn’t picked up the phone.

He’d sent it to voicemail and she hadn’t left a message.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Likely figured they’d just connect later in the day. And they had.

It was no big deal except, for some reason, the memory had stuck with him. The feeling of sending the call to voicemail while staring down at the mangled body of an innocent young woman.

Now, years later, standing on this trail, the feeling was the same. That same heavy, inevitable weight pressing against his ribs. Alyssa had died here, in the dirt, just like that girl in New York.

Now his family was Run and Sy. Soon, a baby. And he was a couple hundred miles away, staring at blood.

He forced himself to take a breath, to push the memories back where they belonged. The past didn’t belong here. Alyssa did.

Austin turned to Elaine. Jimmy and Lucy had drifted a few steps away, talking quietly. Lucy looked upset, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her head shaking as Jimmy said something low and calm.

Austin thought about checking in, but whatever it was, it wasn’t for him. Not right now.

“The Collective killed her,” Austin said. “She was onto something. Maybe not even the full picture, but enough that she was making noise. They knew it would lead back to them eventually. So when Lars called it in, they saw their out since he’d worked for them. Pin it on the fisherman. Tie up loose ends.”

Elaine exhaled, rubbing her forehead. “Yeah. Makes sense. And Lars was the perfect fall guy—past dealings with them, a loner, hates cops. Easy to make him look guilty.”

Austin nodded. “They knew what they were doing.”

Then, from up the trail, a scream.

His head snapped toward the sound. “What the hell⁠—”

Jimmy was on his knees beside Lucy, who was doubled over, clutching her stomach. Her face was tight with pain, her breaths shallow and fast.

“Something’s wrong⁠—”

Elaine was already moving. “Call an ambulance! Now!”

Austin fumbled for his phone, his hands suddenly clumsy, his pulse a deafening drum in his ears. “She’s only six months⁠—”

“I know,” Elaine snapped, already crouched beside Lucy. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

Jimmy’s face was pale. “I’m taking her myself. We can’t wait.”

Austin nodded, already stepping back, watching as Jimmy half-carried Lucy toward the cars. Elaine threw open the door, helping Jimmy get her inside. The tires kicked up dirt as they sped off down the road, sirens wailing in the distance, growing louder, then fading into nothing.

And just like that, they were gone.

Austin stood there, staring after them, his mind blank. The trail was quiet again, except for the distant hum of wind through the trees.

For a second, he didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His body was still wired for action, but there was nothing to do. No one to chase, no fight to break up, no bullets flying. Just silence. A deep, stretching silence that pressed in around him.

He dragged a hand over his face, forcing his thoughts back into some kind of order.

Lucy would be in good hands. Jimmy wouldn’t leave her side. But that wasn’t his job right now.

His job was here. On this trail. With the bloodstained tree and the ghosts that came with it.

And he needed to figure out what the hell to do next.

He overheard Blake calling in for a police escort to meet Jimmy’s car and lead them to the hospital. Then, Elaine and Blake were standing before him.

“Austin,” Elaine said. “You alright?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“Anonymous tip came in.”

Austin barely registered Blake’s voice at first. His mind was still stuck in the chaos of the last ten minutes—Lucy’s scream, the way Jimmy had looked at him, like he was begging him to fix something that was entirely out of his control. The way the taillights of the car had disappeared down the road.

“Anonymous tip came in,” Blake was saying. “Somebody called the station, told us to look into a guy named Frankie Bones.”

Austin blinked, pulling himself back. “Frankie Bones?”

Blake nodded. “Means nothing to me. You?”

Elaine shook her head. “Not a name I recognize. Could be an alias, obviously. Could be a waste of time.”

“Yeah, but why now?” Blake asked. “Why call in a tip when we’re already waist-deep in this thing?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We get back to the office, I’ll pull what I can.”

Austin barely heard them. The conversation moved around him, voices coming and going like background noise in a crowded room. The weight of everything sat heavy in his chest. The questions about Ridley. The case. Fiona. That girl in New York. Now Lucy. It was too much all at once.

“I need a minute,” he muttered.

Elaine hesitated, watching him closely. He could tell she wanted to say something, but in the end, she just nodded. “Yeah. Alright.”

Austin turned and headed for his truck.

He didn’t think. He just drove.

By the time he pulled into downtown Harrows Bay, the streetlights were flickering on. The diner was closed, dark inside, a “See You Tomorrow” sign hanging slightly askew in the window. He was hungry, but not enough to do anything about it.

Instead, he walked, hands in his pockets, aimless.

The town was quiet. The wind carried the smell of salt and damp pavement, the distant sound of waves rolling in. It reminded him of Hansville—small, sleepy, the kind of place that felt untouched by time.

That’s when he saw it.

A tiny community church, tucked between two buildings like it had been wedged in as an afterthought. He remembered now—Jasmine Red Hawk’s father was the pastor here.

The lights were off, but something pulled him toward it. He tried the back door, half-expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t. Just like the little church back home.

He stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him. The space was dim, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the stained-glass windows. Empty pews stretched toward the front, where a modest wooden cross stood against the far wall.

Austin sat down in the last row, resting his elbows on his knees.

He thought about Fiona. The way her laugh had carried through a room. The way she used to reach for his hand without thinking about it. The way she had been, so entirely and fully herself, until one day she wasn’t.

He thought about Jimmy and Lucy. About how quickly everything could shift from normal to not.

And he thought about Alyssa Howard. The case. The one that had pulled him all the way out to the edge of the world, that had taken over every hour of his life. And yet—they were still nowhere close to solving it.

He let out a slow breath, staring at the floor.

It wasn’t often he let himself sit in a moment like this. He always kept moving, kept working. But here, in the dim stillness of an empty church in a town that wasn’t his, with nothing left to distract him, there was nothing to do but feel it.

The exhaustion. The weight of it all.

He ran a hand over his face and leaned back against the pew, staring up at the darkened ceiling. The quiet in the church was different than the silence of a crime scene—it wasn’t heavy, wasn’t full of the weight of death.

It was still, like the water before a storm. A waiting kind of quiet.

He had never prayed before. Not really. When he was a kid, he’d gone to church with his parents, but he’d never felt anything. Never really believed. And in Hansville, sometimes he slipped into the back, just to be alone, just to sit in the kind of silence that felt bigger than him. He had never known what he believed, had never needed to put a name to it. But now, with his hands clasped in a way that felt unnatural, he found himself doing it anyway.

“If someone’s listening, if any of this means anything—help them. Help Lucy’s baby make it.”

It felt stupid. It felt desperate. But he didn’t move. Didn’t unclasp his hands or shake off the moment. He just sat there, eyes closed, trying not to think about Jimmy, about the look on his face. Trying not to think about Lucy in that back seat, gripping her stomach.

“If someone’s listening, please, please don’t let Lucy die. Don’t let the baby die.”

He swallowed hard and let his thoughts drift.

The pinching down of possibilities.

That’s what life was. When he was younger, it had felt endless. He could do anything, be anyone.

But the older he got, the more doors shut. The more choices he made, the more paths disappeared behind him. There was no going back, no undoing. But maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe freedom wasn’t about having endless possibilities—maybe it was about finally choosing. Cutting away the excess, focusing on what mattered.

At first, solving crimes had been like working a puzzle. A compulsion, a way to force order onto chaos. Then, after Fiona, it had become personal. Now, after everything—Lucy, Jimmy, this case—it wasn’t about him at all. It was about what world he was leaving behind when he went.

His mind flashed to the custom Escalade that he’d seen out front of the diner. The white Porsche.

He sat up a little straighter. His thoughts shifted, gears clicking into place.

The café. Jasmine Red Hawk’s father’s café. It was always empty. No real traffic, no rush of regulars. Just a quiet little place barely scraping by. And yet, Frankie Red Hawk drove an $80,000 SUV.

Austin had dismissed it at the time. Some people were just bad with money, lived beyond their means. Bought cars with debt they couldn’t afford. But now, he wasn’t so sure.

A café that doesn’t make money.

It made sense, didn’t it? A perfect front. A place to move things through, a legitimate business to explain the cash flow.

Austin pushed himself up, shaking off the weight of the moment. He had an idea.

Instead of heading toward the front doors, he turned toward the back of the church.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The air outside the church was colder than before, the mist rolling in heavier off the bay. Austin stepped into the night, his breath visible as he scanned the lot. His mind was still buzzing from the realization, from the way the pieces had snapped together the moment he’d let himself consider them.

Frankie Bones.

Frankie Red Hawk.

A tribal connection to fish and timber would serve the Collective well.

It made too much sense.

Austin moved instinctively as he made his way around the side of the church. A narrow strip of grass led to a small, squat garage. The building was old, its wooden walls weathered by salt air and rain. No lights inside, no signs of movement.

He tried the side door. Locked.

Stepping back, he spotted an empty milk crate near the wall, just sturdy enough. He dragged it over, set it beneath the grimy window, and stepped up. The glass was coated in dirt and condensation, making it nearly impossible to see in. He cupped a hand against the window and leaned in, but the dark swallowed everything.

Austin reached into his pocket, pulled out his flashlight, and clicked it on. He aimed the beam through the glass, sweeping it across the interior. For a second, there was nothing but the dull reflection of empty space, the faint outline of tool shelves and an old workbench.

Then, the light hit metal.

A sleek, pale curve. Low-slung. The unmistakable lines of a luxury sports car.

The white Porsche.

He adjusted the beam, angling it further into the garage, and that’s when he saw the SUV. The same one he’d seen outside the café. The same one that had no business belonging to a man who barely ran a business at all.

Two-hundred grand worth of metal, rubber, and leather sat in the garage, owned by a small town pastor who ran a café with no customers.

His mind was already ahead of him, running through every step, every possible connection. Frankie Red Hawk wasn’t just involved. He was at the center of it. A pastor, a businessman, a key piece of the Collective.

And he knew Lars Strand. Austin doubted Red Hawk had framed Strand over the $120 he’d been owed, but with someone crazy enough to brutally murder Alyssa Howard, you never knew.

Austin jumped down from the crate and strode toward his truck, pulling out his phone as he climbed inside.

The engine roared to life. He threw it into gear with one hand while the other hit dial. Elaine picked up on the first ring.

“Austin?”

He pressed the gas, the tires screeching as he tore out of the lot.

“I know who Frankie Bones is.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Austin pushed through the doors of the police station, the late-night quiet stretching through the lobby.

Elaine was already waiting for him, arms crossed, her expression full of expectation.

“Austin—”

“Frankie Red Hawk is Frankie Bones,” he said, cutting her off. “He’s part of the Collective. I found the white Porsche tucked away in a garage behind his church. My bet, he’s been moving money through the café, and with his tribal connections, he has the perfect cover to help smuggle illegal hauls of fish and timber up and down the coast⁠—”

“Austin—”

“We need to move on this now before he disappears, because⁠—”

The side door banged open, and Blake barreled in, pointing straight at him. “We know!”

Austin stopped short, his momentum halting like someone had thrown a wall in front of him. Blake stormed forward, a file in his hand, shaking it for emphasis.

“We figured it out, too! You think you’re the only one who knows how to follow a damn lead? Frankie Red Hawk’s been in the system before—nothing major, nothing that ever stuck, but enough to leave breadcrumbs.” Blake flipped the file open and slapped it onto the counter. “There were reports—years back—about tribal fishing operations running illegal hauls. Mostly shellfish, but also crabs, salmon, anything with a high price tag. They were supposed to be within legal limits, but the numbers didn’t add up.”

Elaine stepped in, scanning the files quickly. “I remember some of this. Fish and Wildlife tried to investigate, but everything got buried in red tape. No one wanted to go after tribal operations, especially with intertribal coordination involved. Not to mention, Frankie is a good guy, at least I thought so.”

“His fried clams were delicious,” Austin said.

“Exactly.” Blake pointed at a report dated six years prior. “Local church, local restaurant. Trusted member of the community. But they were meeting spots, places to move money, run logistics. I’d bet anything.”

