Secrets of Sandpiper Shores (Cedar Key #2)

Chapter 1

HOLT

The farther Holt drove from Sandpiper Shores, the more the town seemed to tighten around his ribs anyway.

It was a strange thing, leaving a place and still feeling it on you, like salt that wouldn’t rinse off.

The roads opened into long stretches of scrub pine and low palmettos, the morning light turning everything pale and honest, and yet Holt’s thoughts stayed fixed on one quiet sentence that had changed the shape of his day.

It was Victoria.

He had said it to June in the car, and the moment the word left his mouth, he regretted how final it sounded.

Not because he doubted Harvey’s claim, but because a name could become a verdict too easily.

Holt had learned that truth was rarely a clean, straight road.

It was more like an inlet. It curved, disappeared, reappeared, and the current shifted when you were not paying attention.

June sat in the passenger seat, staring out the windshield as if the road might present an answer if she watched long enough.

Holt glanced at her for a moment and then returned his gaze to the lane ahead. June’s quiet did not feel empty. It felt full, as if she were sorting facts and emotions into separate piles, refusing to let one contaminate the other.

After a few minutes, June spoke. “How sure was Harvey?” June asked softly.

Holt kept his voice calm. “Harvey was sure enough to tell me without hesitation,” Holt said.

June’s eyes shifted toward him. “Did he tell you how he found out?” June frowned as she contemplated the thought.

Holt nodded once. “He did.” He glanced at June then back to the road.

“Harvey said he overheard Clive telling Sienna last night in Gainesville while they were all out at dinner. Harvey had stepped away from the table, and when he came back, he’d overheard Clive telling Sienna that Victoria had been driving the car. ”

June’s mouth parted slightly, then closed again. “So Clive didn’t tell Harvey directly?”

“No,” Holt said. “Harvey says it was not intended for him to hear.”

June’s gaze went back to the road. “That makes it feel more believable,” June said.

Holt glanced at her again. “Why?” Holt asked.

June shrugged lightly, but Holt saw the tension still held in her shoulders. “Because people are careful when they’re performing,” June said. “They are not careful when they think they’re speaking privately.”

Holt couldn’t argue with that. June had spent years in courtrooms listening to people perform sincerity, a performance so polished it could fool anyone who wanted to be fooled. Holt had spent years in interview rooms watching people do the same thing, only with higher stakes and worse consequences.

June turned toward him. “Does Harvey believe that Victoria hit a tree?” June asked.

Holt’s jaw tightened. “No, like myself and Tom, Harvey doesn’t for one minute believe Clive’s story. He says it doesn’t match what he observed.”

June frowned. “But the damage could still be from hitting a tree,” June said, cautious, trying to be fair.

“I guess it could be,” Holt admitted. “The photographs show front-end impact consistent with a hard collision. Harvey said that the front of the car had also been cleaned before Clive brought it in.” He gave his head a small shake.

“Clive’s excuse was that there was a lot of bark and branches on the front of it, and he needed to see the damage so he’d cleaned it. ”

June’s voice sharpened slightly. “That’s convenient.”

Holt’s expression tightened. “Harvey thought so as well, and then after hearing what he did from Clive last night, he’s convinced Clive is covering for his mother.”

June’s eyes narrowed, and her tone shifted as her voice dropped slightly with concern. “Holt, you do know that if Clive made a false statement to support an insurance claim, that is serious.”

Holt glanced at her. “I’m aware of that, yes,” Holt said.

June’s eyes held his. “And if someone provided documentation knowing it supported a false claim, as Harvey did, that can pull them into it,” June said. “People think insurance is just paperwork, but it’s not. It’s a sworn version of events in its own way.”

Holt felt something tighten in his chest as he realized that, too.

While Harvey had not known at the time of making the assessment for the insurance claim, he still had his suspicions, and now with the evidence he’d heard…

Holt ran a hand through his hair before glancing over at June.

Harvey and his uncle had worked hard to clean up the reputation Harvey’s father had left behind.

They didn’t need another black mark against them.

One that wasn’t even their fault. Holt would try to protect Harvey if the claim were true.

“I know,” Holt said. “And that is another reason I need as clean a timeline as possible.”

“If Harvey already submitted his assessment,” June said, “and then he learns later that the driver was not who he thought, he could get dragged into questions.” She, too, had come to the same conclusion Holt had. This would not look good for Harvey’s already fragile family reputation.

