Gabe stands, walking over to where the boat’s tied to the dock, and begins untethering us. Bracing his palms on the wood, he pushes us off, and then we’re drifting out past the wake zone; I crank the engine as soon as we’re through, and head for the patch of sea I tossed traps down into a couple of days ago.
The sea air whips past, saltwater spraying as we drive forward, and Gabe pulls on a life jacket, leaning back on the bench.
“I’m not cheating on her, you know.”
“Good,” I half shout, keeping my eye on the horizon. “Otherwise, coming out here with me was a very bad idea.”
He smirks, nodding once, and then a frown takes over. “Parenthood is just a lot more difficult than I ever expected it’d be. Daisy’s amazing, but me... I just feel like I’m shit.”
“You are,” I agree.
He opens his mouth to say more, but cuts off as we approach my buoys, indicating we’re at the trap spot. The boat idles as I drop the birds, the mechanical arms that stabilize us, and I move to the side, reaching for the line with a gaff hook.
“Look, we’ve been friends for almost twenty years, Gabe. I get it, but this is a no-feelings-allowed boat, so shut the fuck up with your moping and help me pull this pot up.”
Rolling his eyes, he pushes to his feet, kneeling with one knee on the bench. We wrap our hands around the rope and begin pulling; I toss the hook behind me and use one arm, adding the other when we meet resistance.
“I thought you used wire traps,” Gabe says, tossing me an annoyed look as he continues pulling.
“I do,” I say, shaking my head. “They’re never this heavy. It must have gotten caught on something.”
And even though I drop my net before my trap, collecting pollution and debris, the ocean’s constant state of kinetic energy means my ropes get tangled more often than not.
A single gull crosses over us, cawing as it passes, and sending a wave of unease through me. Probably nothing, but my father’s personal superstitions about fishing live rent-free in my brain, and the presence of a single, solitary bird while out on the water is never a good thing.
Swallowing, I gently nudge Monet out of the way and widen my legs, pulling until something pale flashes against the surface of the dark water. “Okay, there. I think we’re getting it,” I say, nodding as Gabe continues funneling the rope up.
It pools between our feet, frayed almost to the point of breaking, and I frown down at it for a beat, knowing these were brand-new lines. Whatever it’s gotten stuck in must’ve been sharp, or violent.
“What the fuck is that?”
Gabe locks his knees against the side of the boat, hands freezing mid-pull. I lean forward, eyes widening as a bloated hand pops out of the water, bobbing with the waves. My stomach knots, tension sewing my throat shut, and I continue yanking, my heart beating like a snare drum against my ribcage.
“Goddamnit,” I say, wincing when hair rises, attached to the length of an adult body, wrapped tight in the line like ivy. “Some dumb fuck probably swam out too far and got caught in the trap.”
Leaning over the edge of the boat, we start to bring the body up; it’s neither of our first times seeing a dead body.
We lift it over, dropping the woman onto her back on the platform. My eyes immediately find hers, wide and unseeing, frozen in time. I can’t help wondering what it was she saw last.
“Uh... Porter?” Gabe says, crouching down on his knees. He reaches down, pushing aside the woman’s torn, waterlogged blouse, revealing neat writing carved into her abdomen. Signasti fatum tuum. “I don’t... I don’t think this person drowned.”
Chapter 2
“And why do you feel that way?”
Sighing, I tap my fingers against the brown leather of Dr. Alabaster’s couch.
Being here makes me itch.
Honestly, any white-walled room with stale air and ticking clocks makes my insides churn and my nerves pull tight. In fact, other than meeting with Dr. Alabaster for a screening before I was promoted, I purposefully steered clear of anything even close to a psychiatrist.
I don’t need to see someone.
Therapists are for broken people.
And I’m not supposed to be broken.
But try telling that to my boss. Sarge specifically insists that I need to be here—to sort out my feelings—which is code for making sure I’m mentally stable enough to work in the field. And considering that I dragged my way out of four years of patrol duty, and had several fights with my overprotective parents in order to become a detective, a mental health hold is the last thing I want to happen.
