Chapter One
“Checkmate.”
Special Agent Rhonda Lettinger stared at the chessboard, willing a miracle move to appear. “That wine cost me the game. I would’ve beaten you ten minutes ago without it.”
Sheriff Rebecca West plucked her pieces from the board and tossed them into the storage tin, looking pretty pleased with herself. “You say that every time you lose.”
“Bullshit. Sometimes I accuse you of cheating.”
Rebecca laughed as she gathered the remaining pieces. “That too.”
Rhonda pushed off the sofa and stretched. Two empty wineglasses sat on the coffee table alongside chicken bones, leftover celery, and the slightly burned brownies that had started out as a chocolate cake. Humphrey dozed in his bed by the couch.
It had been a good night. One of many. These Friday game nights had become a staple over the past couple of years.
“Fine. You win. But next time we play checkers, I’m kicking your ass.” Rhonda pulled her phone from her pocket and glanced at the time. “I better head out before I talk myself into crashing in your guest room.”
Rebecca carried their plates to the kitchen sink. “Stay the night. I promise I won’t make you play again.”
“Tempting.” Rhonda rolled her shoulders, groaning at the ache. “But I do, tragically, have to work this weekend.”
“You say that like I don’t.” She gave the dishes a quick rinse. “I’ll have you know tomorrow’s a big day at the office. We’re interviewing for the deputy slot Hoyt left behind.”
Rhonda set the wineglasses next to the sink. “Hard chair to fill. Think your interviewee is up for the task?”
“Funny you should ask.” Rebecca shook her head and shut off the tap. “Remember Serenity McCreedy?”
Rhonda sure did. “No kidding.” She folded her arms and leaned a hip against the counter. “She’s in law enforcement now?”
“Apparently.” Rebecca dried her hands on a towel. “I haven’t spoken with her since her modeling days. Seeing her again should be interesting.”
Five years had passed since they’d broken the Yacht Club’s stranglehold on Shadow Island. Since then, crime had dropped, tourists came in droves, and they had spent every day proving the island was a place to visit instead of whisper about. Rhonda had certainly visited more often, though less for the sights and more for the company.
Serenity had left back when things were just heating up with the Yacht Club. From what Rhonda remembered, she used to be a complicated, wild teenager with a mind of her own. But it seemed that, just like the island itself, the young woman had finally found her footing.
“Well, good for her.” Rhonda leaned in conspiratorially. “You think she’ll actually show?”
“Oh, she’d better.” Rebecca dragged her hand over her face. “I’ve just hired a full-time detective to fill in some of the gaps, but with summer starting, I need another deputy. Badly.”
“More like three.” Or four, if Rhonda were honest. “Well, if she does get the job, at least tourist season won’t eat you alive quite as fast.”
“That’s the goal.”
Rhonda pushed off the counter and grabbed her keys. “Okay, seriously, I should go. But hey, look at us. Catching up, having normal conversations…rigging board games.” She said the last part under her breath. “Almost feels like a dream, huh?”
“Hey.” Rebecca laughed and pointed a stern finger at her. “If you jinx this, I’m sending you the bill.”
Rhonda rolled her eyes and headed for the door. Rebecca walked her out. Warm, salty air carried the faintest hint of ocean. Rhonda stepped onto the porch and took in the quiet of the night.
The ocean breathed in slow, steady waves. A thin crescent moon hung overhead. Rebecca stood framed in the doorway, arms folded. Her expression was softer than usual in the yellow spill of light. “Don’t be a stranger.”
Rhonda lifted two fingers in a lazy salute. “Copy that. Talk to you soon.” She headed down the steps, still smiling, and pulled off in her Camry.
