Chapter 5
After the door shut, Cressida stared at the space where Detective Braden Sanders had stood—empty now of his presence.
But she could still see him—his steel-blue eyes.
Wide shoulders and protective demeanor. She let her mind dwell on him because that was better than reliving the cold shock of ocean in her face.
The gasp for breath.
Her aching, screaming lungs.
She tried to shake off the terror of those moments early this morning, and let the warm leather cocoon her. Wait. She glanced down to see that she still wore his leather jacket.
“What? Oh no!”
Cressida quickly shrugged out of it. The leather was worn and soft under her fingers.
She couldn’t let him leave without it. Opening the door, she glanced up the trail, could see the parking lot and the lodge, but no Braden.
Well, that was just great. She shouldn’t have let him go without his jacket, especially since he was on his motorcycle, but she’d put up a strong front for him too long and now she was ready to collapse.
Her entire body ached. Nothing an emergency room doctor could do for it that a hot shower and rest wouldn’t fix.
Her psychological state was another matter.
Bottom line, she didn’t have the energy to chase after Braden.
If he wanted his jacket, he’d come back for it.
And if he didn’t, she’d make sure to hand it over the next time she saw him.
Now that Detective Bradley Cooper—Braden Sanders—was out of the way, Cressida could do what she really wanted to do three hours ago.
She moved to the bed and collapsed. Sobbed into the pillow.
Because a woman had to shed the tears sometimes, and she’d been attacked.
She might know a therapist or two she could call—a friend of a friend of a friend back in DC.
She hadn’t been back in just over a year, and yet DC seemed like a lifetime ago.
And today’s events seemed like her entire life had passed before her eyes—like she’d heard happens. Fortunately, she lived to talk about it, which only put her in more danger.
Good. Bring it. She was all for living to fight another day.
As for Bradley Cooper . . . No, she definitely shouldn’t start thinking about him as Bradley Cooper, though he bore some resemblance.
Maybe Detective Braden Sanders was kind of a rogue womanizer too, for all she knew.
He had that quality about him—dimples and that scar on the right side, hidden by a thin layer of whiskers. And those sharp eyes.
Oh, Cressida. What is happening to you? She closed her eyes.
She’d been attacked. Felt the physical and psychological scars to her bones.
She had a mission to focus on. A reason to be here.
And this man. This detective—out of the blue—had distracted her, and that distraction had nothing at all to do with the actual investigation he would conduct.
But maybe it was a good distraction given the day she’d had.
She hadn’t exactly chartered the cruise and traveled to Hidden Bay with concerns about her safety. But today had left her completely unsettled. Captain Malloy’s words came back to her.
“It’s not safe . . . Watch your back.”
Two separate warnings, and she couldn’t have taken him seriously? Her experience on the foggy beach brought a whole new meaning to those words.
A knock came at the door. She sat up, sniffled, and swiped at her eyes.
She must look a mess. Probably the detective wanting his jacket back. Too bad she hadn’t showered and freshened up. She opened the door to find an auburn-haired woman in her thirties holding a package.
“Hi, I’m Remi Beckett, the Cedar Trails Lodge manager. You must be Cressida. I’m so glad to meet you.” Remi smiled, her eyes holding concern.
She must know about the attack.
“It’s nice to meet you too.” Cressida thrust out her hand. Remi shook and released it. “What can I do for you?”
Remi offered the package to Cressida. “Someone brought this to the lodge. I thought I would hand-deliver it so I could speak with you in person. My friend Detective Sanders also requested that you be moved out of this cabin and into the lodge. I have a guest leaving tomorrow morning, and the room is yours if you’d like. ”
Cressida couldn’t hide her relief as she held the package. Could this be . . . ?
Before answering Remi about moving to the lodge, Cressida ripped the parcel open. A note was clipped to Dad’s journal, and she quickly read it to herself.
You left this behind. Remember what I told you.
C. M.
Captain Malloy. She held the journal to her chest and closed her eyes. “Thank goodness.”
Aware that Remi was watching, Cressida opened her eyes again. “I love my privacy and this cabin, but given the incident today, at least until the guy is caught, I should probably take that room. I mean, unless you think I would be putting anyone in danger.”