I suck my lower lip into my mouth, before blowing out a breath and pasting a smile on my face. “Why do I feel what way? Like being here is a waste of time?”
Dr. Alabaster taps his overpriced black pen against his thin lips, his dark eyes scanning me from over the top of his round wire-rimmed glasses. “Sloane,” he sighs, leaning forward. The metal creak of the chair makes me wince, as if his judgment is raking down my middle. “This is just a precautionary measure. A way for you to talk out emotions so you can heal.”
“I’m fine.”
His chin tips down, eyes narrowing. “The Portland Dresser held you captive for forty-eight hours in an abandoned cabin.”
My stomach tightens, but I force a laugh. “Whoever came up with that nickname deserves to be jailed.” I shake my head, dark brown strands falling in my face from the movement. I lift a hand to tuck them behind my ear. “Besides, it was thirty-eight hours.”
He hums. “And what happened in those thirty-eight hours?”
“Nothing.” My eyes dart from his face to the argyle socks that match his blue and yellow tie. “Honestly, he was...”
Nice.
I bite down the word before it passes my lips, my gaze snagging on the notepad sitting in Dr. Alabaster’s lap. The last thing I need is for him to write down that I have Stockholm syndrome because I thought a serial killer was cordial.
“Listen. I understand you’re just doing your job. But I’m fine, Doc. Promise. Can’t we do something less depressing? Or is happiness against the rules in therapy?” My cheeks ache from how wide I stretch my grin, and my legs jump, nerves and the caffeine I guzzled before coming here making my body jittery.
The corner of his lips twitch. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“I’m trying to lighten the mood.”
He taps his pen on top of the paper. “I’m just doing my job here.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “And I was just doing mine.”
The fact that I have to come to these “sessions” in order to maintain said job is a thorn in my side. I don’t see them making Alex show up here and sit down to talk about his feelings.
Granted, he wasn’t the one who ended up on a psychopathic murderer’s hit list—but he is the one who found me. And he’s my partner, for God’s sake, so shouldn’t this be like a collaboration type of thing?
“Did he hold you in a basement?” Dr. Alabaster asks.
My breath catches in my lungs as the memory hits me.
It was stupid for me to go to the cabin alone. But it was supposed to be abandoned. We got an anonymous tip that one of the victims was seen there just before her disappearance, and I wanted to strike while the trail was still fresh.
I didn’t expect it to be a trap.
“He did,” I say slowly.
“How did that make you feel?”
Exhaling, I lean back, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I filter through my options. I know as sure as I know anything that if I push too hard against this, it won’t look good to the bureau. But there’s nothing I want to do less than allow Dr. Alabaster to peek inside my brain.
“It made me feel scared.”
It’s a lie. The majority of my time was spent in a pink silk gown, my hair being brushed, while Harold Holmes—aka “The Portland Dresser”—told me all the ways he was going to dress me up and make my corpse beautiful.
I
wasn’t scared. I was fascinated.
Something about a serial killer’s mind, the pure genius and methodology behind it, makes me want to dive into their heads and live there. It’s the reason I went into criminal justice in the first place. And to be honest, I’m not afraid of death. I’m afraid of forgetting how to live.
But admitting that out loud probably won’t be what gets me back out in the field.
“And how have you been dealing with things since?” Dr. Alabaster continues.
I shrug, chewing the inside of my lip. “Alright, I guess. My mom calls me every twenty minutes, and I’ve been relegated to desk duty, which is whatever… boring.”
“Any trouble sleeping?”
“Nope. Sleep like the dead.” I grin.
Dr. Alabaster doesn’t laugh.
“Tough crowd,” I mutter.
“Come on, Sloane. If you don’t take this seriously, then I can’t clear you.”
