Chapter 15
The bistro at the end of the strip mall looked cozy and quaint. Cressida pulled the helmet off and flipped her hair around to get out the kinks. Braden took the helmet from her, then secured them both with a locking clip on his bike.
She never would have imagined she’d ride on the back of a detective’s motorcycle in the middle of an investigation into an attack on her life.
Stranger things have happened.
And maybe this situation was strange, but she’d count it as a good thing too.
For months now, she’d been working hard on Dad’s book, and now and then a girl needed to have fun—like that old eighties song.
Except she wasn’t sure that having dinner with him would be fun, and she didn’t think this was actually an official date.
On the sidewalk, Braden waited on her, and the look he was giving her increased her uncertainty about this not-a-date.
He opened the door for her, and she smiled and entered. The cute brunette hostess talked to him like he frequented the place, then ushered them back to Braden’s “usual” table. He took the seat that would let him keep his back to the wall like Cressida would expect from law enforcement.
There was something about his actions, his mannerisms. Cressida couldn’t put her finger on it, and maybe she already had enough to figure out that she didn’t need to spend energy on solving the enigma that was Braden Sanders.
But neither could she simply let this go.
Who are you?
She needed to get to the bottom of him. But that could take some time. Yes, he’d grown up in Maine. His dad had been a fisherman. But what more?
Water and menus were brought, and after a quick perusal of a limited menu, she decided on the lasagna instead of something hard to eat like spaghetti and meatballs.
Food ordered, she clasped her hands on the square table with a red-checkered tablecloth.
Italian dining music softly played in the background, making conversation easy.
“You come here a lot,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“Once or twice.” He hitched a grin and sat back.
She gave him a pointed look.
“Okay, it’s my favorite place.”
“Because it reminds you of your favorite place?” In Maine?
“What’s your favorite place?” He hadn’t answered her question.
She went through a list of restaurants where she’d eaten in the last year of her travels—in Bermuda, Scotland, Namibia, and Micronesia. “But there’s a little place in DC, a small place that reminds me of this. They serve the best Reubens.”
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Reuben kind of girl, or even a sandwich girl.”
She lifted her shoulders. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Ducati kind of guy.”
And that made him laugh. He had a great laugh.
So what that she’d shared her favorite place in DC with him?
Maybe she was holding on to false hope that he wouldn’t learn her mother worked for the State Department, because if the investigation went on long enough, that would be an eventuality.
Then again, her mother’s position in the government could be meaningless to him.
Just a government employee. She wasn’t exactly sure why it should bother her.
Maybe she was concerned that he would contact her mother and inform her of the attack, and the next thing Cressida knew, DSS special agents would be stalking her to protect her.
Having dinner with him might have been a bad idea, opening the door to more questions that she didn’t want to answer. They continued talking about nothing too important as if they both danced around the truth, whatever that was.
The food arrived. Finally. She slowly released an anxious breath. “I’m ravenous.”
After the waitress left, Cressida put her napkin in place and lifted her fork.
“Wait,” he said. “Can we say grace?”
“Sure. Of course.” She set her fork aside. Bowed her head and closed her eyes.
He said a quick prayer over the food and thanked God for it and also prayed for the investigation.
Dad had been a Christian and raised Cressida to believe, and maybe that’s why this distance between her and Mom was eating her alive.
But how did she forgive? She pushed the thought away.
She didn’t want thoughts of her mother to overtake this time with Braden.
Cressida focused on Detective Braden Sanders . . . the man.
“So, tell me more about your father’s book,” he said.
“Shipwrecks and ghost ships—the ones that fascinated him. He’s written a couple of other books for this publisher, and they agreed to look over this work and possibly publish it too, trusting me to complete it in the same fashion and style that he would have.
I plan to include a special ‘in memory of’ section.
” The pain of tears erupted behind her eyes, but she blinked them away with a smile.
“And you can write like him because you’re a writer.”
She shrugged. “I’ll do my best to write with his style and flare, but my voice is different.” She looked off into the distance, picturing her father. “He wasn’t what some people might think of as a boring historian. He had a way about him that added magic and life to old stories.”
“Like what? Give me an example.”
“Like, he really loved World War II history and got into sharing the danger and intrigue of it. Details about German U-boats and the many sunken ships and how they were sabotaged. It might not sound interesting to you, but he had my full attention, and those who attended when he lectured at museums to talk about his latest book. You should check out his books. I should have asked the museum if they carried them. I should have looked, but I didn’t want to draw attention to him in that way, just yet. ”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Sadness edged his voice.
From that, she assumed that his memories of losing his father still ran deep and he didn’t enjoy revisiting maritime history—yet here he was, stuck with Cressida.
The pain of the loss of her own father remained fresh and raw since he’d died just over a year ago, but she relished submerging herself in his world before she lost that feeling forever.
Eventually, those memories would fade, and while they remained, she would wrap herself in them. But she didn’t like the sad Braden who sat across from her now, so she changed the subject.
“How about we talk about the investigation? Have you learned anything about the man who attacked me now that you have the sketch?”
“Nothing yet.”
Cressida glanced at the clock on the wall and tried not to make it obvious, but he caught her. He didn’t say anything.
Time to explain. “Listen, I got a text from Diggins. He wants to meet me tonight at eight thirty on the Sea Reaper, that’s his boat. It’s the old trawler floating to the immediate south of the group. Easy to spot, he said. It’ll still be light.”
Braden stopped chewing and stared.
“Before you tell me I’m not going, you should know I have no intention of going alone. I didn’t have to tell you.” She bit into the last of the bread.