Elaine said, “I spoke with three members of his tribe tonight, all people I know and trust. Get this: they started having suspicions about him two years ago. They were going to vote to kick him out of the tribe.”

Austin exhaled, flipping through the reports. “So he used his tribal connections as a shield, kept it just legal enough to avoid scrutiny. All the while, he was doing it without anyone else in the tribe knowing?”

Blake nodded and a heavy silence settled over the room.

Then Elaine straightened. “We have enough. We’re picking him up. Now.”

Blake was already reaching for his radio when the door behind them swung open.

Austin turned, expecting another deputy.

Instead, he found himself staring at Governor Ridley’s broad frame, his presence sucking the air from the room.

Austin stiffened.

“Well, well,” Ridley said, his voice smooth and deep. “Looks like you all have been busy.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The office didn’t look like much—just a cramped space above a defunct travel agency called Bert’s Travel Services, the windows fogged from years of coastal humidity. The fluorescent light flickered, casting a dull glow over the threadbare carpet.

Ridley had refused to explain why they needed to come with him, only saying it would all make sense after the five minute drive to the edge of town. Now, he sat back in a rickety office chair, arms crossed, watching as Special Agent Peter Halloway adjusted his glasses and leaned forward.

Austin had already picked up on the agent’s habits—the way he pushed his glasses up with his middle finger, the way his fingers tapped against the table in a steady rhythm when he was thinking. He had the thick, sturdy frame of a man who’d spent his early years doing real labor before landing behind a desk at the FBI. A Wisconsin drawl clung to his vowels, but his voice carried the weight of someone who had seen too much to waste time softening the truth.

Halloway exhaled, then tapped the table once. “Alright. So, here’s the thing. You were right about Frankie Red Hawk. He was mixed up with the Collective, running jobs, moving product, handling logistics—but he wasn’t a top guy. Not even close. Frankie was small-time, and more importantly? He was ours.”

Elaine’s arms folded tight across her chest. Austin shifted his weight, feeling the first twinge of something uneasy settle in his gut.

Halloway continued. “We flipped him about eighteen months ago. Picked him up on a weapons charge, something that should’ve put him away for ten years easy. But he had an offer on the table—talk or take the fall. And Frankie wasn’t the take-the-fall type. He knew the Collective was getting bigger, meaner, and that sooner or later, they’d have no use for him. So he started giving us a little at a time—shipment schedules, names, locations. Nothing that would burn him outright, but enough to help us map the whole damn operation.”

Austin’s fingers curled slightly at his sides. “Where is he now?”

Halloway hesitated, rolling his lips together like he could press the words back down. His gaze flicked toward the floor for half a second before he straightened, meeting Austin’s eyes.

Austin let out a slow breath. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Halloway’s mouth tightened, but all he said was, “He fell off our radar about twelve hours ago. Only thing I can tell you for sure: he didn’t kill Alyssa Howard.”

Austin’s stomach went cold. Frankie Red Hawk had been feeding the FBI intel for a year and a half, and now, just as things were coming to a head, he’d vanished. He didn’t need to ask what that meant. “Start from the beginning, okay?”

“It all started here,” Halloway said. “Harrows Bay, the 1970s. A bunch of guys doing what they had to do to keep food on the table. Fishing quotas were squeezing ‘em out, government said jump, and they weren’t in the mood to ask how high. So they took care of each other, shared their hauls, cut a few corners. Wasn’t anything sinister. Hell, I’d probably have done the same thing in their shoes.”

“And they called themselves the Whitecap Collective.” The voice had come from behind Austin and he turned to see the familiar face of Darius Poole—the private investigator who, Austin realized in an instant—was likely an undercover FBI agent.

“Exactly,” Halloway agreed as Poole pulled up a chair.

He reached out and shook Austin’s hand. “Special Agent Mike Smith. Sorry I had to lie to you down at the docks.”

Austin crossed his arms. He already knew where this was going.

“You know how it goes,” Halloway continued. “You start bending rules, pretty soon you’re breaking ‘em. And once you break ‘em, well, you start thinking they weren’t such good rules to begin with. By the ‘80s, this wasn’t just a group of fishermen—it was an organization. That’s when they started bribing inspectors, falsifying catch reports, paying off the right people to make their problems go away. If you weren’t with ‘em, you were against ‘em. Boats got burned, gear went missing, guys packed up and left town because it wasn’t safe for ‘em anymore.”

Halloway paused, adjusting his glasses again, giving Smith a chance to speak. “And the one man who played that game better than anyone? Neil ‘The Captain’ Sorensen.”

Austin had never heard the name before, but from the way Smith said it, he knew it was important.

“Sorensen was nineteen when he got in,” Halloway said. “Just a punk kid working deckhand jobs, but he paid attention. He saw who pulled the strings, who gave the orders, who got rich while the others were barely making rent. By the time he was thirty, he wasn’t taking orders anymore. He was giving them. And then? He figured out the golden rule of organized crime: why stop at fish?”

Halloway leaned forward. “See, the seafood industry is perfect for smuggling. You’ve got big shipments moving through all the time, nobody questions where they came from, and if anything goes missing—well, that’s just the nature of the business, right? So they started running people. Not just anyone. The desperate ones. Workers from Southeast Asia, from Mexico, places where a guy’ll take any chance he can get for a better life. These folks were promised real jobs—good wages, legal work. And when they got here? Their passports disappeared. Their wages? Didn’t exist. And if they complained? They got thrown overboard, simple as that.”

“These weren’t workers,” Smith added, his face hard. “They were slaves.”

Austin clenched his jaw, making brief eye contact with Ridley, then Elaine, both of whom were standing along the wall, listening.

Smith and Halloway weren’t dramatizing it. They didn’t need to. The facts sat heavy in the air, and they didn’t need any extra weight to make them worse.

“But Sorensen? He didn’t stop there,” Halloway continued. “Because once you’ve got the boats, the distribution, the bribes, why stop at fish and people? That’s when they got into exotics. And I don’t mean a few rare salmon here and there—I mean big-money, black-market stuff. Pacific octopuses, endangered rockfish, illegal sea cucumbers, all the things the wealthy dipshits in California and Asia are willing to pay a fortune for. You ever see a billionaire’s private aquarium? You’d be amazed at how much crime is swimming around in there.”

Elaine sat down next to Austin, taking it all in.

Halloway’s fingers drummed against the table again, steady, methodical.

“So now,” Smith said, “we’re not just talking about illegal fishing or human trafficking—we’re talking about international smuggling operations using Washington’s coastline as a revolving door. And the kicker? It all still comes back to Harrows Bay.”

Austin’s mind was already connecting the dots. The café, Frankie Red Hawk, the Collective—Sorensen had built something that had lasted for decades, and it had only grown bigger.

“For years, we’ve been trying to nail this thing down,” Halloway continued. “But Sorensen? He’s old-school. He doesn’t leave a paper trail, doesn’t use a damn cell phone. He runs this thing like a mafia boss who never got the memo that the world moved on. And that’s what makes him dangerous. Because men like him don’t retire. They don’t go to prison quietly. They burn everything down before they let someone else take it from them.”

A long silence. No one spoke.

Then Halloway sat back, folding his arms. “We’ve been looking into these bastards for two years. And we were getting close. Alyssa Howard?” He let out a long breath.

“Alyssa Howard.” Smith picked up where Halloway had left off. “She started snooping around. More than likely, they took her out, but we haven’t found much evidence of that. We have them on a lot of other stuff, though.”

Austin exhaled slowly. He’d already figured Alyssa had died because she saw something she wasn’t supposed to. But this was bigger than he’d imagined.

Halloway adjusted his glasses again, middle finger pushing them, then steepled his fingers on the table. “We’ve got one shot at this. We’ve got enough to move in now—but this is a house of cards, and once we push it, everything’s gonna fall.”

“So the question,” Elaine said, “are we gonna push it? Or are we gonna let Captain Sorensen sail off into the sunset?”

Halloway let the question hang there. One hand rested on the table, waiting. Then, quieter, like he already knew the answer, he said: “You tell me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Austin and Ridley stood near the corner of the makeshift FBI office, away from the others. They stared at one another, the silence between them not awkward, but not especially comfortable either.

Ridley exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know you’ve been wondering about my name in the ledger.”

Austin didn’t respond. He waited.

Ridley met his gaze. “They donated to my campaign. The Collective. A lot of people did. It wasn’t just them—it was businesses, fisheries, local industry leaders. That’s how politics works, Austin. You know that.”

Austin studied him. “And you never knew?”

“No.” Ridley’s voice was firm. “If I had? I would’ve returned it immediately. And now that I do know, I’m figuring out how to fix it. The money’s either getting returned or sent straight to something that’ll actually do some damn good.”

“How did they get the $57,000 to you? Wasn’t it a bit suspicious when Lars Strand pulled up at your office with a bag of cash? And why did they expect you to ‘clear the way’?”

“That’s not how this works.” Ridley looked frustrated, but Austin couldn’t let it go until he was sure. “My team is trying to track it down. Most likely, Lars Strand picked up $57,000 from the Collective and gave it to some non-profit, which then lobbied us for some fishing-related statues in Olympia. Making us look corrupt without us actually being corrupt.”

Austin let out a slow breath. He believed him. It wasn’t comfortable, but there were bigger things to deal with now.

Ridley seemed to sense the shift. “Look, none of this matters right now. What matters is Lucy. I heard what happened. How bad is it?”

Austin felt the tension creep back into his shoulders. He nodded toward the nearest chairs and they both sat. “Last I heard, they were airlifting her to Seattle. She’s alive, but it’s not great. It’s too early, and they’re fighting to keep the baby stable. Jimmy went with her. He wouldn’t leave her side.”

Ridley exhaled sharply. “Damn.”

Austin only nodded. There wasn’t anything else to say.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Ridley clapped him on the shoulder, not hard, but solid. “Then let’s finish this. The sooner we do, the sooner you get to be where you should be.”

Austin swallowed, nodded, and turned back toward the others.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The office above Bert’s Travel Services was quiet except for the low hum of space heaters and the occasional rustle of paper. Austin leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching Special Agent Peter Halloway tap at his laptop. The agent’s face was drawn in the cold light of the screen, deep lines carved between his brows.

“Three days ago, Frankie Red Hawk gave us the burner phone of one of Sorenson’s guys,” Halloway said, his voice clipped. “We pulled the GPS history. Looks like he made regular visits to an old cannery, about twenty minutes west of town.”

Austin shifted his weight. “That where they’re running operations?”

Halloway tapped a key, pulling up a red-dotted route on the screen. “Best lead we’ve got. Last ping was two nights ago.”

Elaine sat at the folding table, one knee bouncing. “Then we go now.”

Halloway shook his head. “Dawn.”

Elaine exhaled sharply. “We wait, and we risk losing them.”

“I’ve got two more agents coming in. We go in when we can do it right,” Halloway said, tone firm.

Austin studied the map. The cannery sat perched at the edge of the cliffs, surrounded by dense forest on one side and the ocean on the other. Isolated. Good for smuggling, bad for anyone trying to escape.

Blake, who had been silent up until now, approached and leaned on the table. “How deep is Sorensen in this? You really think he’s still hands-on?”

“We know he’s there,” Halloway said. “At least some of the time. Frankie assured us that the guy whose phone he took was like his right hand man. He doesn’t run things from a distance. That’s not how he operates. Men like him—old-school guys? They don’t trust anyone but themselves when it comes down to it. He’s hands-on when it matters.”

Elaine pushed back from the table. “This case started here. I don’t want it taken over by the feds and wrapped up with a bow.”

Halloway’s tone didn’t shift. “We’re not wrapping up anything. We’re bringing in Sorensen. The Alyssa Howard thing? I mean, obviously that’s connected, but it’s still yours.”

“For now,” Agent Smith said, returning with a cup of coffee.

Austin wanted this over, but he wanted it done right. “He won’t go quietly,” he said finally. “A guy like that? He’d rather burn it all than be taken alive.”

“Then we make sure he doesn’t get the chance,” Halloway replied, “simple as that.”

