Earlier in the day, before she’d taken to the beach, a close friend had put her in touch with a therapist—as in, the therapist had taken Cressida’s call to her direct cellimmediately. Unfortunately, such special treatment reminded her of her mother, which had a negative effect on Cressida’s mood. Connections were everything, Mom always said. And Mom always made sure those connections had strings on them.
The thought disturbed Cressida.
But she wanted to do what was needed so yesterday morning’s attack wouldn’t hang over her and prevent her from finishing Dad’s book. While she remained in Hidden Bay, she needed to focus on gathering research for his incomplete manuscript. Remi had given Cressida privacy, allowing her the use of the landline in her office for both calls.
That had turned into a long conversation with Anne Crighton, LPC, who was big on exposure therapy—in other words, she helped her clients face fears in locations or scenarios tied to trauma—and that had been just what Cressida needed. Still, maybe Cressida had taken her counsel further than the therapist had intended when she decided to come right down to the beach to face her fears. Several miles south of the marina, this beach wasn’t the exact place where she’d been attacked. The lodge rested on top of the cliff, and the beach beneath was at the edge of the bay, near rougher waters—all this so the guests could watch the dramatic storms and crashing waves. From here, Cressida could barely make out the liveaboard boats bobbing out in the bay’s calmer waters. They called themselves pirates—all fun and games, of course.
Pirates.
She snorted a laugh.
Her soft shoes pressing into the wet sand, she tried to avoid the areas with larger pebbles as she weaved her way through the mass of big white tree trunks—Pacific red cedars that nature had transformed into driftwood.
Gripping her waterproof Nikon, relieved it had remained in her duffel, she faced the vast Pacific Ocean and searched the waters. No Coast Guard. No actual pirates.
And definitely noSpecter’s Bounty.
Would she even recognize it if she saw it? Dad had sketched an image in his notes. With the rusted-out hull and cranes, it looked like a salvage ship from decades ago. Where had he gotten this idea for the picture? He must have seen it somewhere, but he left few details about it in the notes—unless information was in the missing pages that had been ripped out before she’d gotten the journal after his death. Dad’s notes included a warning surrounding the boat—“a crewless vessel that serves as a cautionary tale of the dangers of the deep”—the kind of detail that often fed superstition surrounding vessels with mysterious histories, adding to the local folklore. And a question—“Does Evelyn Monroe know?”
Know what, Dad? Knowwhat?
The question and lack of information surrounding this last vessel to be included in his book made it that much more mysterious.
She lowered the camera. Though no one had followed her out to this part of the beach, she shouldn’t take too much time. She had a reason for coming. Evelyn Monroe’s mansion sat on the top of the cliff. She’d hoped to get a good look at it from theMariner’s Gambit, but she’d been sidetracked. Peering up at the rocky cliff face, she spotted a barely visible set of steps that led to the top.
Interesting.
She could only see them if she stood at just the right spot.They’d been built for privacy. If she climbed those, would she find herself at Mrs. Monroe’s back porch?
She could be shot for her intrusion. After all, the woman hadn’t agreed to an interview.
Cressida shook her head. She’d have to keep trying. Her father had mentioned her in his notes for a reason. Talking to Mrs. Monroe could be key to learning more about theSpecter’s Bounty. She could try again another day. She’d been accused of being a workaholic, and maybe that was true, considering her never-give-up attitude on the very day after someone had tried to drown her.
The simple truth was that Cressida could not allow someone else to hold that much control over her life. She wouldn’t let the attack destroy her plans. Talking to the therapist had been the kick in the rear she had needed. But she had no intention of tackling those stairs to Driftwood Manor—Mrs. Monroe’s residence—this evening.
Nor intruding.I’ll come back for you,Evelyn Monroe.
In the meantime, she could at least talk to Diggins, like Malloy had suggested. Cressida turned around and headed back the way she’d come, knowing she still had steps to climb—those that would take her up the cliff to the Cedar Trails Lodge.
The sun finally setting on the horizon, the bright pinks and oranges took her breath away. She had plenty of sunlight left to light her way back to Cedar Trails, just over a mile away. Her body was starting to ache in places that hadn’t hurt earlier.
A flash of pain in her scalp and she was gasping for air.
Underwater.
No. No! I can’t let him get the best of me.
Just calm down.
She breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. Took in her surroundings.
The present moment was her reality and not events of the past. Up ahead, other beachcombers remained to watch the sunset, reassuring her that she wasn’t completely alone. No dense fog closed in to make her feel isolated.
All her positive thoughts did nothing to assuage the fact that a singular figure emerged from the others enjoying the shore and hiked in her direction.
Past the steps she was aiming for that would take her back to the lodge.
Not strolling. Marching with purpose.
