Dangerous Waters

by Toni Anderson

  “I need a room for the night.”

  “You look like you’ve had a rough journey. That road’s a killer, huh?” The girl popped gum.

  Holly blinked. The girl didn’t recognize her. Thank god for small favors. “It is.” She handed over her credit card and waited for the sky to fall in.

  “Room seven.” The girl smiled, a small gap showing between her front teeth.

  Holly blinked as she was handed a key. “Thank you.” She hefted her bag and headed back outside. Trod the sagging boards with their peeled white paint and unlocked the door of number seven. She braced herself and then walked into a room that, while it wasn’t anything special, was clean, warm, and thankfully quiet. She tossed the bag onto the chair, plugged her phone into the charger. She was thirsty, so she put the mini coffeepot on and brewed herself a mug.

  The sun slanted in the window, so she closed the curtains and dragged her laptop onto her thighs as she lay propped up in bed.

  She inserted the flash drive Edgefield had given her and pulled up the initial police reports. They’d put in a lot of man-hours interviewing people but, like her, they hadn’t gotten much info out of the locals. She recognized most of the names, and though there’d been some newcomers to the area, a lot of the townsfolk were the same.

  Holly found it strange living somewhere so remote. The thought of facing that damn road every time she wanted to see civilization? No way. She liked the wilderness, but for visits, not for normal everyday living. Which reinforced the fact that she and Finn could never be anything except a casual hookup. So why was the desire to go find him and apologize digging into her mind with needle-sharp claws? Did she want a repeat of last night? Her body said hell yes while her mind said solidly no.

  Did she want to hurt him, mess with him more than she’d already done? Not that he’d tried to chase after her last night or call her after their run-in today. Why would he? She’d treated him to a classic slam, bam, thank you…man.

  And even though most guys wouldn’t care, she knew he did. They’d shared a closeness that she had ruined because she’d laid hands on him and he’d kissed her. Then they simply hadn’t been able to stop, and now she didn’t know who she was anymore.

  Am I another mistake, Holly?

  She squeezed her eyes shut because she could still feel the pleasure of his touch and still wanted him so badly, on so many levels, that her pulse revved. Why would he want her now? He wouldn’t. No one would. And that was fine. But it didn’t stop a raw ache from opening up inside her and filling her with a yawning gulf of emptiness.

  He was done. History. And a damn sight better off without her screwing up his life.

  She clicked on the crime scene photos from the Edgefield double murder. The images were black and white for the most part. Some color. The first images were of the forest, only a rifle shot away. The first close-up of the victim made her stomach clench.

  It could have been her, lying there with her head smashed in. The next shot zoomed out to show the baby who’d also received a blow to the front of his tiny face. Holly wiped a hand over her eyes as her throat closed up. She pulled her coffee mug off the nightstand and took a drink to steady herself.

  This was how Thomas had found his wife and son?

  So the report said.

  But why had the killer placed the baby so carefully in his mother’s arms, snug against her breast? Protected in death as he wasn’t in life? Bianca Edgefield hadn’t been sexually assaulted that the coroner could tell. Someone had simply smashed a hammer into her skull and left her to die. An up close and personal murder.

  She flicked through more of the images, but they all showed the same thing. And no sign of the two-year-old girl. No blood. Just her little red jacket and what looked like drag marks. Holly squinted at a picture of the kid.

  Shit, they could have been twins except for the massive smile on the girl’s face. Most of Holly’s early photographs showed her on the verge of crying. She hadn’t liked to sit still for long. She touched the plump cheek of the kid.

  “What happened to you, Leah? Where did you go?”

  She brought up the autopsy report. Bianca had been a young, healthy mother of two, still nursing, who’d died from blunt force trauma to the head. Autopsy on the baby proved inconclusive. Although, really, the crushed skull revealed more than any investigator could ever need.

  She couldn’t find any DNA evidence. Then she realized DNA profiling hadn’t even been invented back then. Maybe Edgefield was right about reopening the case, although who knew what condition the evidence was in after all this time. She picked up the phone and called Cassy.

