The Cottage at Pelican Bay (Nantucket Seashells #5)

Chapter 1

RYAN

Ryan stared at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom, watching shadows shift across the plaster like phantom fingers as ragged clouds moved past the silver-dollar moon outside. His mind wouldn't stop spinning, replaying the same scenes over and over with merciless clarity.

Tessa in the park, sunlight catching the copper highlights in her dark hair.

The kiss that felt full of promise. The fight that erupted like summer lightning.

Walking away angry, his footsteps crunching too loudly on the gravel path.

Her keys glinting in the trampled grass.

Her leather purse slumped at the edge of the pine trees like an abandoned animal.

That cloth with its sickly sweet chemical smell that lingered in his nostrils even now.

He rolled onto his side, punched his pillow into a different shape with a frustrated fist, and tried to force his brain to quiet down.

It was useless. Sleep felt impossible when Tessa was out there somewhere, probably terrified, probably hurt, her wrists maybe raw from restraints, and he was lying here in a comfortable bed with its familiar navy quilt doing absolutely nothing to help her.

All he wanted to do was get back to the park and go over the spot where Tessa was taken with a fine-tooth comb.

Search every inch of ground until his fingernails were dirty and his knees were grass-stained, until he found something, anything—a fiber, a footprint, a forgotten receipt—that might lead them to her.

Misty shifted on the floor beside his bed, her collar jingling softly as she adjusted her position.

The German Shepherd had been restless all evening, too, as if she could sense Ryan's distress.

Lori and his father had both insisted that Misty stay with Ryan tonight while Mitch kept watch at Seabird Cottage.

Neither of them had said it out loud, but Ryan knew they were worried about him.

About what he might do if left alone with his guilt and his fear.

"I know, girl," Ryan said quietly into the darkness, rolling over and leaning over the side of the bed to stroke her fur. "I want to go back to the park too."

Misty's tail thumped against the floor twice, acknowledging his voice.

Ryan turned onto his back once again, the sheets twisted around his legs like seaweed, before glancing at the clock on his nightstand.

The glowing red numbers read 3:30 AM, harsh against the darkness of the room.

He'd been lying here for hours, his body leaden with exhaustion but his mind crackling with alertness, and he hadn't managed more than twenty fragmented minutes of actual sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Tessa's face in the park—the sunlight catching on her eyelashes, the small dimple appearing in her left cheek when he'd told her he loved her.

Then came the memory of her expression hardening like cement, her eyes going flat and distant when he'd accused her of using Maggie as a shield against getting hurt.

He shouldn't have said that. Shouldn't have walked away angry, his boots crushing the tender spring grass beneath him. If he'd stayed, if he'd kept his temper under control instead of letting it flare hot and bright like a struck match, maybe none of this would have happened.

The guilt was eating him alive, gnawing at his insides with sharp, relentless teeth.

Ryan threw back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. There was no point in lying there, torturing himself. There was no use trying to sleep when his mind kept spinning over and over, unable to rest, unable to stop replaying everything that had gone wrong.

He'd been tossing and turning for hours. Sleep wasn't coming.

Ryan grabbed clothes from his dresser and headed for the bathroom, Misty following at his heels.

The hot water of the shower helped clear some of the fog from his brain, though it did nothing to ease the knot of anxiety in his chest. He dressed quickly in jeans and a dark Henley t-shirt, then made his way downstairs with Misty padding quietly behind him.

The house was silent in that particular way that only happens in the deepest part of the night—a living silence that seemed to breathe around him, punctuated only by the occasional settling creak of century-old timber.

Ryan moved through the familiar space by memory as much as sight, his fingertips brushing against the wainscoting that had guided him since childhood, not bothering to turn on lights until he reached the kitchen's cool tile floor.

Coffee. He needed coffee, strong enough to scour away the cobwebs of fatigue clinging to his mind.

While the machine gurgled and hissed its way through brewing, releasing the rich, earthy aroma that promised alertness, Ryan leaned against the granite counter and stared out the window toward Seabird Cottage.

Through the tangle of salt-stunted pines, he could see a faint amber light on in the living room, steady as a lighthouse beam.

His father was awake too, keeping vigil.

The coffee maker beeped, and Ryan poured himself a large mug of black, strong coffee, steam rising in ghostly tendrils. He took a long sip, welcoming the bitter burn as it slid down his throat and bloomed warmth in his chest, then carried the mug with him to his father's home office.

The room smelled like old books and furniture polish, comfortingly familiar, with leather-bound volumes and lemon oil, and undertones of his father's sandalwood aftershave lingering in the air.

His father's mahogany desk sat in front of the window, moonlight spilling across its scarred surface where all the files Marcus had brought from New York lay spread like fallen autumn leaves.

Ryan settled into his father's leather desk chair and pulled the stack of folders toward him.

Misty dropped to the floor beside the desk with a heavy sigh, resting her chin on her paws.

Ryan reached down absently to rub behind her ears, earning a contented huff, then turned his attention to the files.

The one on top was labeled in Marcus's precise handwriting: Sally Lane.

