Cressida found a table and took a seat, even though she was sticky and salty from her dunk in the ocean. The pounding in her head increased. Elbows on the table, she rubbed her eyes.
The detective stood at the glass doors of a refrigerator. “What’s your preference? Water, or would you like a soda?”
She shook her head.I can’t believe this day.“Coffee would be nice. Is there coffee?”
“Sure there is! It’s on the house,” Kit called. “Whatever you want.”
“I’ll take a cup too,” the detective said. “Happy to pay.”
“On the house, Detective Sanders.”
She wanted to like and trust Kit and Mavis, but Cressida couldn’t be sure the women weren’t complicit in what happened to her. After all, she’d left her things with them. Kit promised they wouldn’t be disturbed. Her duffel was intact, but her laptop was gone. Cressida had made the mistake of trusting this down-to-earth establishment. Trusting Kit, with her warm and friendly smile.
How much did she tell this detective, also a stranger? Dad’s notes about the place were sparse, comparatively speaking, and at the moment, she felt alone and like she couldn’t trust a single person. This wasn’t at all like Cressida. And this new feeling left her hollowed out. Deflated.
Not how she wanted to start this last leg of her research to complete Dad’s manuscript.
Kit rushed forward with two coffee mugs, and Detective Sanders took them, handing one off to Cressida. He sat across from her, then took his time doctoring his coffee with sugar packets left on the table. Finally, he took a long swig from the steaming mug. She drank hers black, savoring the warmth.
Detective Sanders’s hair was brown with a few wheat-colored streaks and looked windblown, which made sense. Nobody could escape the coast without that hair, but somehow, it looked like it was deliberate on this man, and like he’d been wearing a helmet. And he had a slight scar from his ear to his jawline, hidden beneath the dark shadow of a closely trimmed beard.
She found him both warm and intimidating. She guessed him to be in his mid- to late thirties, and his confidence said he was experienced in his job.
“Did you happen to come here on a motorcycle?” she asked.
He cocked his head. “What gave you that impression?”
“Your hair.” She took another sip of warmth. Yeah, this was good and hit the spot.
A taste of normalcy.
“Can I have your name, address, and phone number? That’ll work for now since your identification was stolen.”
She gave him her full name, including the last name Dane. He’d find out anyway, and chances were that last name wouldn’t mean anything to him. “I use my middle name in my work.”
“Your work?”
“I’m a journalist, and I prefer to keep my legal name private.”
“Makes sense.” He scribbled the information down.
“You’re writing this information on anapkin?”
“Full disclosure,” he said. “This was my day off. I was out for a ride when I decided to follow my fellow county law enforcement officer down to the beach. That’s my story, now what’s yours?”
He set his smartphone on the table.
“Are you recording this?”
“Yes. Are you good with that?”
What if she said no? “Of course.”
He clasped his hands and leaned forward with an intense expression to let her know he was listening and might even hear what shedidn’tsay. She’d chosen to give her statement tohim, after all, rather than Deputy Riker.
“This is Detective Braden Sanders interviewing Cressida Valentine Dane at the Bayfront Chandlery.” He added the date and time. “Please tell me what happened.”
What was her story, indeed? Where did she start? In her previous job as an investigative journalist—that is, before her mother ruined everything with her master plan—she was great at asking all the questions and offering all the answers. The turned tables threw her off-balance, and her thoughts were scrambled.