Elaine exhaled sharply, drumming her fingers on the table before glancing at Austin. “You think we’re waiting too long?”

Austin hesitated. Every instinct told him to move now, but this wasn’t just some backwoods bust. It was federal, which meant playing by their rules. And not only that, his hunch was that Halloway was right. The Collective was ten times bigger than he’d allowed himself to imagine. Most likely, they were ten times more dangerous as well.

“No,” he admitted. “But if we wait, we make sure we finish it.”

Halloway finally stood, stretching his arms. “Get some rest. Five a.m. sharp.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sunday

Austin woke, gasping for air.

The room was dark, silent except for the low mechanical whir of the heater. The cheap hotel sheets were damp with sweat. He sat up, pressing his palms against his face.

He’d had the drowning dream again.

He’d felt himself sinking this time, lungs burning, limbs heavy. The water had been cold. And unlike before, he had stayed conscious the whole way down. No sudden blackout, no jolt awake before the fear fully set in. Just the horrid, bitter taste of burnt licorice, desperate fear, and a slow, inevitable descent into the dark.

His breath steadied. He exhaled slowly, shoved the sheets off, and reached for his jeans. No time for dreams.

Austin crouched behind a fallen tree, peering through the dense foliage. Beyond the tree line, the cannery loomed—gray siding rusted through in places, sagging against the wind. A long gravel drive curved toward a loading dock.

To the uninitiated, the place might look abandoned, but Austin knew better. The way the gravel had been flattened by fresh tire tracks, the glow of a light seeping through a high window—it all screamed recent activity.

This wasn’t some forgotten ruin. This was a working operation.

Someone was here.

Halloway was a few yards away, speaking in low tones into his radio. Three other agents, including Special Agent Mike Smith, were positioned in the woods, watching.

Elaine knelt to Austin’s left, her breath fogging in the cold, eyes locked on the warehouse doors. Blake knelt to his right.

Austin scanned the perimeter. “Two entrances?”

Elaine nodded. “Main doors and a side warehouse. If they’re smart, they’ll have a lookout. Maybe more than one.”

A gust of wind cut through the trees, rattling damp branches. The woods were dense here, pressing in on all sides. It smelled like rain-soaked earth, like the ocean pulling at the land.

Halloway’s voice came over the radio. “Breach on my signal. Austin, Elaine, Blake, take the warehouse.”

Austin shifted slightly, eyes never leaving the building. “Best case scenario? We get in, surprise them, and Sorensen goes down without a fight.”

Elaine gave a dry chuckle. “You believe in best-case scenarios now?”

Austin checked his gun. “Not really.”

“Me neither,” Blake said.

Austin could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the weight of what they were about to do settling in. He’d stormed buildings before, but not quite like this. Even though this had been his case for a few days, the FBI had been on it for almost two years. They knew so much he didn’t, and that made him uncertain. And if they got it wrong, people wouldn’t just walk away in handcuffs.

Elaine glanced at him. “If things go sideways⁠—”

“They won’t,” Austin cut in. “We do this clean. No one plays hero.”

She nodded, but he could see the worry in her eyes.

Austin turned his focus back to the warehouse. The wind shifted, carrying the sound of something metallic scraping inside the building. A door? A piece of equipment being moved? Hard to tell.

The agents readied themselves. Austin steadied his breath. He could see it all playing out in his head—the way they’d move in, the angles they’d cover, the places someone could hide.

Then, Halloway’s voice crackled over the radio: “Go.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The breach started clean.

The FBI hit the front hard—flashbangs, shouts, boots slamming into concrete. The concussive boom of the entry charge rattled the metal walls. Austin and Elaine moved in from the side, sweeping through the warehouse, weapons up, breaths steady.

The air inside was rank with oil and salt. The smell of old fish and rusted machinery clung to everything. Rows of wooden crates stacked haphazardly, a forklift left abandoned mid-turn, a tarp-covered table in the center of the room. Shadows moved ahead—figures ducking into side rooms. They weren’t alone.

A door slammed. Footsteps pounded up a metal staircase. Austin raised his gun. A figure darted across the upper level—a blur of movement between rusted railings.

“Police!” Elaine called out, cutting through the echo of shouts and gunfire from the front.

No answer. Just the creak of a loading door opening somewhere in the back.

“Blake,” she said, “you take the right. Austin, left, around those crates. I’ll stick straight ahead.”

They all moved, but only a second later, Austin saw movement. A man leaping down from a low elevated walkway.

Elaine grunted, staggering sideways as the man barreled into her, knocking her hard into a rusted support beam. The impact rang out through the metal frame, the breath leaving her in a sharp gasp.

Austin spun—too late.

The guy was fast—lean, wiry, with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His hands moved quick, reaching for a blade as he stood over Elaine.

Austin moved quicker.

One shot, center mass.

The man crumpled, the knife clattering against the concrete.

Elaine groaned, pushing herself up, blood streaking her forehead.

Austin was already at her side, scanning her face. “You good?”

She nodded, wincing. “Yeah. Just—hell. Where the hell is Blake?”

Austin turned.

Blake was gone.

The FBI’s shouts echoed from the other side of the building. The raid was still unfolding—agents clearing the main floor, voices barking orders.

But Blake had been right here.

Elaine sat up, wincing.

Austin’s pulse kicked harder. He scanned the room—no sign of him. Just the sound of water lapping against the pilings beneath the warehouse, the metal walls trembling with each crash of the tide.

“Secure!” an agent’s call came from the back of the warehouse.

Another agent poked his head in through the door they’d used to enter. “Main building is clear. Agents safe. Two of their men down. Three in cuffs.”

They searched quickly, sweeping the aisles between crates, checking every door, every possible space where he could have gone. Nothing. The radio crackled with updates from the rest of the team—more men detained, parts of the warehouse secured—but no one had seen Blake. No one had called him in.

“Think he got taken?” Elaine asked.

Austin frowned. “Maybe. But if they grabbed him, we’d have heard something—shouting, struggle. And if they took him out back, there would’ve been a splash.”

Elaine nodded, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “So what, he just—vanished?”

Austin frowned. “Or he ran. Any chance it got to him and he, well, chickened?”

Elaine didn’t respond right away, but her expression was dark.

Another agent jogged toward them, breathless. “We checked the perimeter. No sign of Tiernan. No sign of anyone else trying to make a run for it either.”

Austin shared a look with Elaine. The pieces weren’t fitting.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The FBI had control of the cannery. But Blake was gone.

Austin pressed his radio. “Blake, come in.”

Static.

He tried again, stepping away from the warehouse’s side entrance, eyes scanning the dark stretch of gravel and sand that led to the water’s edge. “Blake. Respond.”

Nothing.

“Damn it.”

The wind had picked up, carrying the briny, metallic scent of the ocean. The echoes of the FBI’s voices drifted from inside the cannery, agents sweeping the last of the rooms, securing zip-tied prisoners. The operation had gone loud fast, but Blake had been here seconds ago.

Elaine, wincing as she pressed a gauze pad to the cut on her forehead, walked up next to him. “Still nothing?”

Austin shook his head. “He was heading through the warehouse to our right. One second he was there, the next—” He gestured toward the empty space where Blake should have been. “Gone.”

Elaine pulled her radio from her vest. “Blake Tiernan, this is Elaine. If you’re out there, respond.”

Silence.

Austin turned toward Halloway, who was standing near the main loading doors, speaking with a field agent. When he caught sight of Austin approaching, he raised an eyebrow.

“Something you need?”

“Blake’s missing.”

Halloway barely reacted. “And?”

Austin felt the shift in his body before he even thought about it—his stance locking up, his breath coming slower. “He was right there, Halloway. He didn’t just wander off.”

Halloway exhaled, adjusting the rifle strap slung over his shoulder. “My job is wrapping up here. Your guy disappearing isn’t my problem.”

Elaine cut in before Austin could say something he’d regret. “Give us twenty minutes to sweep the perimeter. Then we’re out of your way.”

Halloway checked his watch. “Fine. Twenty minutes.”

Austin and Elaine moved along the side of the warehouse, following the dirt road that led toward the cliffs. The sky had lightened to a dull gray, the early sun struggling through thick cloud cover.

The ground was a mess of overlapping footprints, tire tracks, and splintered glass from the shootout. But as they moved further from the building, the evidence thinned. Just a handful of fresh prints, leading toward the trees.

Austin crouched, running his fingers over a half-crushed boot mark pressed into damp soil. “No signs of a struggle.”

Elaine stood beside him, scanning the tree line. “Could be he chased someone.”

Austin’s gut said otherwise. “Then why no radio?”

Elaine didn’t have an answer.

They pushed forward, stepping over fallen logs and patches of slick moss. The air smelled of salt and damp wood, the last of the night’s rain clinging to the pine needles. Somewhere ahead, something shifted. A rustle through wet brush.

Austin stilled, eyes narrowing. “You hear that?”

Elaine tensed. “Yeah.”

The trees thinned, revealing a steep path leading down toward the water. Austin took the lead, boots sliding slightly on damp leaves. The ground here was softer, holding tracks better.

Then he saw it.

A single boot print in the mud.

Right at the drop-off.

Elaine came up beside him, breath sharp. “If he went over…”

Austin leaned forward, scanning the jagged rocks below. Waves churned against them, swallowing the stone before spitting it back out. If Blake had fallen, there’d be nothing left to save.

But there was no body.

Austin straightened, scanning the woods again. The Collective wouldn’t have risked dragging him down this way—it was too exposed, too dangerous. If they had him, they’d taken him somewhere else.

So what the hell had happened?

By the time they got back to the warehouse, the FBI had their prisoners lined up outside, wrists zip-tied behind their backs. Most of them looked like enforcers—mid-level guys with bruised knuckles and cold expressions. They stood in the gray morning light, eyes blank, waiting.

Austin moved through them, watching their faces, searching for any flicker of recognition, any hint that one of them knew where Blake was. But there was nothing.

Halloway was barking orders to one of his agents when Austin walked up. “Find anything?”

Austin shook his head. “Cliffside drop-off, but no body. He’s either in the wind or someone’s got him.”

Halloway’s expression didn’t change. “If he’s alive, I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“We got Sorenson,” Smith said, emerging from a stairwell. “He’s in a body bag upstairs. That’s what’s important.”

Elaine was pissed. “My guy is important, too.”

Halloway barely spared her a glance. “I’ve got enough to deal with,” he said, nodding toward the prisoners. “These guys are getting transported out tonight. If someone wants to start talking about Alyssa Howard, I want them in a holding cell before they change their minds.”

Austin glanced back toward the warehouse, his mind turning over everything they’d found—which wasn’t much. He couldn’t make sense of it. Blake wasn’t the kind of guy to run, not in the middle of a job. Or was he?

“I need a ride to the hospital,” Elaine said, suddenly looking unstable on her feet.

“Concussion?”

“Probably,” she muttered. “You gonna lecture me about taking hits?”

Austin smirked. “No. You do that to yourself.”

Elaine gave him a tired look before sobering. “Blake could still be out there.”

Austin didn’t respond right away. He looked at the FBI agents loading the prisoners into transport vans. This was their case now. If the Collective was behind Alyssa’s murder, it was out of his hands.

But Blake’s disappearance?

That was something else entirely.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Jasmine Red Hawk knew Blake was working late.

The Alyssa Howard case had the whole department tied up, and he’d already texted that morning: Don’t wait up tonight.

Like hell she would.

She sat in her car, engine off, watching the A-frame house through the windshield. It was tucked back in the woods, gravel driveway half-covered in wet pine needles. The kind of place a guy lived when he didn’t expect company. Clean lines, a dark metal roof, a single porch light casting long, thin shadows against the trees.

Her fingers tapped absently on the steering wheel. She hadn’t heard from her dad in a couple of days. Not that it was unheard of—he had his streaks where he’d disappear for a bit, always turning up later with some excuse. Busy with work. Helping out a friend. Off the grid for a few. That was just how he was. But he usually at least answered her texts.

