When he came up for air, he rolled onto the floating surfboard and, using one hand, lazily stroked the water, gliding over the surface, eyes closed. Megan felt something stir inside her—an unfamiliar warmth, a yearning to share the freedom he possessed.
She slid the door to the room open, careful to not wake her mom, tossed on the nicest blouse she’d brought, a gauzy swing-top that barely came down to meet the waistband of her denim cut-offs. Her best friend, Natalie, had convinced her to buy it with her birthday money despite the fact Megan usually just wore a soccer shirt or one of her mom’s FBI tees. Now she was glad she’d packed the blouse. The hem swished and brushed against the bare skin below her belly button, making her feel older, maybe even kind of sexy. Slipping into her well-worn Sketchers, she grabbed her room key and a twenty from Mom’s wallet, scrawled a note, and went downstairs.
The hotel was a small, three-story family-run establishment. They’d had no trouble getting an ocean-view room on the top floor since it was half vacant—tourists rarely came to Harbinger Cove in large numbers until summer, the clerk had told them last night when they checked in. It was too far out of the way, especially now that Route 17 had been expanded to four lanes, making it so much easier and faster for vacationers to bypass this secluded area of South Carolina and instead drive to Hilton Head with its fancy resorts.
No fancy resorts here in Harbinger Cove, Megan thought as she crossed through the lobby empty of people except for a sleepy-looking clerk sitting behind the front desk. The décor was last century: fake wood paneling in an unnatural shade of green, orange faux-leather furniture, lamps covered in seashells too pretty to be real. The single rack of tourist information listed attractions like the outlet mall twenty miles away on the mainland, dolphin watching cruises an hour away down in Hilton Head, historical tours two hours north in Charleston, and featured sun-faded, expired coupons for the collection of shops just across the street that included several restaurants, a small grocery store, a bunch of clothing and souvenir shops, and a bakery.
She pushed through the glass doors leading from the lobby out to the circular drive at the front of the hotel. The bakery directly across the street already filled the air with the enticing aromas of yeast, cinnamon, and coffee. Who could resist?
Her plan in place, she turned the other way and walked down the side of the hotel along the path to the pool. When she arrived, the boy had set his surfboard onto the pool deck while he swam laps, the sun now high enough to send random beams through the dune grass, sparkling like sapphires against the pool’s water.
“I was just going for coffee,” she called to him from the fence surrounding the pool, hoping she sounded like someone sophisticated enough to drink coffee. Actually, her parents didn’t like her drinking caffeine and she didn’t care for the taste of coffee. But what was she going to do, ask him to join her for a cup of hot cocoa? It was already at least seventy degrees, so much nicer than chilly, gray Pittsburgh. “How do you take yours?”
He rolled onto his back, fluttered one eye open and shaded it with a hand, water dripping over his face. His hair was dark, and he wasn’t that much older than her, she realized. Maybe only a year or two. Guys didn’t intimidate Megan—which was maybe part of the reason why she’d never had a boyfriend. All the guys she met ended up being simply friends.
But when you’re the only girl in your black belt class—except for the one gray-haired lady older than Mom—and one of three girls on the regional co-ed all star soccer team, and you hang out with your mom’s coworkers from the FBI and your dad’s friends who were mostly former soldiers, you learned what guys wanted in a friend, but not how to act like a girlfriend.
It had to be about more than the makeup and heels and the coy texts her friends who were girls—and who
did
have boyfriends—obsessed over.
“Don’t like coffee, but could you get me a milk?” he asked with a lazy stroke of one hand that propelled him to the side of the pool. Before she could answer, he’d rolled himself out of the water and into a sitting position, then upright to his feet in a graceful move that defied gravity. Sometimes, watching her sensei perform kata, she had that same sensation. Movement flowing in sync with nature, as if the body simply went where it was destined to go.
He propped his board up against the fence where it would be out of the way of any other early-bird swimmers, studying her as he moved. As if
he
were intimidated by
her.
Megan wasn’t sure what to think of that; it left her a bit flustered.
“I saw you from our balcony,” she said, mainly to fill the time and space between them. “I’d love to learn how to surf. What’s it like? Do you give lessons?”