“You won’t. If you’re concerned about your safety tonight, I have a sleeper sofa in my office that you’re welcome to take.”
Cressida gave a tenuous smile. “That’s sweet, and thank you for the offer. I should be fine. If I change my mind later, I’ll show up at the lodge.”
“Sounds good. If you need anything at all, just find me. Cell phones rarely work out here, but just head to the lodge and someone can help you.”
“The rooms don’t have landlines?”
Remi lifted her shoulders and shook her head in a way that said she didn’t get it either.
Okay, then. “Well, thank you.” Cressida lifted the journal and shook it. “This is a lifeline.” To her research. Her connection with Dad.
“I hope the rest of your day goes well.” Remi turned and walked up the trail.
Cressida shut the door and opened the journal—Dad’s notes along with her own thoughts mingled together on the pages. The last eight months of research she’d done to finish the book her father had started. She wasn’t sure if his working title was quite right, though.
Echoes Beneath the Waves was a compilation of the mysteries and maritime legends surrounding a select group of shipwrecks, as well as the historical truth.
Legends were stories people believed were true but had never been authenticated.
Dad’s work didn’t center around authenticating but rather raised questions, because in the end, the stories surrounding these specific wrecks could not be proven true or false.
She flipped through the pages, looking at her handwriting.
The tactile action had given rise to memories she might not have retained if she’d simply typed everything into a computer.
Dad had already done so much work, and maybe she hadn’t truly needed to travel to all the locations herself, but part of her had wanted to experience what he’d experienced, and that would make for better writing.
A deeper part of her wanted to put her heart and soul into his last work and make it shine, as if she could add anything more to what he’d already done.
Lying on the bed, she held the journal against her heart and closed her eyes.
Oh, Dad.
She still struggled to believe he was gone.
Hit by a taxi while crossing the street.
Such a ridiculous, tragic accident. This trip to the Washington coast and the research she intended to complete here would mark the last spot, the last unexplained crewless vessel, and in that way being here was bittersweet.
She didn’t want it to end, and maybe she would drag it out longer than necessary so she could squeeze out all the memories and emotions possible that would connect her to her late father.
As for his journal, she couldn’t imagine that she had left it behind. That had been a huge mistake. On the other hand, leaving the journal behind on the Mariner’s Gambit might have been the best mistake she’d ever made, otherwise whoever had taken her bag would also now have the journal.
In addition to the journal, fortunately, much of her research and notes were also on her laptop, and even if someone could figure out how to open it without her biometrics, she shut it down remotely.
In fact, she could still access everything stored on the cloud—the bigger pieces.
Not the nuances that she’d written in her journal.
After her sob, relief shuddered out of her in a long breath, like she had emptied out all the pent-up distress. Forgetting that she had been violently abused today, letting go, would take time.
She could hold on to the fact that it was going to be okay. Cressida would focus on her work for the rest of the time, and Detective Sanders would investigate what happened and return her things.
As the adrenaline faded, her aches and pains from the battle with the attacker reminded her that she’d planned to take a shower and wash away the grime of salty ocean and sand.
Then she could read through her notes again.
She set the journal on the desk, then thought better of it and instead stuck it under her pillow.
She’d never felt the need to hide it before.
The long, hot shower turned into a short shower. She couldn’t shake off the captain’s warning—twice now—and then the attack. She towel-dried her hair and moved back into the main room, which included the bedroom and a kitchenette. A big window to view the ocean and a wood stove.
She’d love to stay here at another time without the weirdness of today weighing on her. On the floor, she found the note from Malloy had fallen out of the journal, and she picked it up to look at it again. Remember what I told you . . .
“Watch your back.”
And she hadn’t taken him seriously. Hadn’t known he meant it in the way he’d said it.
Since that warning, someone had taken the bag she’d carried with her and her laptop from another location. Oh yeah, and she couldn’t forget, drowned her—or so they thought.
What did Malloy know about this?
Could someone have been after her journal in the bag, or was she reading too much into it? Jumping to unfounded conclusions. But if that was true and the attacker had been after her journal, did that also mean once he discovered he didn’t have it, that he would come back for it?
And kill me again, only this time make sure I stay dead?