by Amy Waeschle
Would they fire Bruce for helping her? Had her unrelenting stubbornness ruined everything?
Yet she knew there was no way she would have acted differently. She even wondered if leaving the plastic evidence sleeve behind had been subconsciously intentional. If Bruce hadn’t found it, and she had met Preston Ford alone…would she still be alive? Would Quinn?
She had imagined Quinn’s body being thrown overboard and swept off with the ebbing tide a hundred times. If the sharks didn’t find him, the current would push him out to sea, never to be found. Cassidy would live a life never knowing what had become of him. She shuddered.
Quinn shared his version of the rescue by the Hostage Rescue Team, but he said it all happened so fast that most of it was a blur. He had been in a cabin below deck when he heard gunshots fired. Moments later he was being freed by an agent named Marks who explained that there was a bomb and they had seconds to get over the side.
“I didn’t have time to be scared,” Quinn had said. “One minute I was running and the next I was in the water.”
Special Agent Harris stepped into the interview room, dressed in the same white shirt and blue skirt suit as earlier. Was it really the same day?
She settled into the chair opposite Cassidy. “I recognize the extreme circumstances this situation put you in,” she began. “But I can’t condone your choices.”
Cassidy stiffened.
“You should have told us they had Quinn.”
Cassidy held her tongue. They had been through this already and the agents had not been pleased with Cassidy’s lack of regret.
“I was able to keep them from drawing up charges,” she said. “But there will be a fine.”
Even though Cassidy would have taken whatever consequences they threw at her, the idea that she would not have to endure a prison cell came as a relief.
“You’ll pay for any damages to the boat you stole as well.”
Cassidy nodded. “Of course.”
Special Agent Harris stood. “We’re still monitoring the situation, so you’ll have a security detail for the time being.”
“Oh,” Cassidy said, imagining walking to Johnson Hall with a bodyguard while students gawked at her. “For how long?”
“Until we deem it’s safe for you and Quinn.”
“What about Bruce? Is he going to lose his job?”
A flicker of warmth passed through her eyes. “No, but he’s on admin leave until further notice.”
Cassidy sucked in a breath. “How bad is that?”
“It’s standard operating procedure anytime a federal agent discharges his or her weapon.”
“He won’t lose his job?”
Special Agent Harris straightened, and the stern gaze was back. “Not likely. He acted in what he believed was the best interest of the situation. But he should have known better than to let you try to make that trade.”
“I didn’t give him a choice,” Cassidy said. “If anyone else had gone in there, Ford would have killed Quinn.”
Special Agent Harris’ thin mouth curved into a frown. “That’s where we’ll have to disagree.”
“So, where does the case go from here?” Cassidy asked, unable to stop the question from looping through her mind. “If Preston Ford is really dead, who blew up the boat?”
Special Agent Harris seemed to think this over for a moment. “There could be someone above Mr. Ford, and as you observed, some sector of the police force has been compromised.” She tilted her head. “I have long suspected that the police have an informant. Now we have confirmation.”
Cassidy remembered Preston Ford’s words: Your father was a good man, and he was also an excellent businessman. Did the FBI suspect her father was dirty, too? She bit back the anguish rising inside her mind, but she knew it was only a matter of time before she would need to face the possibilities. Was her father involved in Preston Ford’s horrific misuse of the clinics? Did her father, the person who taught her integrity and determination, have a hidden side?
“What about Pete’s murder?” she asked.
“We’re still looking into that.”
Cassidy frowned. “Do you think Preston Ford had him killed?”
Special Agent Harris tilted her head, as if debating what to say. “No,” she replied.
“But Mr. Ford told me he was worried about Brad Sawyer. He basically admitted that he’d had him killed.”
Special Agent Harris paused, looking pensive. “Possibly. Or he just may have wanted you to think that.”
“Do you think we’ll ever find out who killed Pete?” she asked as her chest swelled with a painful ache.
“I hope so.”
Cassidy realized that they had come to an end of the information sharing. She supposed she should be grateful for what Special Agent Harris had been willing to divulge, but it still stung that she was being shut out.
“So, you’re not done with this case?”
“Not by a long shot. The death of Preston Ford and what we’ve accomplished since turning Bo has put a major dent in their operations, but we are far from finished.”
Cassidy knew she would never feel completely safe until they were all behind bars.
“Hopefully, we can capitalize on the new information you’ve provided—and this unexpected vulnerability—and act fast.” Her blue eyes hardened. “Bring them down once and for all.”
Cassidy watched her go, then leaned back and stared at the ceiling tiles. She replayed her conversation, storing away the bits she needed to re-examine later, discarding what she could let go of.
The door popped open and Bruce’s smiling face peered inside. “Ready to get out of here?”
Cassidy jumped to her feet. “Please, yes.”
Bruce met her halfway, a question in his eyes. Tentatively, she reached for him, and he wrapped her in a soft embrace.
“Where can I take you? Are you hungry? Tired?”
Cassidy knew exactly where she wanted to go. “None of the above,” she said, smiling to herself. “Are you up for an adventure?”
