The Killing Tide

by Dani Pettrey

  It was a beacon of light in an otherwise dark world. Finn had been her beacon during her winter stay, and now he and Noah were her promise of safety and protection. As much as she balked at it, and at times felt smothered by the constant attention, it was out of concern and—if she was honest—love for her on both their parts. Looking at Finn’s eyes made her feel safe, at least from physical danger. Emotional danger was an entirely different matter.

  Finn glanced at the clock as he strode to the interrogation room—9:13. Another long night faced him.

  He wished Gabby had agreed to go to Noah’s and gotten a good night’s sleep. After the last couple days, she had to be running on empty. Regardless of what she said, a man rushing her gun in hand had to shake her. She always put on such a brave front. She was brave, but even the brave felt fear.

  The girl was real, vibrant, and made for his arms. Every memory of her lingered—her scent, the feel of her touch, the sound of her voice. . . . He was falling hard and fast all over again.

  He pulled himself from his thoughts, entered the interrogation room, and dropped the file on the table. “Mr. Jacobs,” he said with an exhale.

  The man before him didn’t fit the mold of the men he’d come across thus far in this investigation.

  Eric Jacobs was sixty-nine, five-seven, graying, and he’d wager around one hundred and six pounds soaking wet. He wore a charcoal paddy cap, matching blazer with suede elbows, and a maroon sweater vest. He reminded Finn of his great-uncle Al, whom he hadn’t seen since he and his mum left Australia well over a decade ago.

  “I’ve got to say, Mr. Jacobs, you aren’t what I expected. What is a gentleman of your age doing mixed up with Litman Limited?”

  Jacobs’s bushy gray brows twitched. “I was simply picking up a package, as I was told, and waiting for instructions to drop it off.”

  “Told by whom?”

  “Excuse me?” Jacobs pulled his glasses case out of his blazer’s interior pocket and slipped on black-rimmed glasses.

  “You said you were picking up a package as told. Who told you to pick it up?”

  “I run a delivery service to supplement my retirement from UPS. I pick packages up, I drop them off.”

  “Did you know what was in the package you picked up tonight?” It was just an old book, of all things. How that fit in with the case he had no idea. He hoped Mr. Jacobs could shed some light.

  “Of course not. I never look.”

  “It was a book.”

  Jacobs’s brow arched. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “As I said, I never look.”

  “Any idea how a book fits into all this?” The seemingly out-of-place item nagged at him.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I assume you at least know who hired you to pick up the package.”

  Jacobs clasped his hands in front of him on the table. “I received a call a half hour before I headed to the house. The man said he needed a package retrieved from his house. He gave me the address, said the key was under the mat, and told me he’d call later with instructions of where to drop it off.”

  “You didn’t find that strange?”

  “What . . . strange?” He shrugged, cupping his hands palms up.

  “You don’t find the fact that the delivery address wasn’t provided at all suspect?”

  “I pick things up as I’m told, and I drop them off when and where I’m told. It’s that simple.”

  Finn leaned back in his chair. “Let me guess . . . you don’t ask questions.”

  He smiled. “There’s no crime in that.”

  forty-seven

  Wrapping up his phone conversation, Xavier Fuentes sat back on his bunk. It paid to have guards in his pocket—always paid to have avenues to get what he needed done. And he’d paved those avenues well.

  Gabrielle Rowley’s location had been found. He knew La Muerte was worth the money. He was tempted to give him the go-ahead to do away with her, but with his own freedom imminent, he withheld the order. He wanted to strangle the life from Miss Rowley himself, to feel her pulse stop beating beneath his fingers. No, she was his, and he’d repay her well—showing no mercy.

  His cellmate, Antonio, snored on the bottom bunk.

  His jaw tightened. How he abhorred snoring.

  He wished he could snap Antonio’s tattooed neck midsnore, but he couldn’t do anything to jeopardize his plans. He had to refrain from anything that might prolong his current incarceration. Murdering his cellmate would fall in that category, unfortunately. Besides, he needed Antonio for his escape.

