by S. R. Grey
I’d perused all the financial magazines, reading all about how Mr. Ward amassed his vast fortune by designing and implementing elaborate and sophisticated security software programs for both domestic and international organizations. Supposedly some of it was really high-intrigue stuff—rumors abounded that some of his work even involved secret government contracts.
I didn’t know about that—Lord knew there were enough rumors floating around about Adam—but I did know his fledgling company had just been gaining momentum back when he and Chelsea were planning to marry. After graduating at the top of his class at MIT, he’d moved back here to be close to his family. And presumably to Chelsea, since they’d gotten engaged in the spring before his senior year. Although talk back then indicated the relationship was strained.
After her disappearance the tales grew more sordid. Chelsea cheated on Adam while he was away at college, Chelsea dabbled in drugs, Chelsea led a secret life that she kept well hidden from her fiancé. One thing for certain, separating the truths from the fabrications wasn’t going to be easy.
A fact that was not in dispute was that Adam and Chelsea had been planning on building a home in Harbourtown. But after she went missing, Adam moved out to Fade Island, where he spent a great deal of time traveling for work but otherwise kept to himself.
Now it made sense. Adam owned the island. Why not move out here to get away from the ugly accusations flying around? Focus on work instead of a missing woman. And, according to the financial magazines, Adam had poured every ounce of energy into his company after his fiancée’s disappearance. In return his company grew exponentially, so much so that he was able to buy his own corporate jet and obtain a private pilot’s license in his spare time. I imagined that made all that traveling that much easier.
But in all my research, I’d found nothing disclosing Adam Ward’s apparently vast real estate holdings. Well, now I knew who was behind the limited liability company, who the person was who had wished to remain anonymous.
Ami appeared to be pleased she had shocked me into silence. “Impressive, right?” she said smugly. “Are you sure you’re still not interested?”
I refrained from answering her ridiculous question, because I didn’t want her to know the truth. Of course I was interested. But she didn’t need to know that.
I reminded her that we had to be at the dock soon to catch the ferry back to Cove Beach before dark. I was dreading having to deal with the ill-tempered Jennifer again, so as Ami and I approached the dock, I was pleasantly surprised when I saw there was a guy at the helm. Something struck me as familiar as I scanned over his neatly trimmed red hair and muscular build.
Leaning toward Ami, I whispered, “Is that…?”
Before I finished my question, the man turned, and I instantly recognized my one-time friend J.T. O’Brien. He reached out to help me onto the ferry, smiling, and I returned his infectious grin. “Well, if it isn’t Maddy Fitch gracing us with her presence. Welcome back.”
“Thanks, J.T.,” I replied, taking his outstretched hand.
Once I was on the ferry, though, I had to pry my hand away from his sweaty, too-tight grasp. J.T. shot me an indecipherable look. On the surface he was still the same friendly guy I’d once known, but there was a cold, hard glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there in the past. Confusion washed over me as I took a seat.
I watched as J.T. helped Ami onto the ferry, but he was nothing but careful and gentle with her. In that singular moment, he was exactly the same as he’d always been. Had I imagined his disdain? It’s been a long day; maybe I’m reading too much into it.
On the way back to Cove Beach, J.T. attempted to make conversation as he piloted the ferry. He asked things like: What was it like being a best-selling novelist? Like anything, there were good and bad points. Did I ever miss Maine? Not really, but I missed my dad. And did I have a boyfriend? No, not anymore.
Following the last response, he turned to me and smiled in what could only be described as a flirtatious manner. His behavior was perplexing, as we’d never been more than just friends. He proceeded to wink lazily, and I quickly averted my eyes—but not before catching the flash of anger that crossed his expression. He turned away and was silent for the rest of the ferry ride back. Shaken, I glanced over at Ami to see if she’d caught any of this bizarre exchange, but she’d dozed off.
Dusk was upon us, blue-white flashes of lightning illuminating the sky directly above Fade Island. The only sounds were the hum of the ferry motor and the sloshing of the choppy waves all around us. Damp and cold, I questioned just what in the hell I was getting myself into. In need of some kind of comfort, I leaned into Ami, like old times, and closed my eyes. But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d stepped into the pages of one of my own novels…and that I was quickly becoming the doomed heroine.
The next day my dad helped me pack the clothes I’d brought from Los Angeles. He then followed me out to Cove Beach. Always one to think of everything, he’d planned ahead and rented out one of the garages located next to the ferry dock. “You’ll still need your car for travel over here on the mainland,” he reminded me. “This way it’ll be close.”
One thing I was especially curious about since yesterday evening was why J.T. had been piloting our return ferry. I was under the impression Jennifer and J.T.’s divorce had been less than amicable. Why would he still be involved with the Westons’ business?
To my surprise, my dad informed me that J.T. actually owned half of the ferry service operation, a condition of the divorce settlement. Maybe that was part of the reason why Jennifer was so unpleasant? It couldn’t be easy having to work every day with a man you loved who didn’t love you in return.
I may have felt a little bad for her, but I was still less than thrilled when I saw she was going to be transporting me and my father over to the island. Around the mayor, however, her demeanor was vastly different. She made small talk with my dad and even offered me a hand, albeit reluctantly, off the ferry upon reaching the dock at Fade Island.