She hoped he’d show up by Monday, her day off. She wanted to borrow the SUV.

Jasmine exhaled sharply and tightened her grip on the wheel.

She had bigger problems tonight.

Blake.

For weeks, she’d felt it—the shift in his tone, the new excuses, the way he disappeared some nights with nothing but a vague “Gotta handle something.” And it wasn’t just the job. Jasmine had dated cops before. This was different.

This, she knew, was another woman.

Maybe Suzanne from the bowling alley. Maybe someone else. Either way, Jasmine wasn’t about to sit around and wonder.

She grabbed her bag, zipped up her hoodie against the bite of November air, and walked toward the garage. The wind moved through the pines, kicking up damp needles. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once, then went silent.

She hesitated at the recycling bin.

The beer can was exactly where he’d left it, behind the blue bin, dented on one side. A drunk habit. The first time she’d seen him do it, he’d laughed. “Too many damn keys on one ring. Always forget which is which.”

Jasmine popped off the top, reached in, and pulled out the spare.

Drunk Blake talked too much.

The lock clicked, and she slipped inside.

The house smelled like pine cleaner and coffee. The kind of place that barely saw life outside of work and ESPN. A Seahawks banner hung near the couch, a row of sneakers lined up neatly by the door. Minimalist. Efficient. Not a single framed picture.

No clutter.

The house of someone who didn’t get attached.

Jasmine swallowed.

She moved fast, stepping into the small bedroom. The closet was half-empty—dress shirts pressed into a neat row, a gun safe in the corner. She ran her fingers over the nightstand—nothing personal, just a charger, a watch, a half-full bottle of Advil.

Where would he hide it?

She crouched, yanked open the storage drawer under the bed. Gym clothes. Extra duty belt. An unopened pack of socks.

Nothing.

Her heart was racing. She hated snooping around, but she needed to find evidence. Needed to be sure he was cheating.

Her dad had warned her about men like Blake. “Too old for you. He’ll walk all over you.”

Her mom had said the same thing, but crueler. “He’s too good-looking for you, Jas. You should be careful.”

She’d hated how that made her feel.

And now?

Now she was the one sneaking around, proving them both right.

She exhaled hard through her nose and stood, scanning the room. Then she noticed it—a vent in the wall, slightly crooked.

Her pulse jumped.

She crossed the room, kneeling beside it. The screws were loose. Blake wasn’t the handy type. She pried it open with her nails, reached inside—and felt something cold and smooth.

Jasmine pulled it out.

A phone.

A second phone.

Cheating bastard liars always had a second phone.

Her chest squeezed tight. She knew it.

She turned it over in her hands, fingers trembling, ready to open the screen—then she stopped.

Something was wrong.

Not his case. Blake would never use a bright pink phone case dotted with little crystal hearts.

She stared at the small detail, realization creeping in, her throat closing up.

She pulled case off, reading the initials engraved into the silver metal.

AH

This wasn’t his phone.

It was hers.

PART 3

DAWN IN THE SHALLOWS

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Riley tapped on her keyboard, eyes locked on the screen.

“There,” she said. “I’m in.”

Elaine leaned in. “How?”

Riley smirked. “Alyssa wasn’t exactly a cybersecurity expert.” She tilted the laptop toward them. “She saved everything in her browser—email logins, social media, streaming sites. And guess what? She recycled passwords like crazy.”

Austin crossed his arms. “So the same password for multiple accounts?”

“Not exactly,” Riley said. “But close enough. She had a pattern. Almost every password was built off a core phrase, and she just tweaked it slightly—adding numbers, symbols, changing the order. She used ‘mariner22’ for at least six different sites, sometimes as ‘22mariner’ or ‘Mariner!22.’”

Elaine nodded. “Common, but still takes time to crack.”

“Not that much,” Riley said. “Because her six-digit passcodes followed the same rule. Most were just numbers pulled from her regular passwords.”

Austin glanced at the phone, still dark on the table. “And that got you in?”

“Yep.” Riley cracked her knuckles. “I tested all the six-digit combos I found in her saved passwords. Took me half an hour, but one of them worked.”

Elaine exhaled. “Damn.”

Riley leaned back in her chair. “So, congrats. You now have full access to Alyssa Howard’s phone.” She glanced at Austin. “You want me to take a look, or is this a ‘cops only’ moment?”

Austin didn’t answer. He was already reaching for the phone.

Alyssa’s phone shouldn’t have existed anymore. They’d assumed it was lost to the ocean, swallowed by the tide. But two hours ago, the front desk received a call. No name, no details, just a flat voice saying they had exactly sixty seconds to retrieve a package. Elaine had run out the door without even grabbing her coat, Austin on her heels. And there it was—right where the voice had said.

It was sitting in a planter. Across the street from the station. Double-bagged in Ziplock.

Somebody had kept it. And now, somebody had decided it was time for them to find it.

“Two videos,” Riley said. “Recorded just after 5 AM the day she died. First shows some activity along the beach. The Collective, probably. And the second...” Her voice cracked. “The second, is, well... it looks like she might have hit play just before the attackers... you know.”

Austin swallowed, his fingers tightening into a fist as she hit play.

The screen remained black—just a blur of shifting light, a shaky angle of the pale gray sky, the camera knocked sideways in the dirt. But the audio came through clear as a confession.

“Don’t,” a man’s voice said.

The voice was familiar, but Austin couldn’t quite place it.

There was a long pause, then the man said, “Give me your phone.”

Then there was a brief struggle and Alyssa’s voice: “Stop, leave me alone. Then a pause, “Wait, it’s you? You’re kidding me.”

There was laughter—not the carefree kind, but something sharper, bitter. Male voices, low and clipped.

“You think it’s funny?” Now Austin recognized the voice.

It was Blake.

“Alyssa, we saw what you posted.” He knew that voice, too.

Matt Delgado.

What the hell?

A chair scraped behind him, but he barely registered it. Ridley and Elaine were in the room too, watching, listening, as the moment they had been chasing for days unfolded in real time.

“I post a lot of things,” Alyssa said. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“You think we don’t know who you’re talking about? How you play the victim, like we’re the monsters?” It was Matt Delgado again.

Austin felt his stomach drop.

“Jesus,” Alyssa said, “you guys need to get over yourselves. You followed me out here, to what? Bitch at me about some posts I made about you?”

A shuffle of movement. Footsteps, crunching gravel.

Alyssa’s voice again, edged with exasperation but still fearless. “Let me guess. You got a little drunk, you bonded over hating me, and now you’re here to—what? Scare me? Make me apologize? Get me to delete some posts? Grow the hell up.”

Silence.

Then, Blake’s voice. “You always do this. Talk like you’re better than everyone. Like you’re untouchable.”

A breath. Then Delgado. “You used us.”

Austin heard it before he understood what it was. A sharp crack. A sharp gasp.

Alyssa had been hit.

The phone shifted, the screen still angled toward the sky. Dark tree branches, motionless against the sky.

“What the hell?” Alyssa’s voice came back, staggered, uneven. “You just⁠—”

Another impact. A sickening thud.

Alyssa’s breath hitched, and Austin forced himself to keep listening. His grip on the table was tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

“Oh, you’re gonna cry now?” Blake’s voice, mocking. “That’s rich.”

A muffled sound. Movement.

“Stop.” Alyssa, choking the word out. “Please.”

Delgado’s voice was low. “No one’s coming to save you.”

Then, the worst of it.

A flurry of sounds. The unmistakable rhythm of fists. Of kicks. Of bodies moving against gravel and sand. Alyssa screaming, gasping, cursing through her pain.

Austin’s breath turned shallow, his mind supplying too much detail for what wasn’t being shown.

The recording cut in and out. A dull thump—the phone knocked sideways again. The screen glowed faintly against the dark, a patch of sky still visible, as Alyssa’s breaths weakened.

“We should go.” Delgado’s voice was shaky now, as if he hadn’t expected it to go this far.

“Not yet,” Blake said. “Not until she stops.”

“We shouldn’t have,” Delgado stammered, “shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t be so weak,” Blake said. “She had it coming. Spoiled little rich princess thinks she can sleep around and then post stuff about us.” He began yelling. “Post something now, Alyssa! Oh, you can’t.”

A final impact. A sickening thud. A sound Austin would never forget.

“How about now?” Blake said, his voice low and, for the first time, truly evil

Then silence.

A few ragged breaths. Someone spitting into the dirt.

The recording ended.

The room was dead quiet.

Austin didn’t realize he was gripping the edge of the table until Ridley put a hand on his shoulder. Elaine let out a slow, unsteady breath.

This was it.

Not Lars Strand. Not Frankie Red Hawk. Not the Collective. Not even Sorensen.

Just two men. Two men who thought they owned Alyssa Howard—who couldn’t stand to see her rise higher than them.

Blake and Matt hadn’t killed her for money, for power.

They’d killed her because they couldn’t stand that she had left them behind.

CHAPTER FORTY

Austin felt the road hum beneath the tires as Elaine drove. Marnie shifted in the back seat, leaning forward slightly, her knee bouncing against the vinyl. The highway stretched ahead, empty and cold, a blur of black water on one side and dense forest on the other. They were minutes away from Blake’s house, but the distance felt wider.

It was almost midnight, and the case had finally narrowed.

The FBI and Ridley had moved on, chasing the Collective, tangled in the larger web of federal crimes. That world wasn’t theirs anymore. Alyssa Howard’s murder wasn’t about smuggling routes or bribery or secret shipments. It had been about two men—Blake Tiernan and Matt Delgado. That was where this ended.

And it all made sense. The fight at Delgado’s front door had been an act, and a very good one. Blake had been the one to check out Delgado’s alibi. He’d claimed to have seen the security footage proving that Delgado had been in Tacoma when the murder took place. Another lie.

“I’m gonna make a call,” Austin said, dialing Kendall back in Kitsap. She answered after two rings, her voice flat with exhaustion. “You better have something good. I’ve been dealing with a drunk in holding who won’t stop singing old country songs.”

“I need a favor.”

“Of course you do.” He heard the creak of her chair as she shifted. “How bad?”

“Bad.”

A pause. Then, “Go.”

“Suspect named Matt Delgado. We let him out a couple days ago. He thinks we’re off him, so he could have gone home. I need two uniforms at his place—stake it out or, if he’s there, arrest him. We have audio tying him to Alyssa’s murder.”

Kendall muttered a curse under her breath. “If he’s in Kitsap, I can make that happen.”

A longer pause this time. Then Austin asked, “Heard from Jimmy?”

“Just a text. They’re in Seattle, I think. But it’s chaotic. No solid updates.”

His grip tightened around the phone. There wasn’t anything she could say that would change things now. He just nodded to himself. “Appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get yourself killed.”

The line went dead.

Austin set the phone down as Elaine turned off the highway. The road narrowed, winding along the coast, the moon casting pale light over the water. The slow roll of the waves filled the silence in the car.

Blake’s house came into view—a small, weathered one-story, tucked behind overgrown beach grass and a rusting chain-link fence. The porch light was off, the windows dark.

Austin’s eyes went straight to the driveway.

Empty.

Blake’s car was gone.

Elaine pulled in, cutting the lights, and the three of them sat in silence, staring at the darkened house.

Most likely they were too late. Again.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

No porch light, no glow from the windows. Just a black box sitting at the end of the narrow coastal road, the dunes and sea grass shifting in the wind. The waves rolled in slow behind them, a steady pulse of sound against the silence.

Austin stepped out first, scanning the perimeter. Elaine followed, her gun still holstered but ready. Marnie adjusted her coat and exhaled.

“You think he’s inside?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Austin studied the house. “We’ll find out.”

They moved up the driveway, slow and controlled. No signs of movement. No sound inside. But that didn’t mean much.

Marnie stopped at the front steps, crouched, and reached under the porch rail. Austin watched as her fingers closed around something metallic, lit by a streak of moonlight.

“Hidden key,” she muttered. “I watched his dog when he went to Coeur d’Alene last year. Told me where he kept it in case I needed to grab something.”