  “Hey.” Cassy sounded miserable.

  “What’s up?”

  “The results of those DNA tests are back.”

  Excitement stirred. “You’ve run them already? Seriously?”

  “What can I tell ya, I’m good. I found two sets of DNA on that sheet. The vic’s and an UNSUB.”

  “In the system?” Holly asked before she could stop herself.

  “Not exactly,” Cassy said slowly.

  “Ugh. You shouldn’t be talking to me about this. I’m off the case.”

  “What?”

  “Cassy.” Holly cradled her head in her hands. “I screwed up.”

  “How?”

  Holly swallowed. She wasn’t going to lie about her mistakes. Not anymore. “I had sex with someone involved in the investigation.”

  “No buckin’ way.”

  “Oh, yes. I really did. And I had two, maybe three, orgasms to prove it. And the worst thing? I want to do it again. And I can’t. Ever. Go near. Him.” Christ. She hugged her knees as sweat beaded her brow.

  “But,” Cassy spluttered, “you’re usually so staid…and boring!”

  Holly blew out a soft laugh. “Thank you, so much. I appreciate it. Staid, boring, highly unethical, and borderline criminal. A winning combination for a cop.”

  “Holy crap, Holly. You can’t be serious.”

  “I am serious.” Inside she went cold again. Humiliation welled up. She had to tell her dad the same thing, and the thought was killing her.

  “Oh, god…” Cassy sounded like she was going to faint.

  “You OK?”

  “I just…I just…” Holly could hear her friend taking deep, settling breaths. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  “If it’s about that DNA, you need to call Furlong and fill him in.”

  “You need to hear it first.”

  “I’m off the case, Cass.” She paced the floor. She shouldn’t have started talking about sex because now she felt raw and edgy. She needed to get back on track. “I do have a question about old DNA though—”

  “Holly—”

  “What?” she said impatiently. Thinking about Finn, missing Finn, unsettled her. She needed to work.

  “The DNA for the UNSUB on that bed sheet you sent me. I looked at the mitochondrial DNA in the skin cell samples—mitochondrial DNA is passed on only through the mother. I found a full maternal match with someone in the system.”

  Anticipation burned along Holly’s nerves. She hoped it was Rob Fitzgerald, the smarmy little prick. “You have to tell Furlong, not me,” she insisted.

  “Listen. I ran it through CODIS and against every DNA profile I have in the system just like you told me to, breaking probably more privacy laws than you need to worry about.”

  Holly winced.

  “Remember your last case when we had to take your DNA to eliminate it from the knife that bastard used to cut you?”

  So they could separate her DNA from that of the wife he’d killed. “Yes.” They were getting way off course here… “What does that have to do with—”

  “The match was with you, Holly. A full maternal match. So I compared nuclear DNA too, which wasn’t a full match. But enough to tell me you have a half brother out there, and I hope to God you didn’t just have life-altering sex with him because the victim sure as hell did.”

  Holly dropped
the phone and stared at it, frozen. When she picked it back up, Cassy was still there. Patient. Silent. A true friend. Holly’s voice quivered, “I don’t understand. Mom said she couldn’t have any more children. I told you that.” She was getting hysterical. She could feel it bubbling under the surface of her skin.

  “I know, hon. That’s why I checked something else—”

  “What? Who?” Holly snapped.

  She heard a thick swallow. “Your father’s blood type is AB positive.”

  “So?”

  “You are type O negative, Holly.”

  She didn’t understand.

  “It’s simply not possible for the deputy commissioner to be your biological parent.”

  Holly covered her mouth and sank down onto the bed, curled over. “There must be a mistake.”

  “No mistake.”

  Holly’s head started pounding. “You’re telling me my mom had an affair? My dad isn’t my dad? And she had another kid?” None of this made sense.

  “That’s possible, I suppose.” Holly could hear the doubt in the other woman’s tone. “It’s also possible you were adopted.”