His smile was genuine. He turned his head to glance behind him at the ocean. “It’s like being with God.” The words were low, spoken like a prayer, and she wasn’t sure if they were even directed at her. Then he bounced on his heels and turned back to her. “The waves are best at high tide, not much going on the rest of the day, I’m afraid. But if you don’t mind getting up early tomorrow…”
She nodded eagerly at his invitation. “I don’t mind.”
“Okay, then, it’s a date. How about I swap you surfing lessons for breakfast?” He patted the hips of his wetsuit. “Left my wallet in my other pants.”
“Sure. That’d be great.”
They walked in companionable silence, Megan taking two strides to each of his. As they passed the hotel, she darted a glance up at her room. He noticed. “Sure your folks won’t mind?”
“It’s just my mom. Down here, I mean. Spring break, but Dad had a work emergency. Anyway, she’s asleep.” She didn’t add that her mom had only fallen asleep less than an hour ago.
Her mom barely ever slept, not in the two years since she’d become head of the Pittsburgh FBI Field Office’s Sexual Assault Felony Enforcement Squad, and especially not in the past three months after she was wounded in the line of duty.
Even here, a thousand miles away from home and work, on a quiet beach on an out-of-the-way island in South Carolina, she still didn’t sleep, had been up all night, pacing the room, double-checking the locks on the door, shutting herself in the bathroom to call Megan’s dad. When Megan had asked her what was wrong, Mom said she couldn’t sleep without Dad there, go back to bed. Her voice had sounded almost normal, not like she sometimes sounded when she had a panic attack. Happily for Megan, Mom hadn’t had one of those in awhile, but Megan knew from her dad’s work—he was a psychologist who worked with veterans with PTSD—that the attacks could come at any time, even when you were on vacation.
The thought made Megan shake her head. Her mom, the great FBI hero, always in the newspapers or out saving innocent victims from really nasty bad guys, yet her job had left her crippled in so many ways. Not just the limp she still had from her leg injury when she’d almost died three months ago. Not just the bad dreams and night terrors and panic attacks. Everyday stuff. Like trying to smother Megan—who’d proven time and again that she could take care of herself—or always trying to protect her and Dad from what really went on at work, as if they’d never heard of YouTube or Twitter.
Sometimes, it felt like Mom didn’t want Megan and Dad in that part of her life. Like she had to work extra hard, be two different people, juggling two worlds: work and home. Except those worlds kept colliding. To the point where both Megan and her dad had been placed in danger, despite Mom’s best efforts.
She heard her parents talking, knew Mom was thinking of leaving the FBI. Part of Megan felt guilty—Mom was really, really good at her job, and she loved it; Megan hated to think she was leaving it because of her.
Yet most of her was angry Mom hadn’t left a long time ago. Megan never, ever wanted to be someone who got so focused on her job that she didn’t see what it was doing to her family. She knew that was the real reason behind Dad’s “work emergency.” He wanted Mom and Megan to reconnect, mend fences, heal the breach between them.
Yeah, right. Megan loved her mom, she really did. But that didn’t mean she had to like her. And she sure as hell didn’t want to
be
like her.
“Still,” the boy said, interrupting her thoughts, “I don’t want to get you in trouble or anything.”
Megan smiled. Mom would have a conniption—that’s what Grams used to call it—if she woke to find her gone, much less with a boy older than her. Stranger danger, red alert, just say no, all that crap.
Made being with him all the more exciting and appealing. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself. By the way, I’m Megan Callahan.”
“Nice to meet you, Megan Callahan. I’m Mateo Romero.” He stopped and turned, thrusting a hand out to her. She shook it, noticing the rough callouses and scratches that lined his arms. Various states of healing. Not defensive wounds. Irregular, not from fingernails or even animal claws.
They passed the beachfront mansion beside the hotel, its high wall covered with climbing roses and a flowered vine that looked and smelled a bit like honeysuckle. Mateo slowed, plucked a dead leaf from the vines, settling them back into place with a sense of ownership. If he belonged to the mansion, which had its own pool and path to the ocean, why was he rinsing off in the hotel pool?
She glanced at his wetsuit. Seams frayed, shoulders stretched out. Nope, the mansion didn’t belong to him. “How old are you, Mateo?” she asked.