Austin raised an eyebrow. “He trusts you that much?”

“Well, Rambo does.” She smirked, pushing the key into the lock. “And he’s the one with real power in this house.”

As soon as the door cracked open, a low thump sounded from inside, followed by the soft jingle of a collar. Then a flash of golden fur barreled toward them.

“Easy, boy,” Marnie whispered, crouching just in time for Rambo to slam into her chest. He was a golden retriever, all muscle and tail wags, whining happily as he pressed his nose against her neck. “Yeah, I missed you too.”

Austin watched, gun still raised. Rambo was friendly—too friendly for a house that had been abandoned in a hurry.

Elaine cleared her throat. “We doing this or are we running a pet-sitting service?”

Marnie sighed and ruffled Rambo’s ears. “Alright, bud, we’re here on business. Be a good boy.”

They moved inside, clearing each room with professional efficiency. A pair of mounted deer heads stared down at them from above the fireplace, glass eyes reflecting their flashlights. A heavy hunting rifle was locked in a wall-mounted case, and the shelves were lined with boxes of ammo, old fishing gear, and a few well-worn books. The furniture was functional—a battered recliner, a couch with faded cushions, a wooden coffee table scarred with knife marks.

But something felt wrong.

It wasn’t just that Blake was gone—it was the way the house felt untouched yet hollow. A half-finished cup of coffee sat cold on the counter. A jacket draped over the back of the couch, like he’d planned to grab it and never did. In the sink, a single plate sat rinsed but not washed, as if he’d left in a hurry but not in full panic.

Elaine cleared the hallway. Austin checked the bedrooms. Marnie checked the back door.

Blake wasn’t here.

They gathered back in the kitchen, Rambo trotting happily between them, oblivious to the tension.

“If he was here,” Elaine muttered, “he’s long gone.”

Austin frowned. Something about it wasn’t sitting right. It wasn’t that Blake had fled—it was that he had prepared. The house wasn’t ransacked. Nothing had been overturned in a rush. This wasn’t an escape.

It was a plan. Most likely a plan he’d hatched the night before they’d raided the cannery. “He knew,” Austin said, “that after the raid, the FBI would figure out that the Collective hadn’t killed Alyssa. My guess—he planned to disappear using the raid as cover.”

“Agreed,” Elaine said.

“And the bastard left his dog behind,” Marnie said, shaking her head.

“Not the worst thing he did this week,” Austin said, “but still. Shows what kind of guy he is.”

Austin started checking the kitchen, scanning for anything out of place. The fridge was mostly empty, just a few beers, condiments, and an old takeout box. The pantry had been picked through—no canned food, no protein bars. He’d taken that with him.

Then he noticed the trash can by the back door. The bag had been removed, but a few bits of paper had fallen to the bottom. Austin tipped it forward, shining his flashlight inside.

Just scraps. Torn envelopes, a crumpled grocery list, a used paper towel.

But something caught his eye. A folded slip of receipt paper, wedged between the side of the bin and the plastic liner.

He crouched, fishing it out, smoothing the creases. The ink was faded, the edges damp from something that had spilled.

“Wal-Mart receipt,” he called out. “From 4 AM, the morning of the raid.”

Elaine came over and stood beside him as he read the list.

Propane

Flashlight batteries

Dry food supplies

Austin felt the pieces click together.

Elaine said, “This isn’t just a runaway pack.”

Marnie exhaled. “This is survival gear.”

Elaine looked toward the door. “He’s going off-grid.”

Austin folded the receipt and pocketed it.

They weren’t chasing a fugitive.

They were hunting a man who had planned for this.

And that meant Blake Tiernan had somewhere to go.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

The night had settled into a heavy quiet, the kind that made everything feel more uncertain. Austin, Elaine, and Marnie stood outside Blake’s house, leaning against the car, trying to piece together their next move.

Elaine had already called him in as a missing person, but they all knew that was just protocol. Blake wasn’t missing—he was running. Hiding.

Marnie sighed, rubbing her hands together against the cold. “So, what? We just sit here and wait for divine intervention?”

Austin was about to answer when his phone vibrated. FaceTime—Kendall. He frowned, lifting it up to show Elaine and Marnie before swiping to answer.

Kendall’s face filled the screen, her black-and-white corgi, Ralph, perched on her lap, looking half-asleep and distinctly unimpressed. “You know I must respect you,” she said, voice hushed like she was trying not to wake Ralph up. “To keep him up so late.”

Austin smirked. “Up past his bedtime?”

Kendall shifted the phone slightly, making a show of patting Ralph’s head. “He’s a professional investigator now. Doesn’t keep normal hours.”

Marnie leaned in over Austin’s shoulder. “Hey, Ralph. You solving crimes or just vibing?”

Ralph, in response, yawned dramatically and tucked his head down like this entire conversation was beneath him.

“Listen,” Kendall said, suppressing a smile. “I got something on Delgado. Might be nothing, but it’s weird.”

“Talk to me,” Austin said.

Kendall glanced away from the screen, as if checking something off-camera. “So, the apartment manager at his place? Said Delgado came back for, like, two minutes. Looked paranoid as hell. Grabbed a bag and took off again. Didn’t say where.”

“And the manager just let him go?” Austin asked.

“I mean, it’s a free country. Sort of. And the manager didn’t even know he’d been a suspect. But here’s the thing—dude’s a bit of a pothead, right?” Kendall smirked. “Apartment guy was worried Delgado left his stove on again. Apparently, it’s happened before. So he lets himself in after a while.”

“And?”

“No stove fire. But he did find something.” Kendall shifted, pulling up an image on her phone. “When I got there, I asked him to check again, and he went back in. Found this—” she held up her phone to show a crumpled-up map.

Austin narrowed his eyes. “Why would someone print a map? Even I use the maps app these days.”

Kendall grinned. “Exactly.”

Elaine leaned in, eyes locked on the screen. “If you think your phone’s being tracked, you don’t use it. You print your directions old-school.”

Austin exhaled. “And where was the map of?”

Kendall tapped her screen. “I’m texting it to you now. But get this—it’s way out there. Middle of nowhere. If I had to bet?” She smirked. “You’re not looking for a motel.”

“No,” Austin said. “We’re looking for a hideout.”

His phone buzzed. Image received. He glanced at the text—a remote location in the woods, miles from anywhere. He held it up to Elaine. “You know where this is?”

She squinted at it. “It’s not labeled. It’s zoomed in weirdly.”

Austin asked Kendall, “Was this it?”

“Yup,” Kendall said, “and I gotta get my beauty sleep. Lemme know if I can be of any more help. Tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Marnie squinted at the map on Austin’s phone, tilting her head. “Okay, so the problem is—this is really zoomed in.”

Elaine leaned over her shoulder, arms crossed. “Yeah. It’s not an address. It’s a vague suggestion of a place.”

Austin studied it again. The pin was dropped somewhere along the coast, within a dense patch of unincorporated land. It was nothing but woods, hunting trails, and old logging roads—the kind of place where a guy like Blake, raised out here, could disappear if he wanted to.

Marnie tapped the screen. “See these lines? Those are the old forestry roads. Some of them probably don’t even exist anymore. If he’s hiding out in here, he’s way off the grid.”

Austin exhaled. “Why would Delgado print this version? It’s too wide—it doesn’t help him.”

Elaine chewed the inside of her cheek. “Maybe he printed multiple versions. Different zoom levels. And this was just the one that got tossed.”

Austin nodded. “Right. He wouldn’t risk pulling up GPS. Wouldn’t want this saved on his phone. Printing the maps lets them go dark.”

Marnie gave a low whistle. “Yeah, well, that means we’ve got a solid few miles of nowhere to search. And we’re short on time.”

Elaine shifted into action mode. “Alright. We split up. We start checking every old hunting trail, every hidden driveway. If Blake’s got some backwoods hideout, it’s gotta be in there.”

Austin gestured toward the car. “Drop me back at my truck. I’ll take my own route. We cover more ground that way.”

Elaine hesitated, but then nodded. “Fine. But we stay in contact. This is not the kind of place you wanna get lost in.”

Marnie smirked. “Or the kind of place you wanna run into Blake Tiernan alone.”

Austin climbed into the passenger seat, gripping the map in one hand. They had a general area, a few clues, and a ticking clock.

Now, all that was left was finding the bastard before he disappeared for good.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

1:15 AM

The headlights cut off, plunging the forest back into darkness as he got out of the truck. Austin switched to his flashlight, the beam cutting through the thick mist curling low over the ground. The cold had deepened, settling into his jacket, the damp seeping into his boots as he moved down the narrow trail.

“Checking the first logging road now,” he said into the radio. “Nothing yet.”

Elaine’s voice crackled back. “Copy that. Marnie’s a few miles west. Same so far.”

Austin exhaled as he walked deeper into the woods. There were dozens of these old roads, most of them barely maintained, some leading nowhere. If Blake had tucked himself into one of these forgotten corners, it could take days to find him.

2:00 AM

The first cabin he came upon was empty.

Austin checked the windows before pushing the door open. The place smelled of mildew and old pine, a broken lantern on the table, a stack of firewood untouched by the hearth. No signs of recent use. He swept the flashlight across the walls—hunting tags from twenty years ago, a rusted .22 rifle mounted above the doorway. Dust settled in thick layers over everything. Whoever had last been here had left years ago.

His radio clicked. Marnie. “Second cabin’s a bust. Just an old guy who didn’t take kindly to a badge knocking at his door.”

“Any trouble?” Austin asked.

“Nah. Just a lot of muttering about city cops and ‘damn government overreach.’”

Elaine cut in. “Sounds like you made a friend.”

“Oh, yeah. I think he was gonna offer me moonshine before he slammed the door.”

Austin shook his head, stepping back into the cold. “Moving on to the next site.”

3:30 AM

Austin found the first sign of life—a fire pit, still warm, behind a sagging wooden shed. Empty beer cans. Cans of beans. A tarp that had been yanked down hastily, like someone had left in a hurry.

The flashlight swept over the ground, picking up fresh footprints leading toward the road. Bigger than a normal boot, too wide to be Delgado’s. Could be Blake.

Austin crouched, running his fingers over the dirt. The impressions were shallow, fresh. Maybe an hour old.

His radio clicked. Elaine’s voice, low and sharp. “You see something?”

Austin stood. “Possible lead. Tracks heading toward the road. Not sure if it’s our guy.”

“Mark it. Keep going. We’re not done yet.”

4:15 AM

Austin was losing patience.

The cold had worked its way into his joints, exhaustion settling into his bones. The night was endless, the trails starting to blur together—twisted branches, slick mud, the occasional glint of metal from an abandoned trailer or rusted-out truck.

Every ten minutes, the radio clicked. Nothing.

The silence stretched, leaving too much room for his own thoughts.

Sy back home, curled up on the couch, absentmindedly rubbing her stomach where their child was growing. A glass of water beside her instead of wine. She’d promised him they’d celebrate after this case was over.

He had promised her something, too.

A safer job. A way out.

Another broken promise.

Austin shoved the thought away and refocused. Keep moving. Keep hunting.

5:00 AM

The last cabin was occupied.

Austin approached slowly, cutting his flashlight. The windows were glowing faintly—kerosene lamp light, not electricity. Someone was inside. He knocked, hand hovering near his gun.

A woman answered, eyes sunken from too many sleepless nights. She was wrapped in a thick jacket, her graying hair tangled. A dog barked from somewhere inside.

“Don’t want any trouble,” she said, voice wary. “Ain’t got nothing of value.”

“Not looking for trouble,” Austin replied. “I’m with the county. You see anyone out here tonight?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Just me.”

Austin studied her face. If she was lying, she was damn good at it.

“If you do,” he said carefully, “call it in.”

She nodded once, then closed the door.

He stood there for a moment, watching the light flicker through the window.

Still nothing.

5:45 AM

Austin pulled onto a gravel shoulder and staggered about a hundred yards down a muddy trail, which dead ended at a giant boulder. “Damn.”

