She could do this.
She had to.
She stared out at the ocean through the front window. Waves rolling in. Waves rolling out. Relentless. Inevitable.
Like the past she'd been running from.
Like the future closing in.
She whispered to the empty bakery: "Lord, if You want me to stay here, I need answers."
Time to find out what happened to David Sawyer.
And who that body on the beach really was.
Before either truth destroyed her.
5
The lunch rushat Reagan's Saltwater Grill consisted of exactly seven people, which in Haven Cove terms qualified as packed. Cara slid onto a stool at the counter, positioning herself with a clear view of the door.
Reagan appeared with coffee before Cara could ask. She was thirty-four but looked younger, with the kind of natural beauty that didn't need much help—thick blonde hair pulled back in a practical bun, clear skin that had seen plenty of sun but wore it well, and sharp green eyes that missed nothing. Her apron bore evidence of the chowder special.
"You look like you need this more than usual," Reagan said, setting down the mug. "Rough morning?"
Cara wrapped her hands around the warmth, feeling the ceramic heat seep into her cold fingers. "Did you hear about the body on the beach?"
"Honey, everyone's heard." Reagan leaned against the counter, lowering her voice even though the nearest customer was three stools away. "Terrible thing. Just terrible."
"I think he came into my bakery a few weeks ago." Carakept her tone carefully neutral. Concerned neighbor, not amateur investigator. "Dark hair, medium build. Ordered coffee and sat for a couple hours asking questions about the town. Obviously, I couldn't help much."
Reagan's expression shifted to thoughtful. "I bet he made the rounds. There are lots of people like Pearl and Mrs. Henley who'll talk your ear straight off about The Cove."
Exactly. And he'd probably checked in at the diner. She didn't want to ask, but this was too important not to. "I took a picture of him. The body, I mean. Is it okay if I show you? It's fine if you'd rather not..."
Reagan gestured at Cara's pocket. "I'm not squeamish."
Cara pulled out her phone and swiped to the first shot of the body. The screen felt cold and smooth under her thumb.
The other woman leaned closer, squinting. "I think that's him. Yeah, I remember him. Came in here too."
Cara's pulse quickened, but she kept her face calm. "Did he say anything? About why he was here?"
"Asked about boats. Wanted to know if there were any charters available and how long folks had been running them. Stuff like that. I figured he was here planning a guy's fishing trip, like they do." Reagan refilled Cara's mug without being asked. The rich coffee aroma mixed with the scent of fried fish and sea salt drifting from the kitchen. "But then he started asking about town history. Who'd been here longest, that kind of thing."
Same questions he'd asked at the bakery. The man had been looking for something specific. Or someone.
"Strange questions for a tourist," Cara said.
"Totally." Reagan wiped down the already clean counter, the rag making soft squeaking sounds against the laminate. "He didn't have that tourist vibe, you know? They all wear fleece and complain about the rain. This guy was watchingeverything. Reminded me of those insurance investigators who come through sometimes."
Or a private investigator. Or a journalist. Someone digging into Haven Cove's past.
"Did he mention where he was staying?" The question came out too quickly. Cara took a sip of coffee to cover her urgency. The liquid burned her tongue.
Reagan shook her head. "Didn't say. I assumed the Inn, but Martha would've mentioned it if he'd been there. She tells me everything." A pause. "You know, if someone wanted privacy around here, they'd probably head up the 101. That Seafoam Lodge about fifteen miles north. Real run-down place, but they take cash and don't ask questions."
Cara filed that away and considered the route. Fifteen miles. Secluded. Cash only. Exactly where someone conducting a discreet investigation would stay.