Holt kept his eyes on the road. “Harvey didn’t lie in his assessment,” Holt said. “He assessed damage. Damage doesn’t change.”

June nodded, but she did not look reassured. “No,” June said. “But it still looks like he was complacent.”

“That’s true,” Holt said.

They drove in silence for a few minutes after that.

Holt found himself noticing small things he had not expected to notice.

The way June’s breathing changed when they passed a logging truck.

The way she watched intersections, as if she were measuring distance and speed and the possibility of something suddenly stepping into their path.

The way her fingers tightened when he slowed behind another vehicle and eased when he passed.

June’s accident had left marks in places no one could see.

After a while, the service road narrowed, and the fencing began. Holt saw the sign ahead. It was sun-bleached and slightly crooked: Fowler Salvage and Recycling.

He slowed as they approached the closed gate.

A small booth sat to the right. A man in a neon vest leaned against it with an air of tired patience, like he had been there long enough to know the day would do what it wanted, no matter what he did. A lean brown dog paced behind him, with a low tail and eyes tracking their vehicle.

Holt rolled to a stop.

The man pushed off the booth as Holt lowered the window. “We’re closed until eight,” the man said, not unkindly, but firmly.

Holt held up his badge. “Good morning,” he greeted. “My name is Holt Dillinger. I need to speak with the foreman.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly as he read the badge. “What does the FBI want with the foreman?

“That’s something I need to discuss with him,” Holt replied, folding away his badge.

The man’s gaze flicked toward June, then back to Holt. “As I said, we don’t open till eight,” the man repeated.

Holt kept his tone steady. “I’m not here to browse through the junkyard,” Holt explained patiently. “I’m here to locate a vehicle that was brought in last night from Sandpiper Shores.” His eyes saw the name plate on the man’s jacket: Dale.“Dale, is it?”

“Yeah,” Dale nodded. “Do you have a warrant or something?”

“Not yet,” Holt said. “I’m hoping it doesn’t need to come to that.”

Dale blew out a breath and gave a slight nod. “Give me a minute.” He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

Holt watched him, and within a few minutes, Dale came back. “You can go in. I’ll show you where to park and then take you to the foreman.”

Dale unchained the gate and pushed it open, stepping aside. Holt drove through the gate and waited as Dale closed the gate, then walked beside the car, pointing to a few parking bays.

“You can park in any one of those spaces,” Dale instructed.

Holt nodded and parked. He climbed out, and the smell hit him immediately. Old oil, sun-warmed rubber, metal baking in early heat.

June got out and came up beside him as Dale walked ahead, leading them between rows of stripped frames and stacks of doors. A forklift beeped somewhere deeper in the yard. A radio played faintly. The whole place sounded like a machine that never truly stopped moving.

They rounded a stack of crushed cubes and approached a cluster of men near a folding table. One man wore a cap and held a clipboard, his posture confident and managerial. Holt recognized him immediately as the foreman type, the man who decided what happened and how quickly it happened.

Dale lifted his chin toward the man. “Benny,” Dale called. “Here are your visitors.”

The man looked up. His eyes landed on Holt, who pulled out his badge, before they shifted briefly to June, then back to Holt. His expression did not change much, but Holt could see the calculation.

“Hi, what is this about?” Benny asked, walking toward them with his clipboard in his hands.

“I’m Director Holt Dillinger,” Holt introduced himself. “And this is my colleague, Mrs. June Carter.”

“I’m Benny Yonker,” Benny acknowledged them both. “This is my place. What can I do for the FBI?”

“I need to locate a vehicle that was towed in last night from Sandpiper Shores. It came from Vincent’s Auto Repairs.”

Benny’s gaze flicked down to his clipboard. “Let me check. I got two cars in from Sandpiper Shores yesterday.” He looked up at Holt, whose brows shot up.

“Two cars?” Holt asked, suspiciously.

Benny nodded. “Yeah.”

“What time did they come in?” Holts’ eyes narrowed curiously.

“One in the morning and one yesterday evening,” Benny answered. “Can you describe the car you’re looking for? Do you know who owned it, maybe?”

Holt kept his tone neutral. “I believe it was owned by Clive Morrison and is a dark sedan,” Holt said. “It would have had front-end collision damage.”

“Yeah, I know the car.” Benny looked at his clipboard and tapped it with a pen.