Turning up my nose, I made a point to stare straight ahead, ignore her outstretched hand, and disembark without her assistance.
The black sedan from yesterday was parked at the dock, and as promised Ami had left it unlocked, the keys under the driver’s side floor mat. My father and I loaded my several bags and suitcases into the trunk. Our load included a big crate of bottled water and nonperishable food (mainly lots of energy bars) that my father had insisted I bring to hold me over until I had time to figure out the grocery-ordering system. I thought it unnecessary, since Ami had left detailed instructions back at the cottage, but I kept quiet. It was kind of adorable that he acted like I was moving onto a deserted island. Fade Island was isolated, but it wasn’t like it lacked civilization.
After we were buckled in, I drove up the steep grade and made the left onto Main Street. We passed the tiny enclave of businesses, as well as the two olive-green bungalows, and then traveled the paved road that snaked its way along the lushness of the west side of the island. I imagined from above it looked like a snake winding through the grass.
Unlike the day before, today the sun was shining brightly and everything glowed in the afternoon light. Bright sunlight streamed through the foliage—just beginning to change from green to gold, orange, plum—and created a kaleidoscope of light on the road. Through the breaks in the trees, the blue ocean sparkled, a jewel off in the distance.
When we reached the last cottage, my dad helped carry everything into what was to be my home for at least the next three months—or however long it took to gather the necessary research to write my next novel. Fade Island was going to be the perfect location to conduct my own little investigation. It was quiet and private. And one of the main players, if not the main player in the Harbour Falls Mystery, lived less than one mile north of my new residence. The logistics were perfect.
After settling in, I walked into the living room. My father stood quietly, intently studying one of the impressi
onist-style paintings adorning the wall. The play of light coming through the window accentuated his salt-and-pepper hair, and it saddened me to see there was more salt than pepper. My dad stayed fit, but he was getting older. It scared me because he was all I had. My mother had passed away when I was a very young girl, and my only sibling, a much older brother, had left for college not long after. Over the years he visited occasionally, but he had his own new life in Chicago. So, for a long time, it had just been my dad and me.
I didn’t want to spend my first day on the island being maudlin, so I plopped down on the sofa and flipped up the cap on one of the bottled waters we’d brought from home. My father wasn’t that interested in art, so I asked, “Dad, is there something on your mind?”
“I’m just worried.” He sighed, making his way to the sofa. I scooted over, and he sat down next to me. “Just don’t get into any trouble out here, OK? Are you sure you want to start poking around in a case that’s been cold for more than four years?”
We’d been over this topic at least a dozen times since I’d been back. He knew I wanted my next novel to be based on the Harbour Falls Mystery. But he certainly had his misgivings. Not that I could blame him.
“I have to, Dad,” I tried to explain. “I need to know what really happened so I can write my book.” My dad looked away, and I added, “Hey, look on the bright side, maybe I’ll end up solving it.”
“Maddy.” His voice sounded chastising but in a half-hearted way. “Just get what you need for your research. Forget about solving this thing.” His eyes met mine. “And remember, I’ll do anything I can to help.”
“Were you able to get a copy of the case files?” I asked in a whisper.
I hated to push the issue, but I’d been secretly hoping he could pull a few strings and obtain a copy of the official documents pertaining to the Chelsea Hannigan disappearance. The files would give me a starting point, an insight into things that hadn’t been revealed to the public. Anything related to the case had been sealed to preserve the integrity of the investigation, making it nearly impossible for an individual without some kind of political pull to get his hands on those files.
My father, attempting to sound stern once again but failing, said, “Madeleine, I’m not kidding about you staying out of trouble. There are people here who aren’t going to take kindly to you asking questions about something most would rather forget.”
Recalling Ami’s words of warning, I conceded, “You’re right. I’ll watch my step.” It was looking like I’d have to forge forward without the case files. I picked up one of the throw pillows on the sofa and rolled a loose string between my fingers. I’d make do.
“Look,” my dad began. “I’ve thought about it a lot. You should be armed with some kind of background on this case. The fewer chains you have to rattle, the better.” I stopped picking at the loose string and looked up expectantly.
My dad harrumphed and said, “Why don’t you take a look inside the zippered compartment there in the front of that suitcase?” He gestured to a bag we’d not unpacked.
I reached over, unzipped the front pocket, and pulled out a thick folder stuffed with pages and pages of official-looking documents. A big “Classified” sticker was affixed to the front. “The case files,” I murmured.
“They’re just copies, but keep them in a safe place, Maddy,” he warned. “By safe I mean hidden.”
I placed the folder on the coffee table and threw my arms around my father. “Thank you, Dad. These are going to help so much. And everything will be fine, you’ll see.”
My dad tightened his arms around me. Guilt tugged at my conscience as I sensed the tension in his hold. “I love you, sweetheart. I just pray you know what you’re doing.”
I hoped so too, but I didn’t say it out loud. Instead I said, “I love you, Dad,” and clung to the one person I could always count on.