The road home was familiar enough that Rhonda barely had to think about the drive. She rolled the windows down a few inches and let the night air in, breathing deeply as her dark-blond hair whipped across her face. The red wine she’d had with dinner was long gone from her system, replaced by that easy, settled feeling that came from a good meal and even better company.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed it. Her shoulders had finally relaxed sometime around their second round of chess. Not that they’d stay that way for long in her line of work. Recently, her department had been working with the FBI on tracking a militia group on the mainland. Dealing with those violent lunatics had her tenser than normal.
Still, tonight was good.
Her headlights cut across the road ahead, catching the edges of signs, fence posts, and the occasional shimmer of the ocean here and there. Shadow Way Bridge wasn’t far now. She yawned, willing herself to focus.
Not even midnight, and she was already sleepy. She rolled the windows up and turned on the AC, angling the vents toward her face. Not as cool as she would’ve liked, but better than the warm breeze.
A strange sweet smell drifted through a minute later. She wrinkled her nose and hit the recirculate button, cutting off the outside air.
When the air grew warmer, she wondered whether she’d accidentally turned on the heater, but the AC was maxed out. She checked the dash.
The temperature needle had climbed far past its usual position. “Oh, come on.”
Rhonda exhaled and switched off the AC. She’d get that checked out soon.
She eased off the gas, but the temperature gauge continued to climb. After another minute, the engine made an angry grinding sound. A warning light flashed on.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She was almost to the bridge. If she could just make it across, she’d pull over on the mainland and deal with the car in the morning.
But when a faint haze curled from beneath the hood before she could make the turn, irritation gave way to concern. She guided the Camry over to the shoulder and stopped. The engine gave an ugly shudder before falling into a ticking silence.
Sighing deeply, Rhonda grabbed her phone and stepped into the night.
She popped the hood, and a thick wash of steam rose in large white plumes, rushing up into her face. That sickly sweet smell was stronger now, and the inside of the hood was slick with water. She leaned in, squinting at the engine compartment.
She was no mechanic, but the warped parts were probably a bad sign.
“How did that happen?”
A thin sheen of sweat formed on her forehead. She stepped back, careful of the scorching metal, and considered her options. She was halfway through deciding whether to call roadside assistance or have Rebecca pick her up when a pair of headlights appeared behind her.
Please be a mechanic.
A heavy-duty pickup slowed as it approached and pulled onto the shoulder a short distance from her car. The driver’s door swung open, and a man not much bigger than her climbed out.
“You all right?”
She squinted against the light. He wore a faded flannel shirt, which was odd for a mid-June evening, though the sleeves were rolled to his elbows. A mop of curly brown hair fell over his forehead. Something about his unruly hair and small-framed silhouette tugged at her memory, but she couldn’t figure out why.
He strolled toward her, his posture loose. His face was still hard to make out clearly, but he looked barely older than a kid. “Miss? Are you in shock?”
What the hell?
“No.” Why would she be in shock? What did that even mean? “My car just overheated.”
“Oh. That’s bad luck.” He stopped at a respectable distance.
As familiar as he was, she still couldn’t place him. Maybe she’d passed him during one of her visits here.
“Well, hey, there’s a shop not far from here. It’s closed now, but they’ve got a key drop. I could tow her there, if you want. You can call ’em in the morning.”
Rhonda stepped to the side to get a better look at his truck. He had the right equipment for it. The right tone too—matter of fact, not pushy.
“How far is it?”
“It’s on the main drag, so not too far.” He twisted around and waved into the darkness. “A place called Island Motors.”
She nodded, relaxing a little more. She knew the place, or at least knew of it. Rebecca used that shop. Which reminded her…
“Okay, thank you. I appreciate the help.” She held up her phone. “Give me a minute, though. I have to make a quick call.”
It looked like she’d be taking Rebecca up on that guest room offer after all. She headed back to the Camry for her bag and pulled up her old friend’s number.
A violent shock exploded across the back of her skull, and the ground rushed up before she could catch herself.
Asphalt slammed into her cheek, and her phone skittered out of her hand.
For a second that felt like an eternity, she could do nothing but lie there.
What the hell just happened?
