2. Carrie
CARRIE
The cove had taken on that late-afternoon stillness that always felt like a held breath before a confession.
The sun hung lower now, its heat stretched thin across the water like melting butter, casting long fingers of light between the mangroves that edged the shoreline.
The sky had transformed into a painter's palette—streaks of rose and amber bleeding into deepening blue, with wisps of cloud tinged gold at their edges.
Carrie's running shoes crunched lightly against the packed sand of the path as she jogged, each footfall releasing the scent of salt and sun-baked seaweed.
Her pace was steady as a metronome, her breath measured in the rhythm she'd perfected over decades of running away from, or sometimes toward, her troubles.
Luna kept close, the Dalmatian's spotted coat gleaming like polished marble against the golden sand.
She darted ahead with the joyful abandon only dogs possess, then circled back with ears perked and tongue lolling, her paws leaving a chaotic constellation of prints in the damp sand.
A salt-tinged breeze ruffled the fur around her collar, carrying the distant cry of gulls.
For a moment, it almost felt like the world was calm—not just quiet, but genuinely at peace—the kind of tranquil respite Carrie had been desperately craving since she'd fled to Sunset Keys with her nightmares and half-healed wounds.
Her phone was zipped into the pocket of her running shorts, the occasional bump against her thigh a reminder of the world she was trying to outrun, though she hadn't checked it in an hour.
Earlier, Alisha had called to say she was taking Cody and Maggie to a movie and an early dinner at that seafood place with the paper tablecloths and crayons, so they would be in Key West for a little longer.
Carrie had tried to sound casual when she told her granddaughter to have fun, though she'd felt a hollow ache spread beneath her ribs when she hung up.
The house was suddenly too quiet around her.
The emptiness had left her restless, pacing from kitchen to living room like a caged animal, until finally she'd laced up her well-worn blue running shoes, grabbed the roll of lime-green doggie poop bags and Luna's weathered leather leash in case they came across another dog on the beach, then set out into the golden afternoon light.
Jogging had always been her outlet, the rhythm of her footfalls like a meditation bell clearing her mind.
On Nantucket, Carrie had run the same route along the harbor for years—past the weathered, gray-shingled cottages with their window boxes spilling with geraniums, around the marina where fishing boats bobbed like patient horses, and finally along the seawall, where salt spray misted her face.
Each stride had pounded stress into submission, each exhale had released another knot of tension.
But since the shooting, her jogs had been shorter, slower, the scar tissue pulling tight when she pushed too hard, a constant reminder of how close she'd come to death.
Today, though, she craved the burn in her calves, the sweat trickling between her shoulder blades, the sweet ache that would crowd out everything else.
She needed the distraction like a drowning woman needs air.
As Carrie’s trainers hit the sand, her thoughts circled back to Matt and the nightmare he'd stumbled into.
The clerk's words at the county office still rang in her ears: This property is still in probate under the Winters estate .
She wanted to dismiss it—this wasn't her case, wasn't her problem—yet the memory of Matt's face kept surfacing: tight, bewildered, that stubborn pride even as his world tilted sideways.
It sat heavy in her chest, this unwanted concern for a man she barely knew, a man who'd done nothing but disrupt her peace since she arrived.
Still, Carrie couldn't shake it, and that irritated her almost as much as the mystery itself.
Trevor's name tangled it even further. She had known Trevor Carlton since he and Lori had first met. He'd been the best man at her wedding, for goodness sake. She couldn’t think of a single time he’d ever let anyone down.
The man had seemed to be a saint with broad shoulders and a ready hand to lend to anyone.
Then the thought of Lori’s worry the months before he’d passed away hit her again.
Stop it, stop it, Carrie. She gave her head a physical shake.
She was doing exactly what she'd promised herself she wouldn't: letting suspicion poison everything.
Trevor had been family. Carrie shook her head again, a little more violently this time, forcing her stride longer, as if she could outrun the doubt itself.
"Just a clerical error," she muttered aloud, her voice barely audible over the soft rush of waves.
Luna's ears twitched, the only acknowledgment of her words.
"Nothing that can't be fixed with the right forms and a few signatures in the right places. That’s all.