Ryan flipped it open and started reading. The timeline of her marriage to Bradley Lane. The divorce proceedings. Bradley's death at the hunting cabin. The trial where she'd been accused of murdering him before being exonerated.

His eyes caught on a section about the trial. Character witnesses for Sally's defense. One name stood out: Dr. Jackie Simons.

Ryan leaned forward, reading more carefully. Dr. Simons had testified on Sally's behalf, speaking to her character. They were best friends, according to the notes in the file. They had been since they were young.

He set down his coffee mug and noticed a yellow legal pad on the corner of his father's desk. His father's handwriting was scrawled across the top: Notes on Dr. Simons.

Ryan stared at the notepad, then looked at the folders spread in front of him. Barstow Security. Sally Lane. Tessa Ryder. Lori Carlton.

There were overlaps with Dr. Simons and Sally. They were best friends, and Dr. Simons had testified as a character witness for Sally when Sally had been accused of murdering her late ex-husband.

But why Tessa? Why Lori?

Ryan's frown deepened as he opened Tessa's file and flipped through the pages.

Tessa was never involved with the Sally Lane case.

According to Lori, she and Tessa had only found out about Sally's story and her connection to Dr. Simons yesterday.

Just yesterday, at the coffee shop, about an hour before Tessa was taken.

So why take Tessa?

Ryan sat back in the chair, rubbing his jaw as he thought it through.

Did they mistake Tessa for someone else?

His mind went to Haley Simons, Dr. Simons's daughter. He'd only met her yesterday, but he could see the resemblance to Tessa. Both were young, both had dark hair, and both were tall and slender. Maybe the kidnapper had thought Tessa was Haley. She did say she walked in that park every day, and the kidnapper didn’t have a big time window to take Haley in the park. They could’ve easily mistaken one for the other.

If the kidnappers had been watching Dr. Simons, waiting for an opportunity, they would have seen Haley.

They would know what she looked like. And if they saw Tessa in the park, alone. ..

Ryan's hands clenched on the arms of the chair. It made a sick kind of sense. Then another cold thought slivered through his head. If the kidnapper had grabbed the wrong woman, what would they do to Tessa when they realized their mistake?

He pushed the thought away and reached for Lori's file, flipping it open. Her background, her connection to Carrie Ware, and the house-swap arrangement. Her late husband's business and the Stanstead fraud case. But nothing that connected her to Sally Lane or Dr. Simons or any of this.

Ryan sat and went through the files again, spreading them out across the desk, looking for patterns and connections he might have missed.

He was sure he was missing something. Something important.

Maybe his father and Marcus were right, the connection was the Standsteads.

While they were known associates of the Lanes…

He quickly went back to the notes his father had scribbled in the file last night after Ryan had brought Haley here.

Confirmed—the Stansteads were associates of the Lanes, but nothing connected them to Sally’s case.

Ryan knew they were grasping at straws with the Stanstead connection, and they were overlooking a vital missing piece.

He rubbed his temples as the information blurred together, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his consciousness, but he forced himself to keep reading, keep searching.

Somewhere in these files was the answer.

It had to be in here somewhere. Ryan was so involved in the files, so deep in concentration, that he didn't realize the sun had come up until Misty suddenly stood and whined at the office door.

Ryan blinked and looked toward the window. The darkness outside had given way to pale gray dawn light. He'd been sitting here for hours.

"You need to go out, girl?" Ryan asked, standing and stretching muscles that had gone stiff from sitting too long.

Misty's tail wagged once, and she gave another soft whine.

Ryan followed her through the house to the front door and opened it. Misty bolted out immediately, but instead of heading into the yard, she rushed straight toward Seabird Cottage, her powerful legs eating up the distance between the two houses in seconds.

Ryan watched until Misty, who had scratched at the front door of Pelican Cottage, was let in and disappeared inside the house.

He smiled, wishing his life could be that carefree at the moment, then stepped back inside.

His mind was still trying to sort through the information he'd been going through, still searching for the connection he knew had to be there.

He was about to close the door when someone called his name.

Ryan looked up and sighed. He didn't have time for visitors right now. Didn't have time for anything except finding Tessa.

He stepped out of the front door, about to tell his unexpected visitor that he didn't really have time to talk, but as he cleared the door, a hand shot out from the blind spot beside the doorway.

Before Ryan could react, before he could even process what was happening, a hand holding a cloth clamped over his mouth and nose. The cloth reeked of chemicals, sharp and sweet and burning, such a potent chemical smell that it made his eyes water instantly.

Ryan tried to fight, tried to break free, but his attacker was fast and strong. An arm wrapped around him from behind, pinning his arms.

He tried to hold his breath, tried not to inhale, but his lungs burned and betrayed him. He gasped, and the chemical fumes rushed in.

The world spun violently. His vision blurred, darkness creeping in from all sides. His legs went weak, unable to hold his weight.

Ryan felt himself falling, felt hands lowering him to the ground, but he couldn't fight anymore. Couldn't do anything except surrender to the darkness pulling him under.

Then there was nothing but black.