Chapter 3
After I drove my dad back to the dock—and watched the ferry disappear in the distance—a feeling of loneliness washed over me. I drove down Main Street and slowed at the café storefront. Should I go in? A woman with blonde hair flowing down her back was seated at a table on the other side of the picture window in front. She glanced up as I drove the Lexus by at a snail’s pace, and a look of recognition crossed her face. I was certain the blonde woman was Helena, but I wasn’t sure if it was me—or the car—that she recognized, so I drove on.
Even though it was fast approaching late afternoon, the air remained warm, and the island was still bathed in sunshine. My loneliness was rapidly turning to restlessness, so I hit the gas and headed back to the cottage. The surrounding landscape went by in a blur, until, at last, I reached my new home and eased into the driveway.
After dropping the car keys into a wicker bowl on the coffee table, I paced around the living room, undecided as to what I felt like doing next. I kicked off my flats and picked up the thick case file folder from the coffee table, but I was feeling much too agitated to delve into its contents. Instead I looked around the room for a good place to hide the folder.
Bookcases, packed tight with numerous volumes of hardcover books, covered most of one wall of the room. I tucked the folder between two heavy tomes and stood back.
Perfect! The folder was indistinguishable mixed in among the books. Satisfied with the hiding spot I’d chosen, I went upstairs and slipped out of the slacks and blouse I was wearing, and then stepped into a cedar closet that was big enough to serve as a small guest room.
Thankful my dad had helped me unpack some clothing before leaving, I grabbed a white cotton tank top and a pair of navy yoga pants from one of the shelves. I slipped the clothes on and then proceeded to rummage through a still-packed satchel. I mouthed a victorious “yes” when I finally located a pair of running shoes near the bottom. A hair tie had somehow ended up in one of the shoes, so I grabbed it, too, and secured my hair into a high ponytail.
I hurried back down the stairs, locked up, and went out the back door. The small lawn in the back, perched high above the sea, offered a sweeping view of the ocean below. It was magnificent, if not a little daunting when nearing the edge. Several maple saplings lined the south end of the yard, their fiery red, orange, and yellow leaves made more vivid by a palette of violet hues in the early evening sky.
I turned toward the north end of the lawn where the forest trees were no less vibrant—but much taller and imposing—than their younger counterparts across the property. There was a break in the tree line where a dirt path winded its way through the forest. It appeared to head north along the high cliffs above the sea.
I rocked back and forth on my heels, contemplating my next move. No time like the present for a little exploring, right?
I glanced back at the cottage, tucked my house key into a small pocket in my pants, and then started to jog along the path. I considered going back to grab my IPod but quickly squashed the idea. As I headed deeper and deeper into the woods, the sounds of birds chirping, the crashing of the waves on the rocks below, and my own footfalls lulled me into a sense of peacefulness. A sort of zone. Soon I completely lost track of time.
Darkness crept in, the birds silenced. The trees closed in on me like a crowd closing in on a guilty party. Low-hanging branches scraped at my bare arms, making me cry out. My pulse raced as my dad’s words echoed in my mind: Just don’t get into any trouble out here, OK?
Yeah, that was going well. Just as panic began to set in, I spotted an end to the trail. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sprinted ahead to escape the blackness of the forest. Maybe I’ll come out on the main road, I thought.
But that was asking too much. The trail dumped me out onto a luxurious, meticulously manicured piece of property that very obviously belonged to Adam Ward. And here I was, the newest resident on the island—his island—trespassing on his private property. Not exactly subtle.
A huge wood and stone contemporary home, with a low-pitched roof and endless walls of windows, stood before me. The house was nestled in t
he forest, but the surrounding trees were not nearly as dense as the ones I’d just traveled through. A few lights were on inside, and a black Porsche was parked outside the front entrance. Shit, that means he’s most likely home. This is definitely bad.
The driveway curved off into another portion of the woods. I was sure it led to the main road, but I had no way of knowing how far I’d have to travel to reach it. The idea of getting caught traipsing down Adam’s driveway was appalling. But so was the thought of going back into the heart of the forest. To make matters worse, the air had grown chilly now that the sun was down. I wrapped my arms around myself and bounced up and down on my toes to keep warm. I knew I couldn’t stand here forever staring at Adam’s house—like some kind of a crazed stalker—so I decided to make a run for the driveway, crossing my fingers that I’d not get caught.
Just as I was about to step out of the darkness of the trees, the front door of the house opened, and the man I’d hoped to avoid—Adam Ward—walked out. I took a step back and stood frozen as I watched him descend the front steps, walking—no, striding— to his Porsche.
Tall and still lean but definitely more muscular. A man now, no longer a boy. Dressed in faded jeans and a pale blue button-down, untucked with the sleeves casually rolled up his forearms, he made his way to his car. The soft lights emanating from his home illuminated his slightly tousled raven hair, but his face remained shadowed. He retrieved a briefcase from the passenger side of the car, and then he straightened, the light hitting him in just the right way. Oh my. My memory had not done him justice, he was much…hotter. Still as gorgeous as ever with the same strong jaw, aquiline nose, full lips, but there was something more. Something indefinable, something feral that called to my basest instincts like a siren song.