No fraud or intentional criminal activity. "
But a voice deep inside, the same one that had saved her life three times on the force, screamed at her like a siren.
It is FRAUD. This was well thought-out and deliberate.
Her stomach clenched as if she'd swallowed broken glass.
She pounded her feet harder against the sand, trying to drown the voice with each punishing impact, but it only grew louder with every heartbeat.
The cove narrowed like a funnel, the shoreline curving toward a jumble of jagged limestone rocks where the tide curled and foamed in frothy white ribbons.
Luna suddenly froze mid-stride, her spotted coat bristling along her spine.
Her muscles tensed, looking as rigid as a steel cable.
The dog's ears flattened against her skull while her lips peeled back to reveal gleaming white teeth.
A low growl rumbled from deep in her throat—not her usual playful warning, but something primal and afraid.
“Luna?” Carrie slowed, instinct prickling along her skin.
In an instant, the dog exploded into motion, a black-and-white missile launching across the sand.
Luna's barks ripped through the air. Not playful warnings but desperate, throat-tearing sounds that sliced through Carrie's chest and sent adrenaline flooding her system.
Each savage bark hammered Carrie's pulse higher until her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out everything but primal alarm.
“Luna!” Carrie shouted, but the Dalmatian didn’t slow.
Carrie's gaze locked onto what Luna had found—a human form sprawled at the tide line, one arm flung outward like a broken doll's, fingers half-buried in wet sand.
Her heart slammed to a stop, then exploded into thundering beats. Ice flooded her veins, freezing her in place. The world contracted violently. Sound vanished, colors bleached away, until nothing existed but that wrong-angled body and the hungry waves lapping at its legs.
Training ripped through her paralysis. She lunged forward, muscles burning, lungs screaming. Sand erupted beneath her pounding feet as she sprinted, each footfall jarring up her spine.
Luna circled the body in frenzied orbits, her barks piercing the air like gunshots.
"BACK, LUNA!" The command tore from Carrie's throat, raw and savage. The dog retreated, trembling, hackles still raised.
Carrie crashed to her knees beside the figure.
A young woman. Her hands flew to the victim's throat, fingers pressing desperately for a pulse she already knew wouldn't be there.
The skin beneath her fingertips felt like cold candle wax.
Blue-tinged lips were parted slightly, as if caught mid-word.
Seawater had plastered dark hair across one cheek, the strands like black veins against bloodless skin.
“No pulse,” Carrie whispered, voice hoarse.
She leaned close, forcing herself to catalog what she saw. Early twenties. Dark hair plastered to one cheek. Slacks and a blouse, not beachwear. Sand clung to the fabric. Shoes still on—work flats, scuffed, soaked through. Her hands were limp, nails pale.
Carrie sat back, her knees digging into the sand. A weight pressed into her chest. This wasn’t just another case file. This was a body at her feet, on the very cove she had come to for peace.
She drew in a sharp breath and scanned the surroundings. The stretch of beach was empty, the rocks jagged like teeth against the tide.
Carrie’s gaze tracked upward, and there it was—the large house perched above the shoreline. White stucco, tall windows catching the sun, a familiar landmark.
Carrie knew it to be the Marshalls’ house.
Her hand went to her pocket, and Carrie yanked out her phone, thumb slamming the screen and her heart still. There were no signal bars. A curse slipped under her breath. Of course . Reception on the cove was patchy, but right now it felt like a betrayal.
Her eyes flicked back to the house. Only one option.
“Stay,” she told Luna, though the dog shadowed her as she rose. Carrie ran, her muscles screaming as she charged up the slope toward the bluff. Gravel bit into her soles. Carrie took the stairs two at a time until she reached the top and pounded her fist against the door.
It wasn’t too long before it opened with a creak.
Arno stood there, hair tousled, a crease across his cheek as though he’d just rolled off the couch. He blinked, yawning. “Ms. Ware?”
His confusion was almost comical, except her urgency burned away any humor.
“Do you have a phone with a signal?” Carrie snapped. “I need a phone. Now.”
Arno’s eyes widened at her tone. “Uh, yeah, sure. Come in.” He stepped back.