He wiped his mouth with the napkin, then laid it on the table. “I’m going with you.”
“That’s the idea. If you have the time.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I sense a ‘but’ in there.”
“I want to be smart. I don’t sense anything nefarious here, but after the attack, I have to play it safe. So maybe you can just hang around nearby or something. I have thirty minutes with him and that’s it. I don’t want him to hold back on me because you’re there.”
“Do you know what you’re going to ask him?”
“I have a lot of practice at this, so yes. I’m old school, and I wrote up a list of questions in my notebook.
One other thing. He . . . um . . . mentioned that he’s giving me the time because my father deserves answers.
That really threw me. Dad hadn’t put any notes in his journal about meeting with Diggins. ”
“That’s interesting that he would know who you are and about your father,” Braden said.
“That he knows the connection is strange. I hope he has some answers since my father cut his trip short, his research, and left. I don’t know why, but he went back to DC to talk to my mother, and then he died.
I only know he was going to talk to her because I overheard her mention it at the funeral. ”
Staring at her, Braden had the strangest look in his eyes.
She was good at reading people, but she couldn’t read that look. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing that you aren’t already thinking.”
“I don’t know what to think. I’d love to know what would cause him to cut his research short.” Mom knows.
I have to call Mom.
But I can’t! How would that conversation even go? How did a person overcome the wall they’d built?
“Thank you for telling me and letting me go with you in case something goes wrong. I hope it doesn’t. I hope you find out what you need to find out from Diggins. You got a laptop today, but I assume you haven’t been able to get online much to do more research.”
She chuckled and explained about her portable satellite. “Still, I don’t like to research online before going in.”
“Excuse me?”
“I follow in my father’s footsteps”—it was hard not to bring up her family ties—“in talking to the locals and forming my basic knowledge that way before I read anything out there on the internet. He wasn’t a journalist per se, but he was a good researcher, and he did much of it on his book, well, before he died.
There are four basic methods—observation, conversation, interviews, and research.
I chartered the boat so I could get a distant view, observe the coast from the ocean while talking to Malloy. That’s what Dad did.”
“You mean you want to get the perspective from the locals. Their thoughts on the ghost ship kind of thing before reading about it. You’re coming at it with different context than most.”
“Exactly. I’ll observe and have conversations, and really, that’s all my interview will be. I’m just having a conversation. What does Diggins know about the Specter’s Bounty? That’s what I want to learn.”
“Because Malloy mentioned him.”
“Yes.”
“I enjoyed the museum with you yesterday. I’d like to learn more about the Specter’s Bounty too. What more can I do to help you finish this book?”
And that’s what she wanted from him. Still, it surprised her. Cressida tilted her head, studying him. “I appreciate your offer. Can I ask . . . why so interested?”
He didn’t shift uncomfortably at her direct question.
Could mean he was well trained. She wanted to know his background—everything about him—and maybe they had already crossed the professional lines into personal.
She wasn’t exactly sure because despite that, she wanted to have fun—a ride on a motorcycle, a nice dinner with a handsome, interesting man at the end of the day . . .
I’m not ready for that. So. Not. Ready.
This detective . . . this man sitting across from her was definitely giving her the interested vibes, though she sensed that he was holding back too.
“Why am I so interested? The sooner you finish your research, the sooner you can get home where you’ll be safe.”
“Sounds like you want to get rid of me.” Oh boy. She stared at her plate. I need to stop flirting and pulling him into my web and acting like Mom. The last thing she wanted to do was become Octavia Dane—a master manipulator.
Pursing her lips, she glanced up at him. She hadn’t wanted to see his reaction. Cressida needed to shift gears.
Now. Before it was too late. She wished she hadn’t suggested the motorcycle. She liked this man too much to play games.
His smile, those huge dimples . . .
Cressida had to look away.
“I appreciate your concern. I do. Really.”
“But?”
“There’s no but.” She held his gaze. She had to think about her next words.
This experience in Hidden Bay was strange at the very least, with the attack and the warnings and the stonewalling of her interview with Evelyn Monroe.
And she certainly hadn’t expected to have a detective in her life.
A man she liked and might want to get to know better.
But once this was over, she was going home.
“Given the attack on you, I think the sooner you’re done, the better,” he said. “But Cressida, I’m not trying to get rid of you. Not at all.”
He hadn’t needed to add that last part, and she could feel that message he sent enveloping her. Maybe he hadn’t intended to reveal himself, but she was definitely reading him now.
Arms on the table, she leaned forward. “I’m not one to play games or hold back, but in my experience as a journalist, I have to play all the pieces at the right time, let’s say. I guess what I’m saying is that I want to put all the cards on the table with you tonight. Here and now.”
He remained expressionless, which told her that on the inside he was reacting to her words.
“I’m listening.”
A laugh escaped, and she stared at the table.
I’m really doing this. “I don’t know why someone would target me.
I have no idea why I was warned. I’ve been on this research journey to finish my father’s book for about eight months now.
” She lifted her shoulders. “I’m glad you asked me to dinner tonight because having you around is an extra layer of protection I never thought I’d need.
I worked as a journalist in the past, and got into some awkward situations, but honestly, I’ve never almost been drowned. I’ve never felt so vulnerable.”
In his eyes she could see so many questions, passionate emotions, and something hidden. Something else. So Detective Braden had his own secrets.
Before he could respond, she continued. “Maybe I’m not supposed to say that, or what I’m going to say next might put you in an awkward position, but I confess . . . I like you.”
She held her breath.