She tried to stand, but the world spun like she was on a Tilt-A-Whirl. A night of too much wine and relaxation had taken her guard down. Years of nothing happening on this forsaken island had made her less careful.
Rhonda made it halfway up before stumbling back down, nausea roiling through her gut as she hit the ground again.
A thousand little lights burst behind her eyes as she twisted, reaching blindly for her concealed carry. She barely managed to remove it from its holster before the man kicked it away. He booted her hard in the stomach for good measure.
She would’ve screamed for help if she had any air at all.
Rhonda couldn’t see where the gun had gone, but she spotted her phone a few feet off. Its cracked screen was still lit.
Rebecca. I need to call Rebecca.
She clawed her way forward, dragging herself toward it, but she’d only closed half the distance when the man blocked her path.
Fear and pain scrambled past whatever training still existed in her mind, and she swiped at his feet. She wasn’t about to be taken out by some curly leprechaun. She caught his ankle, and his footing went out from under him.
He fell hard. He didn’t move.
Her head throbbed, her vision doubling at the edges. He’d hit her with something. Where was it? Where was her gun? She scanned the darkness around him and found nothing.
Her phone glowed like a beacon.
She crawled for it, elbows scraping into the asphalt as she forced herself closer inch by inch. Help was only a button press away.
Just a little farther now. She was almost there.
Behind her, Leprechaun cursed as he got back on his feet, and a fresh dump of adrenaline poured into Rhonda’s system.
She snatched the phone, its screen still displaying Rebecca’s number through the spiderweb of cracks. She jabbed the Call button.
But the glass wouldn’t register the press.
Shit.
She tried again, harder, her thumb slipping across broken glass slick with her own blood. A shadow fell over her.
Rhonda wrenched sideways as the man brought a tire iron down. It struck her shoulder, the impact radiating down her arm like lightning. She bit down on the cry that came up her throat. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
He raised it again.
She drove her heel into his kneecap with everything she had left.
He buckled. Not all the way down, but enough.
She used the car’s bumper to haul herself upright, legs unsteady beneath her.
Slow. Too slow.
This bastard had hurt her. Concussion? Rhonda tried to think. She was so dizzy. Couldn’t focus. The headlights were bursting through her retinas.
Pushing away from the bumper, she stumbled to the shadows. She needed to get away, to hide, to—
The tire iron slammed into her head.
The world went white, then black, then white again. Pain arrived a half second behind the blow, cracking through her skull and down her spine, threatening to split her open. She hit the ground, and when she tried again to move, her legs wouldn’t answer.
Phone gone. Gun gone. She couldn’t remember which hand had been holding what.
Ringing filled her ears, tunneling out everything else. All she could process was pain—vast, edgeless, without a beginning or an end, only more of itself doubling, tripling in.
She could barely move. She could barely remember how she’d gotten here.
Asphalt tore into her skin as the man grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her out of the street. A guttural sound escaped her as agony ripped through her body.
His hands closed under her armpits. He hoisted her up and jerked her backward, shoving her into the back seat of a car—her Camry—and her shoulder hit something soft. He released her.
She tried to sit up, but pain kept her rooted in place. Her bloodied head stuck to the upholstery as her vision faded in and out. Her stomach churned. She vomited onto the carpet.
Her grip on consciousness loosened, slipping like a wet rope through her hands. Stay awake. Stay oriented. The blackness fought back, and it fought dirty.
She opened her eyes, and something was wrong. Her car was tilted, leaning back.
When had that happened?
An engine started somewhere close, sounding almost underwater, but no one was in the driver’s seat. Then, with a jolt, she was moving.
The stars shined over Rhonda as she gazed through the window with unfocused eyes. The bridge to the mainland loomed in the darkness like a black cutout against the sky. It seemed to draw nearer and nearer until it blotted out the stars completely.
She wasn’t sure, but the car seemed to be slowing down.
This was her chance. She needed to get out.