Thirty-One
After checking on Quinn, who threw the couch pillows at her to prove that he was just fine, Cassidy took Bruce to the car dealership and picked up her new truck.
“Very nice,” Bruce said as he settled into the passenger seat. The new car smell reached right into Cassidy’s bones. Everything was clean and shiny. She imagined their many future adventures and made a silent pledge not to neglect her.
“Thanks,” she said, glancing at him. He looked so at home that for an instant, she stopped picturing Pete.
He seemed to notice something had shifted in her and reached for her hand. The stitches didn’t hurt as much now. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” she said, letting the tug of sadness wash through her and fade away.
They drove up the coast with the evening breeze whisking through the cab to the Golden Gate Bridge. Far below them, the giant swells rolled and surged, cresting in long, perfect lines at Deadman’s Point then continuing under the bridge to break at Fort Point.
“We should be surfing today,” he said, gazing down.
“I think I’m done with Fort Point,” she said.
He frowned. “Because of Bo?”
She shrugged. “It’s one of those places that I’ve always wanted to surf, but now that I have, I don’t know, I’d rather surf O.B. Or Seaside.”
“That’s Oregon, right?”
She nodded.
“I’d like to try that place out sometime.”
Cassidy eyed him, thinking of Seaside Point’s cold water, unfriendly locals, and the difficult logistics of getting there. “It’s not that special.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I get to be the judge of that.”
They passed the halfway point of the bridge. She remembered Bruce showing her the high fence above Fort Point that prevented jumpers from landing on surfers in the lineup. Did that mean that people jumped from this point? She let her gaze drift down for a
split second, unable to imagine leaping into the abyss, the harsh wind on her face, the terrifying drop, and the cold, hard water waiting at the end.
Pete’s death had hurt her so deeply, bringing up all of her past unprocessed grief, compounding it into an impenetrable wall. There had been times when she had sympathized with those who chose such a path, but now, those moments felt diffuse and distant, almost like they happened in another lifetime.
“No sign of the wreck,” Bruce said, snapping her from her thoughts.
She looked to the west, where the deep, blue water shimmered in contrast to the rising, black cliffs. “The news never did reveal anything.”
“There was a ten-second report on one of the channels about a boat fire, but that was it.”
The fact that so much had been hidden about that night tormented her, but part of her was secretly relieved. She wouldn’t have to face the media.
Meanwhile, she could carry on her own investigation.
In the next moment, the bridge connected to the other side and the restless ocean disappeared from view.
“What are you going to do with your time off, Special Agent Keolani?” she asked, refocusing on the drive.
A pained look crossed over his face.
“Agent Harris made it sound like routine. Are you worried?”
“A little,” he said. She could tell that the uncertainty would weigh on him.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I made my choice. I was far more worried about you than my job.”
“But you love your job,” she said, surprised.
“Yeah, I do,” he said, nodding.
Cassidy thought about this for a moment. “Are you mad?”
He turned to her, looking pensive. “I was upset that you didn’t tell me, but I understand.” He smiled thoughtfully. “I respect how difficult that was for you.”
Cassidy’s stomach jiggled uneasily.
Bruce steered the conversation to other topics, and soon Cassidy was coasting her new truck to a stop at the trailhead. Her excitement and the freedom of being away from everything bubbled up inside her and she couldn’t hold back her grin. She stepped into the strong breeze, letting the thick, salty air fill her lungs and whip her hair past her face. While she quickly secured her unruly curls in a braid, Bruce shut his door and stretched, then followed her wordlessly to the path cutting through the dried field grass. They hiked in silence, the path turning from red soil to sand and the cries of the gulls growing louder with each step. The path descended through grass-covered dunes until they broke out to the beach, the sound of the heavy surf crowding out all other sound.
“Wow,” Bruce said, “gorgeous. I’ve never been to this one before.”
In each direction stretched miles of empty, caramel-colored sand.
“This one’s usually not as busy,” she said. If they’d gone to Stinson or Drake’s Beach, they would be dodging bodies left and right. Here, even on a Saturday, she noticed only a handful of other visitors dotting the shore.
In the distance, massive lines of swell pounded shut, creating a roar and sending white foam into the air. Beyond, the lowering sun hid behind a thin band of fluffy white clouds, casting a soft glow. Eager to make use of their remaining daylight, she kicked off her flip flops and walked north, the cold sand scrunching through her toes.
Bruce fell in next to her, his palm sliding into hers. A tingle passed through her body, and she squeezed his hand. They walked in silence for a long time, the movement and solitude having the desired effect on her turbulent thoughts. The light softened further, creating long, diffuse shadows on the sand and lighting the tops of the broken waves with a buttery glow.
“So, is your middle name Lynn?” he asked softly.
Cassidy forced a long breath from her lungs. “I had no idea he had a boat, or that he even knew Preston Ford.”
He shook his head. “That wasn’t an accusation, Cassidy.”
“Sorry,” she said as the fight drained out of her. “Yes, that’s my middle name.”
“How did you know?” he asked.