  “But I have baby photographs!” Sweat streaked Holly’s face. It trickled down her temple, down her neck, corrosive as acid.

  Cassy said nothing for a moment. “If you can get me some of your mom’s DNA, an old hairbrush or some clothes, I can do another comparison. But the easiest thing would be to just ask your dad.”

  The thump of her heart was so loud she thought the other woman must hear it. She had no memory of her early childhood. It was like that part of her life was wiped clean. Or blocked? But how many people did remember their infancy? She pulled up the photograph of Leah Edgefield and stared at the little girl. Gray eyes. Like her. Like Thomas Edgefield. The man she’d looked down on since the moment she’d met him. The man she pitied.

  Could he be her father? Could she be Leah Edgefield?

  “Holly? Are you all right?”

  God, she’d forgotten about Cass. “I’m OK. I need to call my dad…” Her tongue turned to dust. What should she say to him? I slept with someone involved in the investigation and, by the way, am I adopted?

  “Still want me to call it in to Furlong?”

  God. This was too personal. More personal than some pervert watching her have sex—and that had been bad enough. The room swayed in and out of focus. But the thought of being adopted threatened her very identity, every belief she’d ever held about her worthiness as a person, as a cop. Without that heritage, she had nothing. Was nothing. Nausea rose up her throat, but she forced it back. “I just need a bit of time to process this.”

  “I understand, sweetie. It’s a lot to handle, but…”

  “What?”

  “The guy you slept with. Could he possibly be the guy who slept with the dead woman?” And Holly’s brother?

  “No.” She remembered what they’d done together and her insides spun. Christ, if Finn was lying or mistaken… “His name is Finn Carver, aged thirty-six—he was in the military, so his DNA might still be in the system if they haven’t already destroyed it. His brother, Brent Carver, thirty-nine, was just questioned in relation to Gina Swartz’s murder. I know he gave a voluntary sample to IFIS in Port Alberni. It’s not him, but would you…Could you…Just to make sure.” Favors. She had no right to ask for favors.

  “Double-check his profile and compare it to yours? Sure. It won’t take long. I’ll call you back ASAP. You’re sure these two are full-blood brothers?”

  She remembered how alike they were in looks—both blond and blue-eyed. Knew they’d grown up together. Couldn’t imagine that his mother had dumped them and run off to become the beautiful and caring woman who’d raised her with such love and grace. Her stomach somersaulted. “I’m as sure as I am about anything right now.” Then she dropped the phone and ran to the bathroom and vomited.

  Finn kept the marine lab’s dive program running despite the skeletal staff. He’d roped in a post-doc from the lab and Scotty Wolf, the hotel owner, both experienced divers, to partner some of his students. Paid them in cash and beer. He’d had a crap day, but he’d gotten everything done. He didn’t quit and he didn’t fail. Except when it came to a five-foot-ten-inch brunette with eyes of steel.

  Now his brother was home. Released without charge.

  They climbed into the boat, Brent, then Thom and Laura. Finn was so grateful to have Brent home he was willing to do anything to try to re-forge the bond they’d once shared. He cast off and buzzed them across the inlet, the sharp wind a welcome blast of ice that helped keep him awake after another near-as-damn-it sleepless night.

  Brent wore the same clothes he’d worn yesterday morning. The lines around his eyes were grooves of fatigue edged with grief. Finn tied up the boat, watched Thom help Laura safely out.

  “Time to go,” Finn ordered Brent, who hadn’t yet moved or spoken.

  Instead of objecting the way he’d expected, Brent stepped out onto the dock and stood there. Shoulders stooped.

  Lost.

  “I’m going to see Laura home.” Thom touched her arm, and Finn’s eyes widened. It looked like he wasn’t the only one who’d gotten lucky last night, but Thom might actually have gotten lucky.

  Unlike him.

  Don’t think about Holly.

  He stepped closer to his brother. “You need to thank Laura for getting you out of that hellhole.”