  He reclined onto the subpar mattress that reeked of Antonio’s nicotine habit and pickled eggs. Of all the items to get from the outside world, Antonio requested his girlfriend bring him pickled eggs on her visits.

  Everything about this place was disgusting, but freedom and Gabrielle Rowley’s death were rapidly approaching. And that brought a smile to his face as the overhead lights clicked off.

  Needing to unwind before trying to sleep, Gabby and Finn went out to the swing on his back porch. They sat in a comfortable silence, simply listening to crickets chirping and the rhythmic lapping of the water.

  It’d been a long, emotional day, and Finn’s interrogation of Mr. Jacobs had been more frustrating than helpful, but at least they had a concrete tie to Litman Limited—though Jacobs claimed this had been his first pickup for them. On the way home, she and Finn considered that possibility. But it seemed far more likely that Eric Jacobs was lying.

  Not providing the drop address until after the pickup was brilliant. That way if the pickup person was caught, as Eric Jacobs had been, he couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know. Though, they likely used random drop spots that wouldn’t lead directly back to them anyway.

  Kicking off her shoes, Gabby relaxed into the sway of Finn’s porch swing, although hanging sofa was probably a better description. The white wooden frame cradled an outdoor twin mattress. Oversized pillows in turquoise and jade with designs that reminded Gabby of the flow of ocean waves lined the back wooden slats. White rope fastened the swing to large metal eye-hooks screwed into the porch ceiling.

  The lap of the water grew closer as the high tide swept in. Fireflies sparked in the darkness.

  Finn arched his right shoulder, a crease of pain furrowing his brow.

  The air held the damp moisture of coming rain, which she’d learned really affected the torn rotator cuff that he stubbornly refused to have surgically fixed. Plus, the morning’s surfing couldn’t have helped his shoulder either. And he claimed she was the stubborn one.

  Only a man as bullheaded as Finn would, one, refuse surgery and, two, continue to swim, surf, and even dive with a torn rotator cuff. He’d adamantly made up his mind not to even consider surgery to repair it. Frustration flared through her whenever she thought about it. She exhaled. Why was he so hard on himself in refusing to get it fixed, to take the constant pain away?

  He’d suffered one loss on the job as a rescue swimmer. Surely, he had to know there’d be losses going into that field. As strongly as he’d reacted to the loss, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was more to the story. During her years in journalism, she’d found there was almost always more to a story than met the eye.

  Would Finn ever feel comfortable enough with her to share what lurked beneath his pain?

  “Are you hurting?” she asked.

  “It’s fine.” He shrugged his shoulder, pain again creasing his brow.

  He was hurting.

  She set down the glass of lemonade Finn had offered her and wiped her pants with damp palms—condensation from the heat lingering in the stale September air.

  Standing, she moved behind the sofa swing.

  Finn glanced back at her, a question forming on his face.

  She wrapped her hands over his warm, broad shoulders, massaging his tight muscles.

  He swallowed, an entirely different expression dancing across his brow.

  His sandy blond hair edging his
neckline tickled her fingers as she kneaded his corded muscles.

  God had most definitely made a masterpiece with Finn Walker. Combining his stellar physique with green eyes, a strong jaw, and chiseled cheekbones made it hard not to sigh when he walked in a room.

  “That better?” she asked after a while.

  “Y . . . eah,” he said in a choked whisper.

  The friction between her fingers and his skin as she’d slipped her hands under his loose tank top shot warmth up her arms. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  Lying awake at half past one, Gabby wiggled her still-tingling fingers.

  Swallowing, she rolled over, bunched the feather pillow beneath her head, and kicked the white comforter from her feet.

  Rubbing Finn’s shoulders had been an innocent action coming from the purest of motivations—relieving his pain. She never could have anticipated such a powerful reaction coursing through her.

