4. Carrie
CARRIE
The beach was still humming with voices, detectives’ radios crackling, and the churn of boots on wet sand.
Carrie stood with her arms folded across her chest, posture square, every muscle thrumming with the old instincts she thought she’d left in Nantucket.
A scene like this didn’t belong here. Not on a sleepy island, not in Lost Love Cove.
Her eyes flicked toward Matt and Paula. They lingered near the edge of the commotion, half in shadow, half in the fading light, pretending they weren’t eavesdropping but failing at it. Carrie narrowed her eyes. This wasn’t the time for watchful neighbors. Ian Marshall needed space, not an audience.
She took a step forward, her voice carrying with the authority that slipped back into her bones like it had never left. “Ian, let’s go inside. I need to see your daughter’s room.”
Ian stiffened. His face was gray, jaw clamped, but after a heartbeat, he gave a small nod.
Carrie turned and motioned the youngest detective over. He was barely out of the academy, his clothes all neat and tucked in, face too open. He hurried toward her, his notepad already in hand.
She drew him aside, lowering her voice. “Don’t go into Katy’s room until I’m there. Not a step. I want you to start with the rest of the house. Look for forced entry, signs of a struggle, anything that feels off.”
The rookie blinked, pen hovering above the page. “Do you think she was killed in the house?”
The question stung—not because it was foolish, but because it revealed just how green he was. Carrie steadied her tone. “We don’t assume anything. We check every angle, no matter how small.”
His cheeks reddened, but he nodded, tucking his pen away. “Yes, Captain.”
Carrie exhaled softly and then pivoted back to deal with the other problem.
Matt and Paula.
They were too close, their postures angled toward Ian, ears practically twitching to catch every word. Carrie walked up to them, her voice firm but polite. “You both should go home now.”
Matt’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’d rather not leave you here alone.”
The words should have irritated her. She didn’t need protection, didn’t need anyone questioning her control of a scene. But instead, the statement hit differently. A flicker of warmth spread across her chest before she pushed it down, burying it beneath the steel of her expression.
Paula, ever quick to find her place in the moment, nodded in agreement. “He’s right. We’ll wait with the dogs. Someone should keep watch outside.”
Carrie’s lips pressed together. For a second, she considered ordering them both away, but the set of Matt’s jaw, the earnestness in Paula’s tone, made her relent. “Fine. But stay outside. Both of you. And keep the dogs close.”
Muttley and Luna sat in the sand, tongues lolling, watching her like they understood every word. Carrie almost smiled. Even they looked unwilling to let her out of their sight.
She turned away before the warmth in her chest could grow and started toward the Marshall house.
The porch steps loomed, and with them came the memory.
A door splintering. The crash of boots over a threshold.
The high-pitched scream of a woman shoved against a wall.
Carrie’s pulse spiked as the old scene played out in her head—her own voice shouting commands, the flash of hate in a man’s eyes, the feel of the taser in her hand.
Then the gun. The crack of a bullet. The force of impact as it tore through her side.
She swayed, her palm catching the porch rail, cold sweat breaking along her neck.
“Captain Ware?”
The young detective’s voice sliced through the memory. She snapped her head up, meeting his concerned eyes.
“I’m fine,” she lied smoothly. “Just a migraine.”
“Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head. “No. Let’s get on with it.”
Her legs steadied beneath her, though her chest still felt tight, throat clamped as if the air had thinned. She forced herself forward, into the house.
The kitchen greeted her first—neat, spotless, everything in its place.
Counters gleamed, chairs tucked in, the faint smell of lemon polish lingering.
She scanned the space with trained eyes.
Nothing broken. No struggle. Her gut said Katy hadn’t died here, but that didn’t excuse her from checking every detail.
Ian followed, stiff-backed, his gaze darting to every movement she made.
“The detective will look around,” Carrie told him evenly. “Unless you’d prefer we come back later with a warrant.”