  Brent stared dully at the weatherworn planks of the dock.

  “It’s OK.” Laura pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and smiled at him with tired eyes. It had been a long twenty-four hours. She adjusted her briefcase then Thom took her bag from her. “Astonishingly, I was actually glad to help.” She turned on her heel and strode away. Thom followed with a lightness in his step Finn hadn’t seen in years. Someone was coming out of this mess more intact than when they’d started, and for that he was glad. He’d even be content with his own fucked-up love life if he could ease the heartbreak that pummeled Brent like Pacific rollers.

  Brent started up the gangplank with a weary tread. A couple of the guys were leaning on the railings watching them but saying nothing. Finn gave them a stare that told them to mind their own business. Thom and Laura veered left into the shop, but Brent ignored everyone, arrowed straight for home, slipping into the dense woods with the ease of a man long adjusted to the shadows.

  “You should give her something for helping you. Most people would have let you rot,” Finn called out as he kept pace. He wasn’t letting him go this time.

  Brent snapped off the top of a sapling as he snaked along the trail—the only indication he’d heard Finn bitching at him. He stumbled over a fallen pine—looking exhausted and worn. They’d come this way so many times as kids, Finn felt like he’d been catapulted back to simpler times. Grimmer times, when surviving a beating had been the only thing that mattered.

  Given the current state of their lives, maybe he was mistaken to think they’d moved on. They got to the cove where they’d grown up and both stood looking at the small patch of wilderness that they could rightfully call their own. Brent’s log cabin sat up on the hill like a testament of resilience and strength against all the bad things that could happen in life.

  A shiver passed over his shoulders when he saw how Brent was looking at the place. With loathing and revulsion.

  “You gonna burn it down the way you burned down the shack?”

  Flat eyes regarded him.

  “Dad would enjoy that.” Finn got in Brent’s face. Shoved him, wanting a response. Got nothing. “Dad would have laughed his drunken ass off if he saw you burn this place to ashes and all your paintings with it.”

  “What the hell do you know about my paintings?” The first flash of fire out of the embers of grief.

  “I saw them when the cops searched the place.”

  Brent’s eyes swung to the studio on the first floor.

  “I recognized them from when we were kids. You were always good.” Emotion
started to strangle his throat. “I can’t believe how great you’ve become.”

  “I’m not great.” Brent’s lip curled. “People are just stupid enough to pay top dollar for a bit of paint splashed on a canvas.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “Don’t tell me what I believe!” His voice rang off the ocean, angry and loud. At least he was feeling now, although that might not be such a good thing.

  “Dad used to tell you they were a waste of paint. Even as a kid you knew better. You were smarter. Kinder. Better than he was.”

  Brent swallowed. Finn watched him flex his fists and hoped he wasn’t about to get a meaty jaw sandwich. Although he’d take it. Hell, if it got his mind off Holly long enough to get some sleep, he’d welcome it.

  The wind blasted them with a lick of fury.

  “Whoever killed her put the knife on my bed.” Air crackled around them. The agony in his eyes intensified. “I met people like that in prison. They liked playing mind games. They liked hurting people—women—more than killing them.” Brent closed his eyes. “Did she suffer?” His voice broke.

  “She died quick.” A hell of a lot quicker than their father had. Finn curved his hand over his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “One stab wound to the heart. She died instantly.” Finn didn’t want to think of her naked or dead. She’d been his friend, and his last memory of her was savage. Brent didn’t need any of that in his head. He had nightmares enough.

  His brother’s eyes flashed open, so like his own but with a darkness deep inside. “I never wanted to hurt her. I told her over and over to move on, to find someone else.” He released a quiet snarl. “She waited for me, but I wasn’t the same boy she’d loved. I tried to make it work, but the demons…” He shrugged out of Finn’s reach. “They never let go.” He faced the ocean. Their ocean. “She deserved better than a two-bit convict who couldn’t stand the sight of his own face in the mirror.” His features twisted. “But if I hadn’t pushed her away she might still be alive.”