Page 11 of Lost Love Cove 2
Ian stiffened. His face twisted. Fury, fear, and helplessness all collided within.
“You know who this is,” Carrie pressed, voice low. “And if you do… It’s in your best interests to tell me.”
But Ian’s shoulders stiffened and his jaw clenched stubbornly. “I can’t be sure. And until I am, I can’t accuse him… them. If I’m wrong?—”
Carrie stepped closer. “You’re protecting someone who doesn’t deserve it.” Her eyes searched his. “I can help you.”
Ian gave a mocking snort, but it wasn’t at her, it was more like one of resignation. Like all hope was lost.
“I’m afraid it’s too late to help me.” Ian’s words were raw, and his lips thinned. “But until I’m sure. I have to protect what’s left of my family.”
“Look, Ian… may I call you Ian?” Carrie said, trying to be respectful even when she wanted to throttle the stubborn man. “I understand…”
But before she could push further, Ian turned abruptly, striding toward the hallway. “I need a drink.” He stopped and looked at her. “Would you like one?”
“No, thank you,” Carrie shook her head. She breathed in her growing impatience and fury, then followed him, reminding herself to have patience. The man was suffering the loss of his daughter, trying to protect the rest of his family, and juggling some guilt.
Ian led her downstairs, and as they got into the hallway, the young police detective slipped out of a room.
“All seems clear so far,” the detective said to Carrie as Ian pushed past him into the same room, ignoring the man.
“Thank you, Detective Lawrence.” Carrie gave him a tight smile and then entered the room after Ian.
The room turned out to be Ian’s home office, and he was making his way to the cabinet where a full bottle of expensive bourbon stood on a polished silver tray that caught the lamplight. He lifted the bottle and went to twist the cap. He frowned and glanced at it for a second.
“I could’ve sworn this bottle hadn’t been opened yet.” He shook his head muttering, “Arno!” Then, with a deep sigh, he poured a measure into a glass, holding it up to look at it. “It’s probably mostly water.” He looked at her. “I can’t guarantee this is pure. My son has probably topped it up to make it look like he didn’t have any.” He gave a tight smile. “But I’m sure there’s still enough to hit the spot. Are you sure you don’t want one?”
“No, thanks,” Carrie said firmly, eyes locked on the amber liquid.
Ian downed the drink in a single swallow, then poured again. “Like I was saying,” he muttered, “I can’t be sure. The apartment building, the man she was seeing, the permits?—”
Ian broke off suddenly. His brow furrowed, his grip on the glass slipping.
“I—” Ian swayed right before his knees buckled.
“Ian!” Carrie lunged forward, just in time to catch his shoulder as the glass shattered on the hardwood. He crumpled, eyes rolling back, the smell of bourbon sharp in the air.
Carrie dropped to her knees, fingers pressing to his pulse. It fluttered, weak but present.
Her heart pounded, but her voice stayed steady. “Stay with me, Ian.”
But his body lay slack, the sound of broken glass ringing in her ears, and her heart pounded as they moved toward the bottle standing open on the tray, and the first thought to run through her mind was—poison! Her brow furrowed. Surely Arno hadn’t poisoned the bottle of bourbon?
5
MATT
The evening air pressed heavy against Matt's skin as he lingered outside the Marshall house, humidity clinging to him like an unwelcome second shirt. The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the shoreline in strokes of amber and rose gold that glittered across the gentle ripples of the cove. Muttley lay stretched out in the sand, his muzzle twitching each time the salt-laden sea breeze carried a new scent from the mangroves beyond. Luna, the sleek Dalmatian, paced restlessly at the edge of the porch steps, her ears flicking forward and back, her chest lowered defensively to the ground as though some invisible threat lingered just beyond human perception.
Matt kept his gaze fixed on the front door where Carrie had disappeared with Ian and the young detective. His fingers drummed against his thigh, matching the rhythm of his racing thoughts. There was an unsettling unease clawing at his gut. First, the discovery of Katy's body—blue-tinged and half-buried in sand—then the sudden, unexplained padlocking of Key Developers' glass-fronted offices, and now the sight of Ian with hollowed cheeks and darting eyes that refused to meet his. The pieces scattered like broken shells across wet sand, refusing toform any recognizable pattern, and Matt's temples pulsed with each unanswered question that circled like hungry gulls in his mind.
Beside him, Paula shifted her weight from one sandaled foot to the other, her arms folded tightly across her chest like a shield. The gaudy parrot pattern of her flowing beach shirt seemed at odds with her rigid posture. She had hardly spoken since they left the beach, just occasional murmurs that dissolved into the salty air before Matt could catch them. Her eyes, narrowed to calculating slits, remained fixed on the door, though the encroaching twilight cast deep shadows across her weathered face, rendering her expression as enigmatic as the cove's shifting tides.
It was Luna who moved first. Her sleek spotted body tensed like a coiled spring, muscles rippling beneath her coat as her ears pricked sharply forward. The whites of her eyes flashed in the dimming light as she gave a low, warning bark that seemed to vibrate through the humid air. Then she bolted up the wooden steps, nails clicking frantically against the boards, and scratched at the door with such urgency that splinters of paint curled away beneath her paws. Muttley leapt up with a growl that rumbled from deep in his chest, the fur along his spine bristling like pine needles. His thunderous barks bounced off the water as he charged after Luna, throwing his solid weight against the door until it swung open with a crack.
Matt's entire body went rigid, a cold wave of adrenaline washing through him. "Something's wrong," he said, his voice barely audible over the dogs' frantic barking. He lunged forward, his running shoes kicking up sand as he charged after the dogs, the twilight shadows stretching his silhouette across the porch boards.
Paula's worn leather sandals slapped against the white sand as she hurried at his side, her gaudy parrot-patterned shirt fluttering in the evening breeze like agitated tropical wings.