His radio crackled, Elaine’s voice coming through. “Austin? Anything?”

He exhaled. “No. You?”

“Same. Marnie’s wrapping up her side. I think we’re calling it.”

Austin rubbed his face. Five hours, miles of forest, and nothing to show for it.

Blake was gone.

His radio crackled again. Marnie this time. “So what now?”

Austin looked out into the trees, the first hints of dawn creeping over the horizon.

“We try again tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Austin trudged back toward his truck. Five hours of searching, five hours of nothing. His boots crunched over damp leaves, the mist thick enough to make the trees blur together. The sky was starting to lighten, the deep black of the night fading into something murky and gray.

He was about to climb into the truck when a voice called out from the edge of the tree line.

“Hey, you lost or somethin’?”

Austin turned, hand hovering near his gun out of instinct. A man stepped forward from the brush, his face lined with dirt and stubble, wrapped in an oversized coat that looked like it had seen better decades. He had the wiry frame of someone who lived on the move, a backpack slung over one shoulder, boots scuffed to all to hell.

“Not lost,” Austin said. “Looking for someone.”

The man snorted, adjusting the backpack strap. “Aren’t we all.”

Austin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He was done wasting time, but something in his gut told him to ask. “You seen anyone out here? Someone new?”

The man scratched at his chin. “Maybe. Maybe not. What’s it worth to you?”

Austin pulled a couple of twenties from his pocket, held them up between two fingers. “Depends on the answer.”

The man’s eyes flicked to the cash. “Yesterday I was camped out by that old fire road near the ridge. Middle of the night, some jackass in a truck comes flying up the trail, damn near runs me over. Thought it was some drunk at first, but nah—guy parks way off in the brush. Didn’t see much of him, but I know that place. There’s an old A-frame cabin back there, been abandoned for years.”

Austin’s grip tightened on the bills. “You see him?”

The man shook his head. “Didn’t have to. I tried settling in near there once. Whoever owns that place don’t like visitors. Came out waving a shotgun last time, told me to clear off even though I wasn’t nowhere near the house. Early thirties, dark hair, kinda angry.”

Austin felt himself smile. “Take me there.”

The man hesitated. “I ain’t looking for trouble.”

Austin held out the cash. “Forty bucks. You walk me close, then you turn around and leave. Hundred yards out. You don’t even have to see the place.”

The man grabbed the money without hesitation. “Hell, for forty bucks, I’ll throw in a survival tip.”

Austin arched an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

The man smirked. “Don’t knock first.”

Austin moved in silence, gun drawn. The house was dark, set back in the trees, nothing but the wind stirring the branches overhead. A porch light flickered weakly, illuminating a clutter of fishing gear and an empty beer bottle on the steps.

The front door was cracked open.

Austin kept to the shadows, steady, controlled. A loose board on the porch creaked under the weight of the wind, but otherwise, everything was still.

Then—a sound. Not from inside.

Off to the side.

A rustling in the trees.

Austin pivoted, shoulders tensing, gun raised. He tracked the noise—low movement, not hurried, like someone taking their time. A faint shuffle of boots over pine needles, the scrape of a zipper.

Then, the unmistakable sound of a stream hitting the dirt.

Delgado.

Austin stayed low, stepping off the path, angling around the side of the house. A few more paces and he had a clear view—Delgado, turned away, pissing into the trees, his breath a lazy fog in the cold air.

He was relaxed. Unbothered. He didn’t know.

Austin moved fast.

Delgado had barely finished when Austin closed the distance, the snap of a twig the only warning before the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his neck.

“Don’t move.”

Delgado froze, mid-zip. His body tensed, a half-second from bolting.

“Do not run.”

Delgado’s breath hitched, but he did exactly what Austin expected—he ran.

Austin was on him before he hit full stride.

Delgado went for the car, arms pumping, legs churning through wet leaves. The headlights flared as he yanked the driver’s side door open, fumbling blindly for the keys in his pocket. His hands shook too much to get them in the ignition.

Austin reached him just as metal scraped against metal.

Delgado made a noise halfway between a yell and a curse as Austin ripped him back, slamming him against the car. He went wild, throwing a blind elbow, twisting like he had some kind of chance.

Austin drove a fist into his gut, once, hard. Delgado’s breath left him in a choked wheeze.

But he wasn’t done. A flailing knee, a fist grabbing at Austin’s sleeve, a desperate attempt to slip free.

Austin turned him and drove him into the side of the car, hard enough to rattle the frame. Delgado hit the metal with a sharp grunt, his cheek smearing sweat and blood against the glass.

Austin pressed an arm across the back of his neck, keeping him there. “Don’t be stupid.”

Delgado struggled, but the fight had already left him. His hands curled into fists. Not resisting. But not done, either.

Austin pulled the zip ties from his belt, yanked them tight around Delgado’s wrists, then stepped back. “Go ahead. Try running now.”

Delgado sagged against the car, breath coming hard. His face was turned toward the trees like maybe Blake was watching. Maybe coming back for him.

Austin wasn’t worried.

There was no way Blake would stick his neck out for this guy.

Austin stepped back, wiped the sweat from his temple with the back of his wrist. Delgado groaned, shifting against the car, muttering something Austin didn’t care to listen to.

The driver’s side window was open. Keys still in the ignition.

Austin pulled his gun and put two bullets in the front tires. A quick, clean shot each time.

The hissing air was the only sound in the night.

Delgado flinched. “You didn’t have to⁠—”

“Yeah, I did.”

“You have to believe me,” Delgado said. “I loved her. We were just gonna scare her, but Blake flipped out.”

Austin looked down at Delgado. “If you loved her,” he said, “you would have let her go.”

He looked toward the back of the house. The porch light still flickered. The wind rustled through the trees, steady, whispering. No sound of Blake. No movement in the dark.

He was running.

And Austin thought he might know where.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

A screen door slammed.

Austin’s head snapped toward the back of the house, gun raised. The sound echoed through the early morning quiet, cutting through the rush of wind moving down from the hills. He spotted movement—a shadow peeling away from the porch, slipping between the trees. Fast. Controlled.

Blake.

Austin didn’t hesitate. He turned and ran.

The back of the house opened to a narrow clearing, uneven ground littered with damp leaves and roots thick enough to snap an ankle. The air was cool and sharp, the briny scent of the Pacific growing stronger with every step.

Blake had the advantage. He knew these trails, the tangled web of old logging and hunting paths that cut through the thick forest above Second Beach. Austin was guessing.

Blake tore through the undergrowth, keeping low, moving like a man who’d done this before. Austin forced his legs faster, vaulting over a fallen cedar, his boots skidding as the path pitched downward. He caught glimpses of movement ahead—a flicker of Blake’s dark jacket, the crash of brush snapping under his weight.

The incline steepened.

Austin’s breath came harder now, burning his ribs, but he didn’t slow. The trail was turning wild, no longer maintained, barely more than a deer path. The trees here were old, towering, their roots snaking across the ground like tripwires. Ferns clawed at his jeans, the damp earth sucking at his boots.

Blake was pulling ahead.

The scent of the ocean thickened, the air shifting, heavy with salt and the deep, endless churn of water. A pale glow spread through the forest—the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon.

Then the ground gave way.

The forest floor abruptly sloped into a steep drop, the kind that didn’t allow for hesitation. Blake took it at full speed, barely slowing as he plunged down the incline. Austin went after him.

The descent was brutal. Loose soil and slick roots sent him sliding, branches whipping at his arms as he fought for balance. He caught himself just before his ankle rolled, barely dodging a tangle of brambles. The sound of the ocean swelled—louder, closer, relentless.

Then—an opening.

The trees parted, and Austin hit open space.

Ahead, the wide expanse of Second Beach stretched out before him, bathed in the soft glow of early morning. The sand was damp and smooth, the high tide still receding, leaving behind a sheen of water that reflected the sky in muted blues and grays. Massive stacks of driftwood were piled along the edges of the tree line—logs thick as cars, sun-bleached and worn smooth by years at sea. Further out, jagged sea stacks loomed, dark against the brightening horizon.

And there—just at the waterline—was Blake.

And he wasn’t alone.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Blake had a kid with him.

Austin barely had time to process it before his focus locked in—Blake stood knee-deep in the surf, gripping the boy by the collar, his other hand tight on a gun.

The kid twisted in his grip, struggling, bare feet slipping against the wet sand. He couldn’t have been more than six or seven, still in rumpled pajamas, arms flailing. A plastic bucket and shovel lay abandoned near a half-built sandcastle, seawater creeping up to claim them.

Austin’s chest tightened.

“Let him go.”

Blake didn’t flinch.

The skiff bobbed beside him, its fiberglass hull bouncing with each pull of the tide. The outboard motor coughed but didn’t catch, the sound rattling uselessly against the crash of the waves.

Blake’s grip on the boy tightened. “I walk,” he said, “or the kid drowns.”

Austin stayed perfectly still. Lungs burning, pulse hammering, but his voice came out even. Measured. “You’re not walking anywhere.”

Blake angled his body, keeping himself between Austin and the skiff. His knuckles flexed around the gun.

The kid whimpered—a sharp, raw sound—but he didn’t cry. He just stood there, shoulders trembling, breath coming in quick little gasps, his thin frame barely holding steady as the tide sucked back.

Blake yanked him another step into the surf. The boy stumbled, water swirling around his knees, soaking through the thin fabric of his pajamas.

Austin took a step forward.

Blake jerked the gun slightly. “Think, Austin.” His voice was steady, almost conversational. “You fire, and I go under. He goes under with me.”

The ocean surged forward, rolling over their ankles.

Austin’s gun stayed locked, but his grip had shifted. Not on the trigger.

Blake saw it. Smirked. “Smart.”

Austin’s gaze flicked to the boy again—his legs wobbling, his arms stiff at his sides, fear locking his whole body in place.

He needed a way to break this.

Austin exhaled, forced his shoulders to drop a fraction. He lowered his aim, just slightly. “Alright,” he said. “You want the boat? Take it.”

Blake’s smirk twitched. He hadn’t expected that.

Austin moved first.

One clean motion—a sidestep, a shift in weight, then his left hand flew out as he lunged.

Blake had half a second to react. He made the wrong call.

He turned just slightly—enough to keep hold of the boy, but not enough to stop Austin from reaching them.

Austin’s shoulder slammed into his ribs, knocking them both sideways. The impact ripped the kid free.

The boy hit the sand, stumbled, then scrambled up.

Austin’s free hand shot out, shoving him toward the dunes.

“Run!”

The boy bolted.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Bare feet kicking up sand, the kid ran—stumbling at first, then faster, disappearing into the dunes.

Blake, disoriented, was slower to recover. The gun wavered, his grip uneven. Austin saw his chance. He lunged, caught Blake’s wrist, and twisted.

A crack—Blake’s wrist snapped back.

The gun hit the water.

Blake barely reacted. Because he wasn’t done.

His eyes locked on Austin, dark and steady. No panic. No hesitation. The kid was gone, the gun was gone, but Blake wasn’t running.

Austin had seconds.

Blake moved first.

A clean, practiced strike. Not a wild swing, not desperate. He fought like a cop—like someone who knew exactly what would break a man apart.

Austin barely got his arm up in time. The block slowed the hit, but it still rattled his ribs, knocking him back. His boots skidded against the wet sand, the tide sucking at his ankles.

Blake stayed on him.

Austin swung wide, aiming for his temple. Blake ducked, closed the gap fast. A sharp elbow, a brutal shift in weight⁠—

Austin hit the water.

His back slammed into the sand, the cold shocking through him. Before he could react, Blake was on him.

A hand gripped the back of Austin’s head, forcing him down.

The next wave came fast. A wall of seawater surged over them, rushing into Austin’s nose, his mouth, choking him.

He bucked, fought, but Blake held firm.

Not just stronger. Smarter.

Austin knew how to fight. Blake knew how to win.

His lungs screamed.

The pressure on his chest didn’t ease.

Blake wasn’t letting go.

The edges of his vision darkened. The weight, the water—it felt the same as the dream.