His jaw flexed. After a long beat, he shrugged. “Go ahead. We have nothing to hide.”
Carrie signaled to the rookie, who was already pulling gloves from his pocket and raising his phone to snap photos. She slipped on her own latex gloves, handed to her earlier by an officer on the beach.
“Take me to Katy’s room,” she told Ian.
He hesitated for half a second, then nodded, leading her up the staircase.
The door creaked open to reveal a bedroom that was almost unnerving in its order. Every surface gleamed. Books were stacked by height. Shoes aligned perfectly in rows. Clothes in the closet hung by color, sleeve length, and fabric. Even the jewelry on the dresser lay in neat, equidistant lines.
“Katy was… particular,” Ian said, his laugh hollow. “Obsessive, some would say. Even her food had to be arranged just so on her plate.”
Carrie glanced at him, catching the shadow that passed through his eyes. She softened her tone. “Tell me about her relationships.”
Something flickered across his face, fast. Too fast to pin down.
“She never told me who she was seeing. She didn’t share that kind of thing.”
Carrie held his gaze, her cop’s instinct pricking. He was lying, or at the very least, hiding something. Fear radiated from him, tightly coiled.
“She’d been spending more time in Key West,” he admitted finally. “Sometimes at Panorama Shores apartments.”
The name hit Carrie like a pebble striking water, sending ripples through her memory. Panorama Shores. She knew that place, though she couldn’t yet recall why it mattered.
“Do you think he lived there?” she asked carefully.
Ian’s eyes flicked. “Pretty sure.” The words felt deliberate, almost as if he wanted to hand her the lead without saying it outright.
Carrie’s gut tightened. He was scared, and with reason.
She shifted tactics. “Has anyone threatened you or your wife?”
For a long time, Ian didn’t answer. He stared at the perfect order of his daughter’s closet, jaw tight, eyes glassy. Then his shoulders slumped, and he dragged a hand down his face.
“Yes.” His voice was raw. “We were threatened. All of us. Erika, Arno, Katy.”
Carrie’s pulse quickened. “What were the demands?”
“Five million dollars,” Ian said hoarsely. “And my yacht. The Sunset.”
Carrie stared at him. “They want money and a way to vanish.”
He gave a short, bitter nod.
“How were you threatened?” Carrie’s eyes held his. “Were you called? Sent notes? Or messages on your phone?”
“Not my phone.” Ian reached into his jacket and pulled out a cheap burner phone. “This arrived at my and my wife’s hotel room in West Palm Beach a few days ago.” He held it out but kept his grip firm. “I can’t let you take it. I know I’ll be contacted again now. But you can look.”
Carrie took it, scrolling carefully.
Where is the money? Tik-tok! Time is running out!
Above that: I have Katy. If you don’t deliver five million and The Sunset in five hours, you’ll never see her again.
A photo followed—Katy, alive, smiling, raising a glass of champagne like she was posing for an ad.
Carrie’s chest clenched. This was proof of life.
Proof that Katy had been alive two days ago when according to the time stamps on the phone, the threats had started.
By the look of the photo, it was also proof that Katy didn’t even realize she was in danger, which was odd considering what Ian had said earlier.
In the photo, Katy looked happy. Sultry, even, as if she was teasing whoever took the photo.
She looked up sharply. “Earlier, you said Katy called you for money and that she was desperate because she said she was in danger and needed to disappear.” Carrie glanced back at the picture and then held it up to him. “This picture doesn’t look like a woman who was scared or in danger.”
His shoulders sagged. “That wasn’t true.” Ian’s voice was hoarse, and his eyes darkened with the sorrow weighing down on him. “But I couldn’t tell you, not out there.”
It dawned on Carrie then. Ian hadn’t trusted any of the cops on the scene.
“If you are so worried, why let your wife and Arno go with the water ambulance?” Carrie asked him. “It seems a bit dangerous to be fighting with them at a time like this.”
