“Then don’t wait. If Priya didn’t go back to her place, where else might she have gone after finishing her work?”
Astrid considered this for a moment, chewing on her lower lip. “The grad students often stop in at Home Port after their night shifts. It’s the closest bar to the beach research sites, and they stay open late enough to catch the crew when they’re done with observations.”
“Then let’s go see if anyone there remembers seeing her last night.”
Seven
RIOS
The docks were more than half asleep by the time I got down to Home Port. Not surprising, considering it was past midnight. A couple of trawlers still had their work lights on, halos glowing faint in the mist that clung to the water. Somewhere out on the sound, an engine droned low and steady, the hum carrying across the black expanse.
Home Port sat back from the marina, its faded sign lit by a single buzzing bulb. The wood underfoot was damp and soft in places, the air thick with brine, diesel, and the faint metallic tang of fish scales that never quite washed away. This was the working man’s bar on the island, where tourists seldom wandered.
Out of habit, I made a slow circuit around the building, looking for anything out of place. There were only two exits. The main front door and one at the rear by the kitchen that led out to the dumpster. Unless they’d changed the layout since I’d haunted this place in my younger years, that rear door connected to the short hall beside the restrooms. Nobody but staff had reason to use it, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t. So I took my time, scanning the area for any telltale signs of a struggle or anything else out of place. But there was no discarded phone. No dropped bag. No drag marks. If Priya Shah had made it here last night, as the grad students I’d spoken to earlier had claimed she intended, the docks had already swallowed the evidence.
Inside, the place was running on the low hum of late-night regulars. The air conditioner rattled but did its job, cutting through the humidity. Classic rock played on the jukebox, half drowned by the clink of bottles and quiet conversation. The pervasive scent of grease had saliva pooling in my mouth, reminding me that dinner had been hours ago. If the kitchen was still open, I’d grab a burger.
I’d been away from Sutter’s Ferry long enough that the faces had changed, but the atmosphere hadn’t. Dockhands, boat mechanics, a few locals finishing the night’s beers. The kind of people who generally kept to themselves. There were some fishermen gathered around the pool table, blowing off steam after what was probably a multi-day trip out on the water. Nothing unusual.
And then I saw her.
Madden Reilly.
She stood near the far end of the bar, dark brown hair pulled back into a braid that even Outer Banks humidity hadn’t teased into a mess. Something about all that neatness made me want to muss her up, just to see what she’d look like with wild curls and kiss-swollen lips.
I blinked.
Where the hell had that thought come from? Shoving it far into the depths of what the fuck, I focused on the rest of the scene. While Madden wasn’t wearing a suit, her posture was straight and formal, shoulders squared, as if she were arguing a case in front of a jury. The three men she spoke to seemed amused more than offended. Their eyes scanned the length of her and saw only a pretty girl on her own. I watched their body language shift from amused to predatory. The big guy in front of Madden leaned closer, smiling in that way that was all teeth and no warmth. One of his buddies said something I couldn’t catch, and the third laughed the kind of laugh that made every muscle in my body wake up and pay attention, even before the first guy reached a hand out to touch her.
I was moving before I’d even consciously decided. I caught the meaty guy’s wrist in my grip before he could reach her, my hand wrapping around the thick bones with enough pressure to make my point clear without breaking anything.
“I don’t believe the lady issued an invitation.”
The big one’s frown deepened as he turned to face me, his alcohol-glazed eyes taking a moment to focus. I released his wrist with deliberate slowness, letting my hand fall to my side but keeping my stance loose and ready.
“We was just talking.” The words were slightly slurred around the edges.
“Looked like she wasn’t enjoying the conversation.” I kept my voice level. Better to diffuse the situation than turn this into a brawl.
“She didn’t say that.” His buddies had moved closer now, flanking him in that instinctive way men did when they sensed trouble brewing.
“She’s saying it now.”
I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t need to. Years in the Navy had taught me that calm was what people feared most—the kind of steady control that suggested violence was always an option, just not the first one. I shifted my weight just enough that he had to either back up a step or bump chest-first into me, and I could see the calculation running behind his eyes as he weighed his options. The standoff lasted only two seconds before he broke eye contact, his gaze sliding away to focus on something over my shoulder.
His bravado deflated like a punctured balloon. “No harm meant.” His friends echoed the same sentiment in mumbled agreement, already peeling off toward the other end of the bar where the pool table promised safer entertainment.
Madden’s exhale was slow and controlled, the kind you use to tamp down adrenaline. Or temper. Her gaze flicked up to mine, all sharp edges and barely contained irritation. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Stopping that from turning ugly.”
“I had it handled.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why that asshole was about to lay hands on you.”
“I can take care of myself.” Her chin lifted slightly, no doubt intended to punctuate her point. Instead, it drew my attention to her lips, unpainted but still rosy. Would they be soft as a counterpoint to that sharp tongue?
Focus, Carrera.