Rhonda found the door handle on the second try. It opened, and cold hit her face. Salty ocean air stung her skin. She got one leg out before the car had fully stopped.
He was on her a moment later. Kicking was useless. Her legs wouldn’t obey.
He’d pulled her pants off. One swipe down.
No.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Wet sand scraped against her bare skin. Then the denim of his jeans scraped against her inner thighs.
She raked her nails across whatever she could reach and heard him swear, but her eyes no longer worked as they should. Or maybe she’d gotten blood in them from her head wound. Or worse. He moved his hands over her, and she bit down on his wrist. He wrenched free.
She couldn’t tell if she’d broken skin. She couldn’t tell much of anything.
Then it felt like she was ripped in half.
Rhonda couldn’t remember why she was in so much pain or why focusing was impossible. All she was certain of was how rough the man’s hands were. How hard they gripped her, no matter how much she struggled.
After a while—two minutes or maybe ten—there was only the ocean breeze and the sour warmth of his breath. He whispered something in her ear, and the words slid past her.
“Remember me now?”
His hands closed around her throat, and she remembered.
Chapter Two
Detective Carmen Crowe pulled into the sheriff’s office parking lot, cutting toward the back where deputies parked their personal vehicles. She wasn’t late, but she was in a rush. She cut the engine before the Pathfinder had fully stopped, her strawberry smoothie sloshing against the lid of her insulated tumbler. Then she stepped out into the brisk morning air and headed inside.
Her husband had caught her halfway out the door, pressing the drink into her hand before she could argue. Although the sun was barely up, Lewis had already dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, and the Birkenstocks he’d traded his loafers for. He’d shoved a little turquoise umbrella inside the straw for good measure. “Don’t forget your pick-me-up.”
A smile tugged at her lips. Green and probably full of something nutritious the girls would call pond juice. Though she hadn’t admit it out loud—his self-satisfaction would be too hard to live with—she’d grown to truly love the damn concoction since moving to the island.
She swung open the door to the sheriff’s office, removed the little umbrella, and took a slow sip before replacing it back in the straw.
Light filtered in through the front windows, softening the edges of the waiting area and giving everything the easy, small-town feel the station seemed to lean into. The place was mostly quiet and otherwise empty. Except, of course, for Melody Jenkins. As always, she was seated behind the dispatch desk, hunched over a new paperback, the radio murmuring beside her.
Carmen leaned against the desk. “Morning, Jenkins.”
Without looking up, Melody reached back to the secured key rack for police vehicles and pulled Carmen’s set free.
“Morning, Crowe. Enjoy your first solo patrol.” She slid the keys across the desk, already drifting back to her page.
Carmen caught them and thanked her, breaking into a jog as she headed back outside. She crossed to her new unmarked cruiser, hopped in, and peeled out of the parking lot with a grin.
Six weeks riding along with Deputies Trent Locke and Jake Coffey hadn’t done much to prepare her for the real experience of island patrol during tourist season. Carmen edged the SUV forward, stopping several times to let droves of people dressed just like her husband wander through.
Although her patrol had just started, the island was already awake. Tourist season had just kicked off. Rental Jeeps and golf carts trickled along the narrow roads, brake lights blinking as pedestrians drifted between storefronts, carrying iced coffee cups and beach bags.
The air still held the cool of early morning, but the sidewalks were filling fast—surfers staking out a scrap of beach for the day, families lingering like time didn’t quite matter here. Carmen watched a couple walking their dog, laughing as if they had nowhere else to be.
The radio crackled.
“Crowe, you got your ears on?” Melody’s tone was heavier than it had been fifteen minutes ago.
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve got a possible DOA. Female in a vehicle beneath Shadow Way Bridge. Reporting party is a group of teenage joggers. Can you take it?”
Carmen turned toward the bridge. “Copy. En route.”
Six weeks of nothing and a DOA on my first solo day.