Panic clamps around my chest at the thought. “Okay, I’m sorry.” I pause, swallowing around the sudden tightness in my throat. “It was unsettling when it happened, but... this is a risky job. I know that, and I trusted Alex to find me. Which he did.” I blow out a breath. “Super quick, I might add.”
Too quick. I would have given anything for just a few more minutes to pick Harold’s brain, try to see inside his mind and figure out what it is that makes him tick.
“He said he liked my eyes.” The words fly out before I can stop them, but I don’t regret that they did. If I have to talk about the few hours I was held captive then I will, I’d rather do that than let him delve into the other areas of my psyche, to the deepest darkest parts where even I don’t go.
Dr. Alabaster nods. “That’s not terribly surprising. Your features are very similar to his other victims.”
I snort out a laugh because he’s explaining the case like it wasn’t mine to solve. As if I wasn’t the one who figured out the pattern of his kills. How they were all women with dark hair and pretty eyes.
Blue eyes, to be exact. Ones that were torn from their sockets when the bodies started washing up on the shore. I saw them sitting in jars on the countertop while he combed through my hair.
A shiver skates through me.
Buzzing reverberates through the room, and Dr. Alabaster sighs, reaching over and tapping the screen of his phone. I perk up, happy that I made it through this farce of an evaluation. “Does that mean we’re done?”
He stares at me for a long moment. “Yes, we’re done, Sloane. I’ll let Sarge know that everything is in order.”
Hopping up, I run a hand over my blouse. “Super. Thanks, Doc.”
I go to move past him, relief flowing through my veins. It isn’t until I’m at the door that his voice stops me. “But I’m going to suggest you continue to speak to someone, just as a precaution.”
My stomach cramps. “Doc, no. They won’t put me on any cases if you do that. Please, I’m begging you. I cannot sit behind a desk for another six months. I will literally cease to exist.” I point a finger at him. “Do you really want that on your conscience?”
His jaw tenses, the muscle working back and forth as my future lies in his hands. Finally, he nods. “Okay.”
I beam at him, rushing over and pulling him in a hug. His body stiffens in his chair, his arm coming up to pat me on the back.
“Thank you. You won’t regret it.” I pull back, winking. “I’m fine.”
My mind snaps like a rubber band, awareness dripping down my insides, making me gasp as I shoot up in bed. My heart beats through the thin fabric of my oversized tee, and I grip at my chest, trying to steady my breathing.
Another nightmare.
It’s the same thing every time. I’m on a cliff, the chill seeping into my skin as I run toward the edge, my breath materializing in front of me—ice-cold puffs of panic freezing in the air. And then I fall.
A throb strikes through my brain as I try to remember the rest, but a fog descends, making the images of my dream muddy and unclear. Sighing, I reach over to my nightstand, flipping on the lamp and blindly reaching for the journal I keep at my bedside. It doesn’t take long to jot down the notes from what I do remember, and even though I don’t have a clear recollection, I know the feeling will haunt me for the rest of the night.
It always does.
I glance at the clock, the bright red numbers searing into my tired eyes.
Three a.m.
Stretching, I toss off the comforter and walk to my closet, grabbing an old USPM sweatshirt—my alma mater—and then heading to the front door, grabbing the keys to my Honda.
This has been my routine for the past three weeks. Ever since the nightmares started. Again. I used to get them frequently as a kid. The same one every time.
My mom would stuff me full of melatonin and chamomile tea, trying to calm me down enough for a dreamless sleep, but it never worked. Until one day, they just stopped.
It’s chilly outside, the crunch of leaves under my boots loud as I rush to my car, turning it on and blasting the heat, holding my chilled hands in front of the vents. Once I can feel my fingers, I put it in reverse, pulling out of my apartment, driving past the lit-up jack-o’-lanterns that line the patio stoops, and turn onto the main road.
I don’t even have to think about where I’m going.
Skelm Island.
I’ve never actually been there—you have to take a ferry to get to the town—but for the past few weeks I’ve been making my way to the slip, sitting in the empty parking lot and zoning out until the sun breaks across the horizon, sparkling across the misty water.