  She climbed out of bed and slipped the cream terry robe Rissi had lent her over a Washington Caps T-shirt and matching knit pajama shorts. Planting her feet on the driftwood floor, she marveled once again at its unique beauty. According to Rissi—who’d decorated the place before Gabby’s winter stay—Noah and Finn had purchased the driftwood from a local landscaper, then planed, sanded, and laid the floor before sealing it with clear varnish to protect its natural, rugged coastal beauty.

  Stepping to the half-open window, she breathed deeply, her sleeves ruffling in the storm-brewing breeze.

  Shafts of moonlight streaked across Finn’s lawn. She followed the beams up along the wood-shingled house, straight up to Finn’s bedroom window.

  She leapt back at the sight of him standing there shirtless.

  Her heart pounding in her throat, she pressed her back against the beadboard wall, praying he hadn’t seen her.

  Her room was dark. Surely, he couldn’t have seen her.

  Chuckling at herself for overreacting, she stepped back to the window, only to find him still standing there.

  His piercing gaze shifted directly to hers, and a soft smile curled in the corner of his lips.

  Mason found her crying in the crawl space behind her closet. She’d taken refuge there again. Hugging her knees to her chest, Rissi rocked back and forth, trying to soothe her fight mechanism. She’d tried fighting back once, but it’d only resulted in a stiffer beating.

  Finding the crawl space while playing hide-and-seek years ago had proven such a blessing. Either Hank didn’t know it existed or he chose not to bother her there. Knowing Hank and his horrific lack of boundaries, evidenced by the hidden bruises and out-of-sight scars littering her body, it had to be the former.

  She’d hid the crawl-space entrance behind her laundry basket, knowing Hank would never bother touching something so far beneath his role as “ruler” of the children’s home. It had been her place of refuge for a long time, but now the spot belonged to her and Mason.

  She listened as he shimmied through the hidden entrance on his hands and knees, shifting the laundry basket back into place.

  He’d only been living in the home for a few months, but for some reason they’d jibed. She trusted him. It was an odd sensation, giving her trust to someone, but he had hers.

  He sat cross-legged beside her and leaned over, brushing his shoulder against hers. “Want to talk about it?”

  She fought back the tears pricking at her eyes. Please don’t cry in front of him.

  How did he even know? The assault had been in Hank’s office, and she’d been as quiet as a mouse. She always was or it only prolonged the torture.

  How no one discovered Hank’s abuse over the years, she had no clue. None of the kids talked, not even after getting out of the hellhole. And the minimal staff Hank oversaw . . . They all just looked the other way. All five of them. She’d love to know what he had over them . . . or maybe they just didn’t care. Most people didn’t. Not in her world.

  He pulled a bag of ice from his pocket. “I snagged this for you. Thought it might help.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where is the worst?” His hands gripped the bag tighter.

  Hank always left bruises on her skin, a hidden trail of his inflicted pain.

  “My back.”

  Mason reached for her shirt. “May I?”

  She nodded, knowing it’d hurt more if she had to angle her arm back. Everything was so tender.

  He lifted the back of her shirt up above her waist as she clasped the front tightly to herself.

  A swear leaked from his lips. “It’ll be cold.”

  She nodded, too embarrassed to look him in the eye.

  The cold hit the raw gashes on her back with a frigid sting. She winced, embarrassed by the weakness of her reaction.

  “I’m sorry. I know it stings.”

  She swallowed, focusing her gaze on the attic rafters, faint wisps of sunset slipping in the drafty cracks.

  He held the ice bag in place until the smarting dulled and her back grew numb.

  He didn’t badger her with questions. Just sat there as day bled into night.

  Rissi lurched up with a jolt. Sweat slickened her skin as her heart skittered in her chest. Swallowing, she clicked on the bedroom light.

  Just a nightmare.

  She forced herself to take a deep inhale, then released it slowly through her mouth, as her counselor had taught her. It settled her body but not her mind.