Of course, on her very first day, a woman had cursed the entire island.
It looked like everyone was getting an early start today. Carmen, the tourists, witches, and whatever was waiting beneath that bridge.
***
By the time she turned off onto the boat ramp access road and rolled to a stop beneath Shadow Way Bridge, the scene had already broken into chaos. A cluster of horrified teenagers in colorful running attire now hovered by a black sedan sitting crooked in the damp sand, one tire half sunk where the water had already started to reclaim the beach.
The one adult with them—their cross-country coach, by the look of his jersey—moved between them and the car as he tried to hold them back. The teenagers ignored his directives, inching forward, then drifting back like the tide, trying to get a better look.
Carmen grabbed her mic. “Coffey, if you’re close, I need you at the bridge. Repeat. Unit Six, requesting additional unit. Possible DOA. Scene not secure.” She stepped out, raising a hand. “Everyone back. Over there, please.” She pointed to a stretch of grass clear of the vehicle.
One of the lankier teens closest to the vehicle pointed to the rear window. “Yo, there’s a dead lady in there!”
Carmen cupped her hands around her mouth and raised her voice, ignoring his helpful commentary. “This is now a crime scene, and you are contaminating evidence.” She used the command voice she’d learned in training back in Denver. “Do not come any closer. I need you all off the sand and on the grass immediately.”
About half the teens did as she asked, and one of the younger-looking ones raised his hand. “Um, my mom is coming to pick me up…?”
“That’s fine, but I need a quick statement from you first. I promise it won’t take long.” She turned to the coach, who looked entirely out of his depth. “I’m counting on you. I need you to keep these kids contained until I take their statements. No one comes past you. Got it?”
The coach’s eyes bulged, and he nodded so fast, he resembled a bobblehead. He corralled his runners as best he could, ushering them back a few uneven steps at a time as they continued talking over one another.
Carmen stayed where she was, watching until the group finally settled into something resembling a boundary, far enough to keep them from trampling anything else. She focused back on the crime scene and tilted her head, scanning the beach.
The area closest to the car had already been smoothed over by the tide or trampled by the running team. The only clear marks left were recent. A scatter of soggy footprints was grouped near the left rear door, deep at the toe and uneven at the heel—the spot where the teens had tiptoed up for a better look before someone thought to stop them.
Farther up the beach, the tire tracks returned in fragments. They were wide in some places and broken in others, overlapping, as if more than one set of wheels had driven over the same path.
Carmen frowned. If a second vehicle had come through here, it had stayed right on top of the first the whole way in.
She slowed as she approached the sedan, stepping wide to avoid the disturbed sand around it. The vehicle sat at an odd angle, almost perpendicular to the waterline, as if it had swerved at the last minute. And yet there was no churned sand near the splash guards, no sign the tires had fought for purchase.
She peered through the back window, making note of a hazy reddish smudge running along its interior where it looked like a hand had braced against the glass.
Inside was the woman.
She was fairly petite, though muscular. Her face was swollen and discolored, the structure of her features difficult to make out at a glance.
Her body lay across the back seat, angled awkwardly against the door. One leg was bent at an unnatural angle beneath her, the other dragged askew, as if forced into place and left there.
Her bruised skin caught the light where her clothes should have been.
Carmen reached for her radio. “Dispatch.” She gritted her teeth before saying the words she hated. “Upgrade to 10-70.”
Homicide.
The safest place to hide is in plain sight.
Carmen Crowe may be new to the Shadow Island Sheriff’s Department, but she’s no stranger to hunting the nation’s most heinous criminals. Or what it can cost. Now, on the run with a different identity and a new job as a deputy on the small island, she just wants to keep her family safe.
And pray the memory of the team she couldn’t save finally stops haunting her.
Yet some ghosts don’t stay buried, especially those born from failure. Called to a homicide on her first solo patrol, she discovers a woman’s brutalized body inside the victim’s car beneath a bridge. Read More