Chapter 2
Straddling his Ducati Supersport S, Detective Braden Sanders leaned into the curve as he ascended the steep hill, the motorcycle roaring beneath him.
The rainforest was a blur of green streaks as he raced along the two-lane highway.
At the crest, he throttled forward, feeling the machine’s power vibrating through him.
Descending the other side, edging over the legal limit, he thrust his knee out to maneuver the switchback that carved into the foothill.
Just the rush of adrenaline he needed to hammer out the indignation coiling around his chest. At this speed, nothing else mattered except the snaking road before him.
Until he was forced to slow behind a line of vehicles. It was summer and tourist season, after all, and those thoughts he’d wanted to avoid found their way in, bombarding him.
Keep her secret, she’d said.
For the sake of the country, she’d said.
Right.
While Braden was working as a special agent with Diplomatic Security Services, he’d had the fortune, or misfortune, depending on how you looked at it, to work with a very elite and powerful figure in the State Department.
Octavia Dane had offered him a chance at life, and he’d taken it. In return, all he had to do was move to the Olympic Peninsula and work as a detective in a small county. He’d gotten the job quickly enough and suspected she’d made those arrangements.
Once again, he tried to ignore thoughts of Octavia and focus on nature.
He steadied his breathing and concentrated on the asphalt, the lines, the curves, the trees to his right, the glimpses of ocean to the left.
That hundred-foot drop about thirty yards ahead where the marine fog hovered, not quite rising to the highest elevations yet.
He never dreamed he would be sent to the middle of nowhere USA.
This peninsula at the edge of the United States might as well have been the edge of the earth—mountains, a rainforest, one road in and out.
A coastline he could not believe. And the vast Pacific Ocean.
In fact, Cape Flattery, part of the Olympic Peninsula, was the most western location of the contiguous United States.
And one of the most stunning places he’d seen.
At first, he’d thought he’d been sentenced to a kind of prison in such an isolated place with large swaths of zero cell service.
Eventually, he’d come to appreciate it. Loved the region so much he didn’t want to leave.
But too many factors outside this dream world would eventually pull him far from here.
Besides, he wasn’t here for his personal enjoyment.
He had a purpose. A mission for which he was here to wait for instructions. Hence, he was working as a detective.
As his cover.
For months now.
To complicate matters, Octavia warned him that he should watch for something unexpected. How was he supposed to do that while he worked as an actual detective? She offered no additional information, so Braden was beyond suspicious of what this could mean.
Coming from behind, a siren alerted him to move over. Lights in his mirror signaled a disturbance. He moved to the right and let the county cruiser pass him along with the line of cars in front of him.
If County Deputy Trent Riker realized Braden was the guy on the motorcycle he’d passed, he didn’t acknowledge him.
Braden should have turned around and headed in the other direction—he had the day off—but curiosity got the best of him, so he followed the cruiser, taking a side road that descended quickly down the cliffside to the Hidden Bay Marina.
At the bottom of the hill, Braden navigated the Ducati up to the cruiser and parked right next to it, then hopped off.
After removing his helmet, he set it on the bike.
Trent was already rushing north on the beach, away from the marina.
Braden followed, weaving, hopping, and climbing between and over large chunks of driftwood.
The morning fog was waning, burning off earlier than usual.
Trent turned to look at who’d followed. The deputy nodded to Braden, then continued hiking forward. An ambulance swerved into the marina parking lot behind them.
“What’s going on?” Braden called after Trent.
“A woman washed up on the beach,” Trent said.
Washed up? “A woman . . . dead or alive?” He hated how crass the words sounded.
“Alive as far as I know,” Trent said.
Beyond the cluster of driftwood logs, Braden continued to follow Trent, watching his footing on the precarious rocky, pebbled beach. The EMTs were going to love carrying someone across this rough terrain.
Trent called over his shoulder. “It’s your day off. I’ll handle it.” The older deputy believed he had deserved the detective position, but Braden had taken it.
“I’m here. I might as well assist.” Did investigators ever truly get days off?
When Braden had worked for the State Department, he was always on call.
And then always called upon. In this sparsely populated county, the complex investigations weren’t common.
Most of the peninsula was home to reservations where tribal police oversaw their jurisdictions with dedication, working closely with county law enforcement to ensure justice for all.
Braden’s burden here was light, and nothing at all like the high-stakes drama he’d experienced working as a DSS special agent.
No matter where he worked, justice for all felt like a lofty, unreachable goal at times.
A wave rushed up the beach, crawling forward and nearly saturating his now sandy motorcycle boots as he continued following Trent.
Without a dedicated law enforcement marine unit in Hidden Bay, the county sheriff’s office handled any water-related incident as it came up and if necessary.
No official harbormaster either, which could explain much of the neglect.
Decisions were made by Mavis and her crew at the Bayfront Chandlery, and for any major incidents, of course the Coast Guard was called in.
After weaving between the piles of massive white tree trunks—driftwood brought in by the Pacific and left to bleach in the sun—up ahead, he finally saw the woman.
Wrapped in a blanket, she huddled on one such driftwood log, along with a couple in their late sixties, early seventies. Beachcombers? Friends or family? The man sitting with the survivor stood when he spotted officers from Timberbrook County approaching.
“We were starting to wonder if we should just take her someplace warm,” the guy said.
That would have been a good idea, but Braden kept that thought to himself.
“An ambulance is here.” Trent gestured over his shoulder. “EMTs will be here soon.”
Surprising Braden, the woman rose, the blanket falling from her shoulders. Her long hair looked dark since it was wet, but he could still make out the bright-red tones against a freckled face. She looked familiar to him, unsettling his thoughts.
The woman lifted her chin. “I don’t need an ambulance. I just need to report”—she forced the words out through strangled tears—“I was attacked and left to drown. My stuff was stolen.”
Trent went right to work. “I’m Deputy Trent Riker, and this is Detective Braden Sanders. What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Cressida. Cressida . . . Valentine.” She looked at Braden—not Trent—and her striking light-green eyes flashed.
For a moment, Braden couldn’t breathe.
How about Cressida Valentine Dane?
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “Deputy Riker, I’d prefer to talk to the detective.”
Cressida stepped up to Braden, determination set in her beautiful eyes, but in them he saw an abysmal sadness.
He might have fallen for her—just a little—the first time he’d seen her photo in her mother’s office.
She stared, waiting for his reaction. He’d better start acting like the professional he was.
But Braden wanted to tell her everything.
I know your mother. She sent me here to investigate.
He didn’t know what, but now . . . He still didn’t know anything except Cressida was the unexpected surprise he’d been looking for. Of that he had no doubt.
And here you are.
He couldn’t tell her a thing because he was bound to keep her VIP mother’s secret.
Octavia Dane held all the power, had all the connections, had the impossible means to secure the experimental drug he required . . .
If he wanted his niece to live.