“About the boat? Just a guess, really.”
“Well, it was a good one.”
“I can’t believe my father would be involved in any of this.”
“Did Preston Ford lead you to believe he was?”
Cassidy walked in silence for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “He said my dad was a good man, but also an excellent businessman.”
“That could mean a lot of things.”
“I guess.” Cassidy knew she wouldn’t rest until she proved to herself that her father was innocent, that his intentions were pure. Maybe after her father’s death, Preston Ford was able to manipulate the clinics to serve his goal. If so, there were likely people inside the nonprofit or the clinics who knew. First, she would approach Pamela, then convince Rodney to dig as deep as he could. She knew the FBI would be working on it from their angle, but she needed to come to her own conclusions.
“When did he pass away?” Bruce asked, pulling her from her plans.
“Hmm, fifteen, sixteen years now?” Cassidy said, calculating the numbers in her mind. “I was seventeen.”
“That must have been rough.”
Cassidy chose not to answer this and squeezed his hand instead.
They were nearing a headwall in the cliff face, its rusty-red rock bare from exposure. “Quinn said he’d introduce me to his girlfriend.”
A wave thundered shut in the distance, echoing off the tall cliff walls. “How do you feel about that?” he asked with a sideways glance.
“Nervous, I guess.” She bent over to inspect a shiny green pebble. “Is that weird?”
His kind gaze washed over her. “Right now, I can imagine everything feels a little weird.”
Cassidy ignored the flurry of emotion unsettling her insides. “Would you come with me?” The words came out tight. He smiled anyway, a bright, joyful smile that sent a shock wave of energy through her.
“Yes,” he said. “But only if you stop looking so worried.”
She sighed to quell the opposing thoughts zipping through her. “I’m just…I’m not good at this.”
“Not good at what?”
“I don’t know…whatever it is that we’re doing.”
“How about if I kiss you right now. Would that help?”
Her heart shot straight into her throat.
Bruce stepped closer, and before she had time to think or react—to run away or stop him—he lowered his lips to hers. A pulse of energy tingled up her spine. His kiss was so tender. Bruce caressed the side of her face, brushing back the hairs torn loose by the wind. His warmth spread through her and she kissed him back gently, trying to understand the new feelings tearing loose inside her mind.
When the kiss ended, she gulped a shaky breath. Bruce smiled, his brown eyes dancing in the low light.
“What happens now?” she asked.
He gave her a bemused smirk. “You mean right now?” He stepped close and kissed her again. This time, she felt something heavy shift inside her, making room for a sensation of lightness, of joy, but chasing it was a batch of nerves, and she pulled away.
She remembered what Quinn had said and let her forehead fall against his. “I’m scared.”
He pulled her into a soft embrace. “Me, too.”
Cassidy knew she could throw a mountain of what-ifs at him, but refused to give in to them now. One day at a time, she told herself.
Or maybe one kiss at a time, she thought, hiding the grin that threatened to give her away.
Four days later, she woke from a snooze against her truck’s passenger window as Bruce pulled off the interstate just north of Seattle.
Immediately energized at the familiar scenery, she rolled down her window, letting in the warm city air. They passed the grocery store, the bookstore, the rows and rows of cheap restaurants, and turned onto her quiet street. It was as if time had stood still since she had left, her neighbors engaged in the same acti
vities: mowing a lawn, lounging on porches, a family playing a game of frisbee. From the park down the street, she could hear children playing.
Bruce pulled into her driveway and shut off the engine. Cassidy peeled herself from the seat and rolled out of the cab. Bruce grabbed their bags and followed her to the door.
Inside, her stuffy house smelled of cardboard and old pipes. Within minutes, she had the windows open, then met Bruce in the kitchen. He had tossed his bag on the couch and was unloading the bag of groceries. The sight of him in the place where Pete’s ghost dwelled startled her, and she had to take several deep breaths to calm her racing heart.
“You okay?” he asked, catching her gaze.
Cassidy nodded.
“I’m planning to sleep in that guest room.”
A surge of emotion rose up through her, inch by painful inch. “Oh.”
“Or…I don’t have to stay at all.”
“No,” she said quickly. “Stay.”
Before leaving for the drive, they hadn’t talked about what would happen once they arrived at the house that held so many memories. She wasn’t sure how she would feel. She still wasn’t sure, but that he was willing to let her figure it out made it okay.
He pulled her into an embrace.
“Careful, I’m sure I don’t smell very good right now,” she warned.
“Then why don’t you get in the shower and I’ll get dinner going.”
“You’re going to cook for me?” she asked as another confusing jolt of emotion shot through her.
“I plan to do a lot of things for you,” he said, then kissed her softly. “When you’re ready,” he added when he saw the look on her face.
It was nearing midnight when they finally left the picnic table. They washed and dried the dishes, their hands brushing in the darkness, that same energy zipping between them. Saying goodnight was harder than she wanted it to be, but she managed, helping him set up the futon and making sure he had pillows and blankets. From the guest room doorway, she watched him move about the house, first checking that the front door was deadbolted, then securing all the windows.