  Climbing from the bed, she strode to her dresser, retrieved her Penn State sweatshirt, and slipped it over her pjs’ tank and knit shorts. Glancing about her bedroom, her gaze darted to the closet, the sound of Mason’s voice echoing through her mind.

  Two nightmares in less than seventy-two hours. What was triggering them? And why was Mason living in her mind so much lately?

  She stepped into the front room, grabbed her copy of W is for Wasted by Sue Grafton, and curled up on her Yogibo bean bag chair. There’d be no more sleep tonight.

  forty-eight

  The steady patter of rain bouncing off the pitched metal roof roused Gabby from slumber. Opening her eyes, she fixed her gaze on the still half-open window, thankful the rain was streaking sideways across the screen rather than pelting in.

  A knock sounded on her door.

  Extricating herself from the tangle of covers about her legs, she stood, glancing at the clock on her bedside table. 6:16.

  “I brought breakfast,” Finn said from the other side of the door.

  A very sweet and thoughtful gesture, especially so early.

  “Hang on a sec,” she said, throwing her robe back on and knotting it about her waist. Taking a quick second to run her fingers through her hair, and inhaling a steadying breath, she opened the door, praying Finn hadn’t seen her gawking at him last night. A sudden rush of embarrassment washed in a wave of heat over her cheeks. Finn stood holding a white wicker breakfast tray loaded with goodies, the homey scent of bacon swirling about her.

  “May I?” he asked, lifting the tray.

  “Of course.” She stepped back, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and hoping she didn’t look an absolute mess from a restless night’s slumber.

  “Over here okay?” he asked, walking over to the distressed aqua desk nestled in the far window nook. Rissi had done an amazing job refinishing the piece. “We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep, I figured you needed better sustenance than those cardboard-tasting bars you’re always eating on the go.”

  “Protein bars are good for you,” she said with a tilt of her head, taking in his causal morning attire—black running pants and a yellow T-shirt with the Endless Summer logo screened across the front.

  “Eggs, bacon, toast, and fruit are much better,” he countered.

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?”

  “Time to follow up on Bashert—check out his home and the bowling alley he supposedly knows Fletcher from. We need to find out if anyone there can corroborate his claims.”


  “Hopefully we’ll get some answers,” she said, picking up a slice of bacon that was crispy to the point of nearly being burnt—just like her momma made it. She took a bite. “Mmm.”

  “Applewood smoked, and maple-syrup cured.”

  It really was like her momma made it.

  “Nana Jo did a local market run-through with me when I moved here.” He chuckled.

  Of course she had.

  “Said single men needed all the help they could get.” A soft smile curled on his lips, and she worked not to get drawn into the appealing expression.

  She bit back a smile of her own. For not being a North Carolina native, Finn sure had southern charm down.

  He arched a brow. “What has you on the verge of smiling?”

  “Nothing.” She swallowed as heat rushed to her cheeks again. “Want to join me?” she asked, curling up on the window seat as rain drizzled outside. Her simple question was probably far more dangerous than she’d intended, given how strongly she suddenly longed for him to stay.

  His smile grew. “I’d like that.” He took a seat beside her.

  She handed him the fork and lifted the spoon for herself.

  “Thanks.”

  She reached for the Texas Pete sauce. “Thank you for this.” She jiggled the glass bottle before sprinkling its contents over her half of the eggs.

  “I remembered you’re a hot-sauce lady.”

  She took a bite of the spicy eggs, wondering what else he remembered about her.

  What she recalled most from their three-month time span together was how special he’d become to her. So much so, that she’d actually—for a nanosecond, at least—considered turning down the job in Raleigh. But Asim’s treachery had taught her a valuable lesson. She needed to trust her head and never her heart.

  She blinked, realizing Finn was studying her.

  “Must be thinking about something serious,” he said, snagging a half slice of wheat toast and slathering it with butter. “Your brow is furrowing in that deep concentrating way of yours.”