He was drowning, dying.

Then he had a thought. Austin went limp.

His body slackened, muscles releasing. His hands floated loose in the current. His chest stilled.

For the first time, Blake hesitated.

The weight shifted slightly—just enough. A half-second reaction, a pause.

Austin surged up.

He used everything—his legs, the water, the force of dead weight turning into momentum.

His elbow slammed into Blake’s throat.

Blake reeled back, gasping, choking.

Austin followed. No hesitation.

One arm locked around Blake’s neck, the other drove a fist into his ribs, then again, and again.

Blake thrashed, but the fight was already gone from him.

Austin rolled him over in the surf, pressing him face-first into the sand. The tide rushed over them, foaming between his fingers as he forced Blake’s arms back.

A sharp twist. A zip tie.

Done.

Blake let out a hoarse cough, chest heaving. His face was half-buried in the wet sand, water pooling around him.

Austin sat back, dragging in a breath. His knuckles throbbed. His ribs felt like they were held together with glue and bad luck.

The waves crawled up the shore, erasing footprints, pulling away the last evidence of the fight.

It was over.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Austin staggered back onto the sand, lungs burning, ribs screaming. His clothes were soaked through, heavy with saltwater and exhaustion. He dragged in a breath, then another, hands braced on his knees as he fought to steady himself.

Blake coughed beside him, spitting seawater and blood into the sand. His face was pale, lips split, but his eyes were still sharp—watching, calculating.

Austin wasn’t taking any chances.

Still gasping for breath, he grabbed Blake by the collar and yanked him up, ignoring the protest in his own battered muscles. Blake swayed, barely able to stay on his feet.

“Move,” Austin muttered, his voice raw.

He dragged him toward the nearest driftwood pile—a massive tangle of sun-bleached logs stacked along the high tide line, thick and gnarled from years at sea. Austin shoved him down against the largest one, pressing a knee into his back for good measure.

Blake grunted. “This really necessary?”

Austin ignored him, fishing another zip tie from his belt. His fingers were stiff with cold, making the motion clumsier than it should have been, but he looped it around Blake’s wrists and wrenched it tight. Not enough.

He grabbed another and secured it to a thick branch of the driftwood, pulling hard until the plastic cut into Blake’s skin.

“Yeah,” Austin said finally, voice flat. “Necessary.”

Blake let out a slow exhale, his body sagging against the wood. He wasn’t getting free.

Austin sat back on his heels, shivering against the morning wind. His pulse still thundered in his ears, his ribs felt like they’d been held together with glue and bad luck, and he was so damn cold. The adrenaline was wearing off fast, leaving behind the full weight of exhaustion. His hands shook slightly as he wiped them down his soaked jeans, trying to will the numbness away.

He looked up.

The family was about two hundred yards down the beach, clustered near a tattered orange tent pitched just beyond the driftwood line. A small camp stove was still set up beside the fire pit, a blue enamel coffee pot resting on top. A cooler was cracked open, the lid askew, its contents half-spilled onto the sand.

They had been camping.

They must have been inside the tent, sipping their morning coffee, when Blake grabbed the boy. Out of sight. By the time they heard him scream, it was already too late.

Austin pushed himself up with a groan, rolling his shoulders stiffly. The wet fabric of his shirt clung to him as he started down the beach. His boots were filled with water, every step sluggish. His fingers ached. His body wanted nothing more than to stop, to sit, to let someone else handle this.

But he wasn’t done.

The mother clutched her son, arms wrapped so tightly around him that he barely had room to move. The father—mid-forties and pale—looked like the kind of guy who was more comfortable in front of a keyboard than a crab pot. His eyes were on Austin. “Thank you,” he managed. “I... we...”

Austin wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and took a step closer. The mother flinched before she realized, and he softened his voice.

“Hey, kid.” His breath was still coming too fast, but he crouched down, resting his hands on his knees. “I didn’t get your name.”

The boy’s lip trembled. “Luke.”

Austin nodded. “Luke. You’re safe now. We’ll get you checked out, make sure you’re okay. Cops’ll be here soon.” He glanced at the mother. “Your phones... can you call...”

“In our car,” she said quickly. “We’re doing this cellphone detox thing and—” Her voice cracked.

Austin nodded, shifting back to Luke. “Did he hurt you?”

Luke shook his head, barely a movement.

Austin exhaled, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. “Alright.” His gaze flicked down to the boy’s hands, clenched in the fabric of his mother’s jacket. “You holding up okay?”

Luke sniffed, his face blotchy from crying, but his hands tightened. “I lost it.”

Austin frowned. “Lost what?”

“My pendant,” Luke whispered. His mother stroked his hair. “The whale bone. It was from my grandpa. He said it—it would keep me safe in the water.” His voice cracked on the last words, and he ducked his head, like he was ashamed.

Austin glanced toward the shoreline. The tide had come in, waves lapping hungrily at the sand. “Where’d you drop it?”

Luke’s eyes flicked toward the water. “It—it fell off when they grabbed me. I think it’s in the waves.”

Austin looked back at him, then at the exhausted parents. “I’ll go check.”

The mother blinked. “You don’t have to⁠—”

“It’s just water,” Austin said.

The father opened his mouth, hesitated, then shut it.

Austin gave Luke a nod and turned toward the surf.

Behind him, voices carried down the trail. Heavy boots on damp earth. He turned and saw figures emerging from the trees—Elaine, Marnie, a few deputies.

Elaine’s gaze swept the scene, taking in the bodies on the beach, the family, the blood on Austin’s shirt. She jogged toward him. “You alright?”

“Been better.”

Her eyes flicked to his ribs, the way he was holding himself. “We’ve got a medic boat coming around. Should be here in ten.”

Austin nodded. “Good.”

Marnie stepped past her. “Looks like we missed all the fun.”

“Can you guys deal with the family, the kid?” He turned back to the water. “I’ll be right back.”

The tide foamed around his boots as he stepped into the shallows. The morning sun had turned the water a pale, shifting gold, the wet sand reflecting back the sky. He scanned the surf, stepping forward carefully, searching between the swirling patches of seaweed and foam. If the thing was here, he’d find it soon.

Another step. The water lapped at his shins. The waves pulled outward, dragging the loose sand back with them.

He saw something. A dark shape rolling just beneath the surface.

Bending down, he reached for it.

The wave hit before he heard it coming.

A wall of water slammed into his back, ripping his feet out from under him. His ribs cracked against a hidden rock, the impact stunning, blinding. The ocean swallowed him whole.

Cold. Dark.

His body tumbled, dragged deeper as the rip current took hold. Sand scraped his skin, salt burned his throat. He fought upward, kicking hard, but the force yanked him sideways, pulling him out toward open water.

The shore was already too far.

He surged up for air, gasped, caught a glimpse of the cliffs—then another wave crushed him, flipping him like a rag doll. The world spun. His lungs screamed.

Don’t panic. Don’t fight it. Let it take you, then swim sideways.

He tried. His muscles barely responded. The hit to his ribs had sapped his strength, each breath a knife to the chest.

Something loomed ahead—a boulder, half-submerged, slick with algae. He was moving too fast to stop.

The current hurled him forward. His shoulder struck first, then his head. White-hot pain. Stars bursting behind his eyelids. The ocean took him again, dead weight now, arms floating, body sinking.

Distantly, someone was screaming his name.

He tasted something bitter, something wrong. Black licorice. Burnt and stale.

He thought of Sy. The way she curled up beside him, tracing circles on his arm while she talked about wines he pretended to understand. The way she smelled in the morning, skin warm from sleep. The ultrasound appointment they hadn’t yet made.

The baby.

A sudden, aching want surged through him.

Then the water pulled him under again.

The dream was real. It was too late.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Austin drifted in and out, caught between the weight of sleep and the slow pull of waking. The world around him was soft, muffled—sterile air, distant voices, the rhythmic beep of a monitor somewhere nearby. His ribs ached. His throat felt raw.

And then a voice.

“Ever think maybe you don’t belong at the beach?” Jimmy’s familiar drawl cut through the fog. “You kicked the crap out of two dudes, then damn near got taken out by a wave.”

Austin blinked, his vision sharpening. The hospital ceiling swam into focus, then the room—the IV line in his arm, the dull ache in his body, the weight of exhaustion pressing into his bones. He turned his head slightly, finding Jimmy grinning beside the bed, Lucy seated just behind him in a wheelchair.

Lucy. Alive.

“Where’s the baby?” Austin croaked, his voice barely there.

Lucy gave a tired smile. “Just down the hall. We walked over from the birthing center. Well, Jimmy walked, I rolled.”

“She’s perfect, man,” Jimmy added. “Early, but tough. She’s gonna be fine.”

Austin exhaled, something inside him easing for the first time. He took them in—Lucy pale, drawn, but here. Jimmy, dark circles under his eyes, relief worn into his features.

“What happened?” Austin asked.

Lucy shifted slightly. “Placental abruption. Everything happened too fast to stop it, but they got her out in time. Tiny, but healthy. I’ll need time to recover, but...” She glanced at Jimmy, then back at Austin. “She’s strong.”

Austin nodded, absorbing it. It made sense in a distant, clinical way, but mostly it just felt like a miracle. He turned his head slightly, spotting Sy beside him, curled up in a chair, her hands resting on her stomach.

She was watching him. “You okay?” she asked quietly.

Austin swallowed. “Yeah.”

Jimmy smirked. “Man, you were out cold for nearly a day. Woke up once, scared the hell out of a nurse, then went right back under.”

Austin barely remembered. But he did remember the dream.

The water. The weight of it pulling him under. He forced out a painful breath. “Starting to think I should avoid the ocean.”

Jimmy chuckled. “Might not be a bad idea.”

For a while, they sat in easy silence, the weight of survival settling over all of them.

Then Sy shifted, glancing at Lucy. “A little girl,” she said softly. “What did you name her?”

“Angela,” Lucy said. “From my great grandma.”

“How do you bring girls into a world with men like Blake and Matt?” Austin asked. The question came out before he could stop it. The pain meds had taken some of his tact. “Sorry. I didn’t mean...”

There was a long silence, then Jimmy shook his head. “Because most men aren’t like that,” he said. “Most men aren’t monsters.”

Austin let that sit for a moment, rolling the words over in his head.

Sy nodded. “And two of them are now headed to prison for life.”

Lucy gave a tired smile. “And because they’ll have us to protect them.”

Austin glanced at Sy. She had an odd expression, one he wasn’t used to seeing on her face. He thought it might be hope.

For once, he let himself feel it too.

Jimmy stretched. “Alright, we should let you get some rest.”

Lucy nodded, gripping the arms of her wheelchair as Jimmy stood to push her. “We’ll check in later.”

Austin watched them go, the door clicking softly behind them. Then, the room was quiet again. Just him and Sy.

She reached out, taking his hand in hers, fingers warm against his skin.

“You really okay?” she asked again.

Austin squeezed her hand. “Getting there.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

“You sure you’re okay?” Sy asked, voice softer this time.

Austin forced a small smile. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t smile back.

She just kept watching him, her fingers tightening around her arm, the tension clear in her shoulders. He knew what she was thinking. She didn’t have to say it. He had made a promise—to be more careful, to choose them over this job.

And he hadn’t. Not even close. And he was beginning to think, perhaps he couldn’t.

Sy let out a breath and stood, pacing a slow line near the window. “I don’t do ultimatums,” she muttered.

Austin shifted against the pillows. “But?”

She stopped, staring out at the dark stretch of sky beyond the hospital parking lot. Her fingers brushed over her stomach, absently, as if reminding herself of the life growing there. “But—” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

A long pause stretched between them.

Austin watched her carefully. He could see the weight of it on her, the exhaustion, the fear. He wasn’t the only one this case had put through hell.

“Sy—”

She turned, eyes wet, but she wasn’t yelling. She wasn’t angry. She was just tired.

“I want this with you,” she said, voice breaking. “I do. But I don’t want to keep visiting you in the hospital. I don’t want to keep watching you get hurt.”