For some reason, it’s the only place that calms my brain and lets me just be; to the point where I lose time.
Tonight is no exception.
I’m not sure how long passes, it could be minutes or it could be hours, but when I snap back to reality, I’ve somehow ended up outside of my car, leaning against the railing at the edge of the dock. Unease flows through me at the missing chunk of time.
My eyes glance around, thick fog rolling across the ground. Goose bumps sprout across my arms, and I twist, staring out at the rocky island, wondering what it is that keeps bringing me back.
Movement to the side catches my eye, and I squint, leaning forward. A boat. So tiny I can barely make it out, but it’s there all the same, floating past a lighthouse that sits like a darkened tower on the edge of a cliff.
The sound of voices trickle through the air, making my spine stiffen as I spin around, my heart crashing against my chest as if I’m doing something wrong.
I hurry back to my car, not even waiting for the heat this time as I reverse from the lot, making the hour-long trek to my apartment in downtown Portland.
My phone vibrates as soon as I’m at my front door, and I pull it from my hoodie pocket along with my house key, Alex flashing across the screen.
“Dude, it’s seven a.m.,” I whine as I answer.
He laughs, a smooth, boisterous chuckle that spreads through my chest like a warm blanket, his familiarity making me feel content for the first time all morning. “Carina.” The nickname slides through the phone. “Cut the shit and get in here. Sarge has a fresh case, he wants us on it.”
My back straightens, my key faltering as I push it into the lock. “Really?”
“Mmhm,” Alex hums. “And you’re gonna want it.”
I smile, energy zapping through my insides, the thrill of a new case making the drowsiness fade away. Pushing the front door open, I walk inside, the heat of my apartment coasting across my face, my cheeks burning from the temperature change. “Of course I want it,” I scoff. “What do you know?”
“You ever been to Skelm Island?”
Chapter 3
Alta May Davis.
Like most Skelm Island citizens, she’d been a lifelong resident. Worked at the high school alongside my mother until her retirement and had been settling nicely into a more sedentary lifestyle of bird-watching and sunrise yoga before her death.
> Unlike my mother, who seems incapable of slowing down, especially since the loss of my father some months back.
Almost as if she’s afraid of sadness worming in if she stays too still.
My fingers wrap tightly around the Styrofoam cup that was shoved into my hands moments ago, the cream-colored coffee inside rejuvenating my nerve endings. Even if I won’t drink the shit, at least it’s doing something while I’m stuck at the station.
It’s been hours since Gabe called in the body, and just as long since the coroner brought her in for identification. I’ve been tucked in a corner of the bullpen since our arrival, waiting to be sent home.
Annoyed that I haven’t been.
The Skelm Island PD isn’t exactly known for their competency—as if any squad in this country is. Throw in a severe lack of funding and common sense, and you’ve got our local law enforcement, who have a bad rap for backlogged cases and incorrect charges.
As the minute hand on the wall clock ticks by, though, I’m trying my best not to focus on the sticky floors and idle chatter around me, and instead find myself scouring my brain for my last interaction with Alta.
Something to humanize her in my mind, erasing the practiced ambivalence to her corpse. But I keep coming up empty.
Setting my cup on my knee to keep from bouncing it in irritation, I pinch my eyes shut and slump down in my blue plastic chair, leaning my head against the concrete wall behind me.
“Lincoln Porter found her?” a voice off to my side hisses. “The SEAL?”
I don’t even bother looking, aware that every cop in the precinct has at least one eye on me right now, curiosity evidently keeping them from effectively doing their job.
God, this place is a waste of space.
“Ex-SEAL,” someone else replies, and now I do peek, noting the scrawny, short-haired officer perched on a desk a few yards away, arms crossed over his chest as he talks to a female colleague. “That’s what the captain said. She got trapped in his fishing net, and when he went to pull it up, the bottom fell out because of the deadweight.”
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 2