“The fight wasn’t real,” Ian admitted. “I had to stage the fight with Erika and Arno to get them away and keep them safe. They needed to go with the ambulance, and from there they’ll go to a safe house.”
“You don’t trust the cops?” Carrie’s mind ticked fast. “Then why trust me? I’m also a cop.”
Ian’s eyes lifted, meeting hers with a haunted intensity. “Because you’re not from here—or even Florida. And Trevor always said if it came down to it, if I needed help, you were the most honest cop he knew.”
Trevor’s name hit like a gut punch. Carrie steadied herself, even as unease prickled down her spine. Trevor’s name resurfaced once again, and this time, it was associated with a murder.
Before she could respond, the phone buzzed in her hand.
Now you know the seriousness of the situation. You’re being given another chance to get the money and yacht. You have until the morning, or Erika is next!
Ian stiffened. His face twisted. Fury, fear, and helplessness all collided within.
“You know who this is,” Carrie pressed, voice low. “And if you do… It’s in your best interests to tell me.”
But Ian’s shoulders stiffened and his jaw clenched stubbornly. “I can’t be sure. And until I am, I can’t accuse him… them. If I’m wrong?—”
Carrie stepped closer. “You’re protecting someone who doesn’t deserve it.” Her eyes searched his. “I can help you.”
Ian gave a mocking snort, but it wasn’t at her, it was more like one of resignation. Like all hope was lost.
“I’m afraid it’s too late to help me.” Ian’s words were raw, and his lips thinned. “But until I’m sure. I have to protect what’s left of my family.”
“Look, Ian… may I call you Ian?” Carrie said, trying to be respectful even when she wanted to throttle the stubborn man. “I understand…”
But before she could push further, Ian turned abruptly, striding toward the hallway. “I need a drink.” He stopped and looked at her. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you,” Carrie shook her head. She breathed in her growing impatience and fury, then followed him, reminding herself to have patience. The man was suffering the loss of his daughter, trying to protect the rest of his family, and juggling some guilt.
Ian led her downstairs, and as they got into the hallway, the young police detective slipped out of a room.
“All seems clear so far,” the detective said to Carrie as Ian pushed past him into the same room, ignoring the man.
“Thank you, Detective Lawrence.” Carrie gave him a tight smile and then entered the room after Ian.
The room turned out to be Ian’s home office, and he was making his way to the cabinet where a full bottle of expensive bourbon stood on a polished silver tray that caught the lamplight. He lifted the bottle and went to twist the cap. He frowned and glanced at it for a second.
“I could’ve sworn this bottle hadn’t been opened yet.
” He shook his head muttering, “Arno!” Then, with a deep sigh, he poured a measure into a glass, holding it up to look at it.
“It’s probably mostly water.” He looked at her.
“I can’t guarantee this is pure. My son has probably topped it up to make it look like he didn’t have any.
” He gave a tight smile. “But I’m sure there’s still enough to hit the spot. Are you sure you don’t want one?”
“No, thanks,” Carrie said firmly, eyes locked on the amber liquid.
Ian downed the drink in a single swallow, then poured again. “Like I was saying,” he muttered, “I can’t be sure. The apartment building, the man she was seeing, the permits?—”
Ian broke off suddenly. His brow furrowed, his grip on the glass slipping.
“I—” Ian swayed right before his knees buckled.
“Ian!” Carrie lunged forward, just in time to catch his shoulder as the glass shattered on the hardwood. He crumpled, eyes rolling back, the smell of bourbon sharp in the air.
Carrie dropped to her knees, fingers pressing to his pulse. It fluttered, weak but present.
Her heart pounded, but her voice stayed steady. “Stay with me, Ian.”
But his body lay slack, the sound of broken glass ringing in her ears, and her heart pounded as they moved toward the bottle standing open on the tray, and the first thought to run through her mind was—poison! Her brow furrowed. Surely Arno hadn’t poisoned the bottle of bourbon?