Austin exhaled, his gaze dropping for a moment. Then, slowly, he said, “I had the dream again.”

She frowned. “What dream?”

“The drowning one. The one I’ve had since New York. The bridge, the water. Only this time—” He hesitated. “This time, I didn’t wake up before I went under. And then, well, it came true. Almost.”

Sy’s breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t speak. She just sat back down beside him, her fingers gripping the edge of the chair like she was bracing herself.

Austin swallowed. “I almost drowned for real this time. I could feel it. Dying. I thought—” He exhaled sharply. “I thought that was it.”

She wiped at her cheek quickly, shaking her head. “I just—” Another breath. Then she met his eyes. “I don’t see how we make this family work with you being a detective.”

Austin didn’t answer right away.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure either.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Five Days Later

Austin read the email on his phone as he waited for Sy to complete the paperwork to get him out of the hospital.

Hey Austin,

I know I have no right to be emailing you, but I heard what happened. I don’t know the details, just bits and pieces, but I know it was bad. And I know you almost didn’t make it out.

I wanted to say—I’m sorry. Again. You deserved better, and I can’t change any of it, but I can at least say it.

Sometimes I think you and I are a lot alike. I’ll do anything to get a story, and sometimes I take it too far. You’ll do anything to solve a case and, well, I think you know that sometimes you take it too far. That’s why it never would have worked out between us. Opposites attract and all.

I also heard about Sy. And the baby. Congratulations, Austin. Honestly. If anyone deserves a second chance at happiness, it’s you. I hope it brings you everything you need, and everything you never thought you’d get again.

That said, have you considered moving to a high-rise in Ohio? Maybe somewhere with absolutely no large bodies of water in sight? Just a thought.

Take care of yourself.

Anna

Austin stepped out of the hospital, the cold morning air hitting him like a slap. His ribs ached, and his body moved slower than he wanted it to, but he was walking. That was something.

Elaine was waiting just outside, hands in her pockets, rocking on her heels. Sy stood next to her, watching him carefully, like she still wasn’t sure he should be on his feet yet. She wasn’t wrong.

“Took you long enough,” Elaine said, offering a small smirk. “Was starting to think you liked hospital food.”

Austin grunted. “I’ve had worse.”

Elaine nodded toward the parking lot. “Figured I’d see you off. And—” She hesitated, glancing at Sy. “And I wanted to say I’m sorry. For all of it.”

Sy studied her for a long moment before nodding. “You did what you had to do.”

Elaine exhaled. “Still. He took too much damage. And if I’d been faster, maybe he wouldn’t have gone under.”

Austin shook his head. “If you hadn’t pulled me out, I’d be dead. I don’t hold a grudge against the person who saved my life.”

Elaine pressed her lips together, nodded once, and shifted gears. “Well, in case you were wondering—we’ve got Blake and Delgado dead to rights. Between the video, the prints, the stack of evidence we found at Blake’s place—hell, even his damn search history—those two are never seeing daylight again. Life. No parole. It’s over.”

Austin took a deep breath. “Good.”

Elaine watched him for a second, then extended a hand. “Thanks for everything.”

He shook it. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

She smirked. “You either.”

She turned and walked back toward her car. Sy waited until she was out of earshot before looping her arm through his. “Let’s get you home.”

They walked slowly through the hospital parking lot, Austin’s body still stiff, his breaths pained. Sy matched his pace, her free hand resting on her stomach. The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was waiting.

Austin cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

Sy didn’t look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled, adjusting his grip on her arm. “I can’t leave the force.”

Sy let out a small breath, her lips pressing together. “Austin⁠—”

“Just listen,” he said. “I know what I promised. And I know why you’re worried. But if I left—if I walked away from the job—I wouldn’t respect myself. And if I don’t respect myself, how can I expect our kid to?”

She stopped walking, turning to face him fully. “You think our kid needs you getting shot at to respect you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I think they need a father who does what he’s meant to do. And this is what I’m meant to do. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Sy’s eyes searched his face. “You really can’t walk away?”

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I won’t.”

She sighed, closing her eyes for a second before opening them again. “Then I need to know you’re going to be smart about it. That you’re not going to keep throwing yourself into the worst of it.”

Austin hesitated. “I’ll try.”

Sy arched an eyebrow. “That’s not good enough.”

Austin smirked, despite himself. “It’s the best I can do.”

She shook her head, but he could see the way her shoulders eased. The way she already knew she wasn’t going to win this fight. Because it wasn’t a fight. It was just who he was.

She exhaled. “Alright. But you get hurt again, and you’re sleeping on the couch for a year.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Three Days Later

Austin pushed open the door to the cafe, the familiar jingle of the bell above the entrance ringing through the quiet morning. The air smelled like fresh coffee and warm syrup, sunlight slanting in through the big windows, catching the dust in golden streaks. Run, his corgi, trotted in beside him, ears perked, nose twitching at the familiar scents.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite troublemaker!” Mrs. McGillicutty’s voice came from a table in the corner. The old woman beamed when she saw Run, moving across the dining room with surprising speed for someone her age. She held out a small piece of bacon, and Run sat instantly, tail wagging, eyes locked on the prize. “Such a good girl.”

Mr. McGillicutty barely looked up from his newspaper, his coffee cup resting in one wrinkled hand. “You keep feeding that dog, and she’ll be asking for my waffles next. And I’m not sharing!”

“She deserves a little treat now and then,” Mrs. McGillicutty huffed, scratching behind Run’s ears before the corgi took her prize and trotted to her favorite spot near the front window, where the sun pooled on the hardwood floor. With a deep sigh, she flopped down, stretching out to soak in the warmth.

Austin smiled. “Think she’s got the right idea.”

He moved past the counter, stepping into the kitchen where Andy was already working, flipping something on the griddle.

“You’re late,” Andy muttered without looking up.

Austin grabbed an apron from the hook and tied it on. “Figured I’d let you struggle for a few minutes before saving your butt.”

Andy snorted. “Yeah, right. You just wanted to sleep in.”

Austin grabbed a spatula and moved beside him, checking the griddle. “What’s on the menu today?” He had to move slowly, favoring about half of his body parts. But it felt good to be back.

“Waffle sandwiches and bananas foster pancakes. Seems like that’s all anyone orders for breakfast these days.” Andy slid a plate onto the pass, wiping his hands on a towel. “You take the pancakes. Try not to burn ‘em.”

Austin worked in silence for a while, the easy rhythm of cooking settling into his muscles, the sizzle of butter and the caramelizing sugar filling the air. Other than his aching bones and muscles, it felt normal, like a hundred other mornings in the cafe—like nothing had changed.

But it had.

After a while, he glanced over. “I’m gonna miss this.”

Andy stopped mid-motion, shaking his head. “Still can’t believe it.”

Austin didn’t answer. He just kept flipping pancakes. Neither of them wanted to say it out loud just yet.

The front door jingled again, and a new voice carried into the kitchen. “Mr. Austin? I’ve got the sign.”

Austin exhaled, setting down the spatula. He wiped his hands on a dish towel and stepped out from the kitchen, meeting the real estate agent in the doorway. She was mid-40s, clear-eyed and wearing a blue blazer over a practical turtleneck. The kind of woman who probably closed deals before breakfast.

“Where do you want it?” she asked, holding up the wooden FOR SALE sign.

Austin rubbed the back of his neck. “Front’s fine.”

She nodded and led the way outside. Run trotted along beside him, ears flicking as if she sensed something was wrong. When they reached the front of the cafe, Austin took the stake in both hands, pressing it into the ground.

The sign wobbled for a second before settling. FOR SALE.

Austin stepped back, hands on his hips. The little building—his café, his general store, his bait shop—stood just like it always had, wood worn soft by salt air, windows smudged from years of regulars leaning against the glass. He’d lived in the adjacent apartment since moving to town, a space that felt more like home than anywhere else ever had.

And now he’d need to find somewhere else to live.

Run sat beside him, tail curled around her paws, staring at the sign. She looked just as unhappy about it as he did.

The real estate agent dusted off her hands. “I’ll have the listing live by this afternoon,” she said. “This kind of beachfront property doesn’t come up often—I think you’ll have a buyer in no time.”

Austin didn’t answer, just kept his eyes on the sign.

The agent took the hint, excusing herself and heading for her car. A moment later, he heard the rumble of the engine as she drove away, leaving him alone with the sound of the waves and the dog at his feet.

He let out a slow breath, then sank into the weathered Adirondack chair out front. The old wood groaned under his weight.

Run hesitated, then jumped up onto his lap, her warm body pressing into his chest. She turned once, then settled, chin resting against his arm.

She was staring at the sign again.

Austin scratched behind her ears. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

He’d never pictured himself selling the place. Not really. He’d built a life here—long mornings making coffee, stocking shelves, baiting hooks for tourists headed out for their first fishing trips. He knew the floorboards that creaked, the way the door stuck when the tide was high. And he knew the people.

Andy had been the first person he offered it to. It made sense—he’d run the place as much as Austin had. But Andy had other plans. Big ones. He was moving to Seattle to be the head chef at a restaurant near his mother’s place. A shot at something bigger, something he’d earned.

Austin couldn’t hold that against him.

So he’d listed it.

It had been the compromise. Sy had made it clear—she wanted him to have more time. For her. For the baby.

And he wanted that, too. He wasn’t ready to walk away from the force, and, in the end, she hadn’t insisted. But running a business on top of everything else? And without Andy? It was impossible, and he’d decided to let it go.

Now all that was left was waiting.

Maybe it would take weeks to sell. Maybe months.

But soon, it would be time to go.

Run let out a long sigh, pressing herself deeper against him, like she could keep him here by force. Austin ran a hand over her back and stared out at the water, watching the tide roll in.

As painful as it was to see a part of his life ending, he knew that in so many different ways, it was about to begin.

—The End⁠—

If you enjoyed this one, you won’t want to miss The Bodies in Horse Heaven Hill, Thomas Austin 12, coming this summer.

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Thanks for reading!

Thomas Austin and I have three things in common. First, we both live in a small beach town not far from Seattle. Second, we both like to cook. And third, we both spend more time than we should talking to our corgis.

If you enjoyed this book, I encourage you to check out the whole series of Thomas Austin novels online. Each book can be read as a standalone, although relationships and situations develop from book to book, so they will be more enjoyable if read in order.

And if you’re loving the Thomas Austin series, check out my new series of fast-paced Pacific Northwest mysteries: FBI Task Force S.W.O.R.D.

I also have an online store, where you can buy signed paperbacks, mugs, t-shirts, and more featuring Thomas Austin’s lovable corgi, Run, as well as locations and quotations from all my books. Check that out on my website.

Every day I feel fortunate to be able to wake up and create characters and write stories. And that’s all made possible by readers like you. So, again, I extend my heartfelt thanks for checking out my books, and I wish you hundreds of hours of happy reading to come.

MORE D.D. BLACK NOVELS

The Thomas Austin Crime Thrillers

Book 1: The Bones at Point No Point

Book 2: The Shadows of Pike Place

Book 3: The Fallen of Foulweather Bluff

Book 4: The Horror at Murden Cove

Book 5: The Terror in The Emerald City

Book 6: The Drowning at Dyes Inlet

Book 7: The Nightmare at Manhattan Beach

Book 8: The Silence at Mystery Bay

Book 9: The Darkness at Deception Pass

Book 10: The Vanishing at Opal Creek

FBI Task Force S.W.O.R.D.

Book 1: The Fifth Victim

Book 2: We Forget Nothing

Book 3: Widows of Medina

Book 4: Beneath Hemlock Skies

Standalone Crime Novels

The Things She Stole

ABOUT D.D. BLACK

D.D. Black is the author of the Thomas Austin Crime Thrillers, the FBI Task Force S.W.O.R.D. series, and other Pacific Northwest crime novels. When he’s not writing, he can be found strolling the beaches of the Pacific Northwest, cooking dinner for his wife and kids, or throwing a ball for his corgi over and over and over. Find out more at ddblackauthor.com.