If County Deputy Trent Riker realized Braden was the guy on the motorcycle he’d passed, he didn’t acknowledge him. Braden should have turned around and headed in the other direction—he had the day off—but curiosity got the best of him, so he followed the cruiser, taking a side road that descended quickly down the cliffside to the Hidden Bay Marina. At the bottom of the hill, Braden navigated the Ducati up to the cruiser and parked right next to it, then hopped off. After removing his helmet, he set it on the bike. Trent was already rushing north on the beach, away from the marina. Braden followed, weaving, hopping, and climbing between and over large chunks of driftwood. The morning fog was waning, burning off earlier than usual.
Trent turned to look at who’d followed. The deputy nodded to Braden, then continued hiking forward. An ambulance swerved into the marina parking lot behind them.
“What’s going on?” Braden called after Trent.
“A woman washed up on the beach,” Trent said.
Washed up?“A woman ... dead or alive?” He hated how crass the words sounded.
“Alive as far as I know,” Trent said.
Beyond the cluster of driftwood logs, Braden continued to follow Trent, watching his footing on the precarious rocky, pebbled beach. The EMTs were going to love carrying someone across this rough terrain.
Trent called over his shoulder. “It’s your day off. I’ll handle it.” The older deputy believed he had deserved the detective position, but Braden had taken it.
“I’m here. I might as well assist.” Did investigators ever truly get days off?
When Braden had worked for the State Department, hewas always on call. And then always called upon. In this sparsely populated county, the complex investigations weren’t common. Most of the peninsula was home to reservations where tribal police oversaw their jurisdictions with dedication, working closely with county law enforcement to ensure justice for all. Braden’s burden here was light, and nothing at all like the high-stakes drama he’d experienced working as a DSS special agent.
No matter where he worked, justice for all felt like a lofty, unreachable goal at times.
A wave rushed up the beach, crawling forward and nearly saturating his now sandy motorcycle boots as he continued following Trent.
Without a dedicated law enforcement marine unit in Hidden Bay, the county sheriff’s office handled any water-related incident as it came up and if necessary. No official harbormaster either, which could explain much of the neglect. Decisions were made by Mavis and her crew at the Bayfront Chandlery, and for any major incidents, of course the Coast Guard was called in.
After weaving between the piles of massive white tree trunks—driftwood brought in by the Pacific and left to bleach in the sun—up ahead, he finally saw the woman.
Wrapped in a blanket, she huddled on one such driftwood log, along with a couple in their late sixties, early seventies. Beachcombers? Friends or family? The man sitting with the survivor stood when he spotted officers from Timberbrook County approaching.
“We were starting to wonder if we should just take her someplace warm,” the guy said.
That would have been a good idea, but Braden kept that thought to himself.
“An ambulance is here.” Trent gestured over his shoulder. “EMTs will be here soon.”
Surprising Braden, the woman rose, the blanket falling from her shoulders. Her long hair looked dark since it was wet, but he could still make out the bright-red tones against a freckled face. She looked familiar to him, unsettling his thoughts.
The woman lifted her chin. “I don’t need an ambulance. I just need to report”—she forced the words out through strangled tears—“I was attacked and left to drown. My stuff was stolen.”
Trent went right to work. “I’m Deputy Trent Riker, and this is Detective Braden Sanders. What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Cressida. Cressida ... Valentine.” She looked at Braden—not Trent—and her striking light-green eyes flashed.
For a moment, Braden couldn’t breathe.
How about Cressida ValentineDane?
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “Deputy Riker, I’d prefer to talk to the detective.”
Cressida stepped up to Braden, determination set in her beautiful eyes, but in them he saw an abysmal sadness. He might have fallen for her—just a little—the first time he’d seen her photo in her mother’s office. She stared, waiting for his reaction. He’d better start acting like the professional he was. But Braden wanted to tell her everything.
I know your mother. She sent me here to investigate.
He didn’t know what, but now ... He still didn’t know anything except Cressida was the unexpected surprise he’d been looking for. Of that he had no doubt.
And here you are.
He couldn’t tell her a thing because he was bound to keep her VIP mother’s secret.
