“That, I’m still trying to pry out of her.” And unfortunately, Octavia Dane was never involved in anything that wasn’t high-stakes drama all kept under wraps—that seemed to be her expertise.
“Keep me in the loop on your investigation. All of it. Especially the part where you learn more about how this is related to Ms. Dane.”
“She prefers Valentine.”
“Ms. Valentine. My point is that she’s your priority.”
“I’m the county investigator, not a personal security detail.” Braden pushed back to find out where Thatcher really stood.
“Your experience is in protective detail, and I want you to lean in that direction. Can’t have the daughter of a bigwig getting hurt on my watch. The truth of the matter is that we both know that you’re here for one reason—Cressida Valentine Dane. Anything happens to her, and we’ll both pay for the rest of our lives.”
“So, we understand each other,” Braden said.
“You keep your fingers on the pulse of everything but do it all from close personal contact with Cressida Dane. You have my full support.”
“She’s going to ask me why.”
“And you’re free to tell her.”
“I’m not, actually. Part of the assignment was that she cannot know her mother is involved. They’re estranged.”
“That’s a nasty predicament, and you’re a smart man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
The coroner stepped onto the porch and drew the sheriff’s attention. Braden and Thatcher hiked toward the house.
“I’ll do my duty here tonight, gather all the information, write up my report,” Braden said. “I’ll do it from my new location—the Cedar Trails Lodge.”
“I could put you on leave. Make you take vacation. But then I’d lose my investigator.”
“And I have a feeling Cressida would become suspicious. I’ll come up with a plan and keep you informed. The best thing we can do is solve this quickly and help Cressida finish her business here.”
“Agreed.” Thatcher stepped up to speak with the coroner, and Braden followed. Got the information.
Then he headed inside to talk in person with Evelyn Monroe—a well-respected but reclusive elderly woman with a good heart who held tight reins on the Hidden Bay region. She’d only ever done good and assisted those in need.
And tonight, she’d shot and killed a man.
She didn’t deserve to walk into her home to this violence. They’d need her to stay elsewhere for tonight at least. Worst case, a day or two, until he could release the scene. He walked into the living room where Trent was waiting with her.
“Mrs. Monroe,” he said. “I’m Detective Braden Sanders.”
“Detective. I’ve been waiting for the moment when we would talk about our shared interests but never imagined it would be under these circumstances.”
Our shared interests?
Did she, too, have an interest in Cressida Dane?
21
In her room at the lodge, Cressida stared out at the endless darkness of a cloudy night over the Pacific. The aged frame creaked as she opened the window, letting in the salty breeze, so she could better hear the unending sound of the ocean. Some waves crashed against the rocks while others swept up the sandy beach, then slid back out to sea—all of it with a rhythm that soothed her bleeding soul.
And she desperately needed that comfort. Hard enough to accept her father was gone, but to think that he could have been murdered over what he’d discovered in Hidden Bay? Diggins could have shared more with her, but he chose to keep it from her.
She almost wanted to ask Braden to haul Diggins into the sheriff’s office and interrogate him. But with no evidence that her father might have been murdered—that she knew about—it wasn’t like Braden could officially interrogate him. No. She’d get Diggins what he wanted, and maybe she could also get answers of her own.
Whathadher father learned? What did her mother know about it, if anything? Cressida opened up her laptop andemailed a law enforcement friend in DC. Maybe he could look into it and find out more, and she could avoid calling her mother. Even if she did go groveling back—and that’s what it would take—her mother wouldn’t tell her anything.
Secrets. Her mother always had them.