“Sixteen. Why?” His smile crinkled his eyes. “Too young or too old?”
“Just right for me. But kinda young to be a gardener, isn’t it?”
They came to the front of the hotel and the street with the small collection of shops and eateries. It was pretty much the only shopping on the island. She and her mother had crossed four bridges—the last one a drawbridge—to reach Harbinger Cove, and even last night in the dark, Megan could tell it wasn’t exactly a tourist hotspot. When she’d pulled up a map on her phone, she saw that the narrow barrier island was surrounded on three sides by wide stretches of tidal marshes and cut off from its closest neighbor by the Intracoastal Waterway. There were no more than a few dozen streets, all jutting off the one main road that dead-ended at the marina on the other side of the shopping center.
He laughed. “How’d you know? I work for my uncle’s landscaping company after school and on the weekend. We do the hotel and a few other houses on this block. That’s why they let me use the pool.”
“I’m a pretty good observer,” she said, flushing under his attention.
“Like Sherlock Holmes.” He took her hand while they crossed the street, even though it was empty this early on a Sunday morning. It was a casual thing, almost a reflex like when her dad held a door open for her mom—although Mom always said that was a smart tactical move on Dad’s part because it left her exposed as an easy target for anyone waiting inside.
They arrived on the other side and he dropped Megan’s hand once more. She wondered if he was used to guiding little kids across the street and hoped he didn’t see her that way.
She hated to ruin things so soon, but figured if he was serious about teaching her to surf, she should be up front with him—better now than when Mom found out and hunted him down to interrogate him. “Actually, it’s more like my mom is Sherlock Holmes. She’s an FBI Agent. You may have heard of her—she’s kinda been in the news lately. Her name’s Lucy. Lucy Guardino.”
Chapter 2
THE DOG IN
Lucy’s dreams was a beautiful creature and she wanted to be its friend. But dreams, like wild animals, were unpredictable and no matter how she tried, sometimes they morphed into nightmares. When that happened, the dog turned into a vicious monster tearing at her flesh—like the dog in real life had, the one that had been trained by a killer.
You’re in control
, Nick’s voice soothed Lucy’s panic as the dog clamped down on her ankle and threatened to tear her foot off. Blood spewed through the air, staining the snow around them.
It’s not real,
Nick insisted, using the calming tones of a therapist—usually she hated when he used that tone with her, but not now when he was leading her out of danger.
She fought her terror, calmed her breathing, and forced herself to look at the dog. It wasn’t a monster, despite the blood sliding from its fangs—her blood. It was just a dog, a victim of a sadistic killer, like Lucy had almost been. Both victims. Back then. In the January cold. But not now. Now, it was April and it was hot… no, that wasn’t right. April wasn’t hot, not in Pittsburgh. When they left yesterday morning, there had been ice on the roads, and yet she was sweating and smelled salt, and that roar wasn’t the dog panting but the sound of waves… waves? There weren’t any waves in Pittsburgh…
Lucy opened her eyes and blinked at the bright sunshine angling in through the sliding glass door. The door was open, a warm breeze stirring the gauzy curtain. She rolled over, one hand searching the empty space beside her. No Nick. Right. He was at home. Just her and Megan.
She ran her tongue over the roof of her mouth, tasting bile. Another bad night. She’d thought she’d put them behind her, but after driving twelve hours yesterday, her bad leg throbbing most of the time—wait, where was Megan? She jerked upright.
The bed beside her was empty, the bathroom door open, lights off, no movement. Lucy resisted the urge to reach for her Glock on her bedside table and fought to keep her voice light as she called, “Megan?”
She clawed her way free of sweat-soaked sheets and stood up. Pain spiraled through her bad ankle as she put her weight on it, but the pain was just what she needed to clear the fog of her nightmares. She hobbled around the bed to the balcony. No Megan.
A glance at the rumpled sheets and discarded PJs on Megan’s bed reassured her—Megan had left on her own, which meant that unless she wanted to spend her spring break grounded inside this hotel room she would have left a…ah, there it was on the counter of the small kitchenette, beside the coffee, ugh, not real coffee, instant, they’d have to do something about that.