He gestured toward the kitchenette area with one big, broad hand. “There’s a streak on the laminate countertop—perfectly straight line, like someone wiped it down, paused to check their work, then wiped it again. People who are rushing to catch the ferry aren’t worried about leaving behind crumbs or water spots.”
Those hands looked so damned capable.
I gave myself a mental shake. “Same thing in the bathroom. The mirror has one streak in the top corner. Quick, efficient pass with a cloth or paper towel, but not thorough enough to get everything. And there are no signs of the cleaning materials here.”
He folded his arms across his chest, settling back against the counter with the weight of someone processing unwelcome information. “This isn’t her packing her own belongings.”
“No,” I agreed grimly. “So either she had one of her friends or colleagues come back here later yesterday to pack up the rest of her belongings to ship to wherever she’s relocated—which we should verify—or someone else is trying to make it appear that she packed everything herself, and they had no idea that you’d already asked Maria to check the scene yesterday morning.”
The air in the small apartment seemed to thicken with dread as the full implications settled over both of us.
From outside on the landing, Maria’s footsteps shifted slightly—a subtle signal that she was growing tired of waiting for us to finish our examination.
“This isn’t enough evidence to get Carson to officially reopen the investigation,” I murmured.
“No, definitely not enough. We need to check the ferry security footage next.”
“Agreed. If she did board yesterday’s ferry as reported, we should be able to see her on the cameras.”
“I’ve got someone who can give us access to those recordings.”
I raised an eyebrow, not entirely surprised. “Of course you do.” He was friends with Sawyer Malone, who was married to Willa Hollingsworth now. Her family owned the ferry company.
“Small island.” He gave me a faint, humorless smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. I found myself wondering what a real smile would look like from him. Had I ever even seen one?
I couldn’t remember.
Uncomfortable with the thought, I stepped back toward the door. “Let’s not keep Maria standing out there.”
As we joined her on the landing, she locked the apartment again, worry etched across her features.
“You’ll keep me updated?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We’ll let you know if we learn anything.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was small. “I just… I hope she’s all right.”
“So do we,” Rios said.
We started down the stairs, and I felt it settle between us—our first true shared certainty in this mess.
Nothing about that apartment matched Carson’s story.
And both of us knew it.
Eleven
RIOS
By the time we pulled into the ferry terminal lot, heat bounced off the asphalt in shimmering waves. Out front, a line of cars waited in the staging lanes. The ordinary churn of people leaving the island. On any other day, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.
Today, every car felt like a potential lead we’d already missed.
The terminal’s air conditioning hit like a slap after the soupy heat outside. The waiting area buzzed with the sounds of travel: rolling luggage wheels, kids whining for snacks, the faint echo of an announcement over the PA.
I scanned the lobby, looking for Willa, and spotted Roy, her big black pit bull, first. Easy to do, given he was the size of a small mountain. He sat like a particularly well-behaved statue as she spoke to an employee behind the ticket desk. She glanced up, eyes meeting mine before they slid over to Madden. The sight of us together made something unreadable flicker across her face before she smoothed it out with a careful, polite smile.
She crossed over. “Rios. Madden.”
