“I canvassed the beach again. A couple saw a man hiking up the trail from the beach, looking like he was in a hurry. He fit the description Cressida gave, but that’s all I got.”
“You could have led with that,” Braden said.
“Anything else you need?” Trent asked. “I have to respond to a fender bender, oh, involving a motorcycle. Dude’s okay in case you’re wondering. But you should watch your back out there. Tourist season is in full swing.”
“Thanks for the advice.” He needed to get footage from the surrounding area up and down the only highway in and out of this region, tourists stops, and gas stations. He’d get that himself, so he ended the call.
A text from Remi came through.
Cressida received a package today—a journal.
He thanked Remi. He would love to talk to Cressida about the journal, but he wouldn’t give Remi away. He needed a good reason to contact Cressida and hoped to finally reach Jo Cattrel, who worked as a freelance forensic artist for law enforcement around the state. Jo also worked part-time at Cedar Trails Lodge.
Fortunately, this time Jo answered her cell. “Braden, what’s up?”
“Did you get my message that I need you on an investigation?”
“I just finished with a client, and I’ll be back on the coast on Wednesday morning. Can we meet then?”
“That’s perfect. I’ll make the arrangements.”
He grabbed his county-issued rain jacket and headed out the door. He’d prefer to take his Ducati, but the blue skies had given way to rain, and he’d left his leather jacket with Cressida. He hadn’t had the heart to ask her for it because she’d been through so much. Before heading over to seeCressida, he’d make those stops where security camera footage could be obtained. Maybe he’d get actual footage of the guy who had attacked her.
Later in the day, after getting the footage, he finally parked at the lodge. He made his way to her cabin and knocked on the door. Nothing. Braden knocked again but got no answer. He hiked over to the lodge—a centuries-old structure built from the surrounding trees—and scanned the small gathering at the tables near the panoramic window overlooking the rocky cliffs. The kitchen served up the special of the day in the evenings, and a few people still lingered at those tables.
Lodge patrons came here in the winter to watch the spectacular storms—waves crashing on the rocks. This was summer, and with an hour of daylight still left, even in the rain people were combing the beach, searching for tide pools. He was relieved when he spotted Cressida at a table with one of the baristas and an older couple.
Remi sidled up next to him. “I don’t have to guess why you’re here. She’s doing well for someone who was attacked this morning. I joined them earlier.”
“Oh yeah? What are they talking about?”
“She’s asking questions about their lives. Just good old-fashioned conversation. The kind people used to have instead of staring at their phones.”
“They can’t really do that here, can they?” He referenced that lack of cell reception.
“Maybe conversation was all she needed. Just a sense of normalcy after that horrible welcome she got when she arrived in Hidden Bay.”
He started forward, and Remi gently pressed her hand on his sleeve. “I wouldn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean to interfere with an investigation, but unlessyou have specific questions or something important to share, I’d give her some time before you start charging in again.”
Charging in again? Is that how Remi saw him? Cressida seemed relaxed and happy, though he could still see the strain of this morning in her eyes. Maybe Remi was right, and he’d give Cressida a break for today.
If Cressida was anything like her mother—and so far she seemed to be—she would face her fears head-on.
And look out, anyone who got in her way.
Good guys ... or bad.
7
The next day—Tuesday—it was late afternoon before the rain finally stopped. She’d spent the day resting, eating snacks supplied by the Cedar Trails Lodge store, revisiting her notes over the last many months of research.
The clouds crossed over like waves, and at the moment, the sky was crystal clear. Cressida walked along the shore, but she anticipated another rain shower before she finished her outing. Though she didn’t expect any trouble, she’d prepared for it. Just in case, she always carried her small Glock 26—unloaded and secured in a lockbox in her duffel. Her concealed carry permit wasn’t recognized in Washington state, but after what had happened, she wasn’t about to travel without protection. So she’d slipped it into her waistband and taken her chances. If necessary, she’d lean on the kind of political pull her estranged mother still wielded—pull that could smooth over the paperwork, or make it disappear entirely. The thought of asking her mother for anything sickened her. If only she’d kept the Glock with her that first morning in Hidden Bay. Still, she’d been caught off guard.
Families, couples, singles combed the beach. Laughtererupted as two kids chased their dog, trying to grab onto his leash. Though she’d experienced trouble arriving in Hidden Bay yesterday, the world kept turning. Time hadn’t stopped. Life continued.
