Page 12 of Lost Love Cove 2
The front door hung askew on one hinge, splintered where Muttley's bulk had crashed through it like a battering ram. Urgent voices ricocheted down the hallway—sharp, panicked fragments cutting through the heavy dusk. Matt shoved the broken door wider with his shoulder, sending it scraping across the floor with a shriek of wood on wood. His heart slammed against his ribs so violently he could taste copper at the back of his throat.
"DETECTIVE!" Carrie's voice cracked like a gunshot down the hall, raw with the unmistakable edge of someone who'd seen death before and recognized its approach. "NOW!"
The detective's polished loafers skidded across the hardwood as he rounded the doorway, leaving black scuff marks like commas punctuating his urgency.
Matt lunged after him, heart hammering against his ribs, while Paula froze beside him, her parrot-patterned shirt suddenly garish against the scene before them. Ian Marshall lay crumpled on the floor like discarded laundry, one arm twisted beneath him at an unnatural angle, his silver-threaded hair matted against his forehead. A Waterford crystal tumbler lay in glittering shards near his limp fingers, the amber bourbon seeping between floorboards and filling the room with its peaty aroma. Carrie knelt beside him, her tanned fingers pressed firmly against the papery skin of his throat, her shoulders rigid with concentration.
"He's still alive," Carrie said, her fingers pressed hard against the pulse in his neck, counting each faint throb like a ticking bomb. Her jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath her skin."We need to get him to Key West Hospital now. Every second counts."
The young detective hovered beside Carrie, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow, sweat beading along his hairline despite the air conditioning. His complexion had gone the color of uncooked dough, making the constellation of freckles across his nose stand out like copper pennies. He tugged at his collar, revealing a flash of sunburn at his neckline. "I have a dinghy moored at the Marshalls’ dock," he said, the words tumbling out too quickly. "I can take Mr. Marshall in and radio ahead to have the emergency service waiting for us when we get to Key West."
"Good," Carrie said, rising to her full height with the fluid efficiency of someone accustomed to emergency situations. Her eyes, sharp as cut sapphires beneath the harsh overhead light, locked onto the detective's face. "I'll come with you." She was already shifting her weight forward, one hand instinctively checking the cell phone in her pocket while the other brushed a strand of soft, flowing hair from her forehead.
"I'm sorry, Captain, but it only carries two." The detective's freckled face pinched with genuine regret, his gaze dropping momentarily to the wet bourbon-stained floor before meeting her eyes again. He gestured toward the window where, beyond the swaying palms, the small aluminum dinghy rocked against the dock's weathered pilings, its narrow hull barely wide enough for a stretcher and one other person. “I don’t want to push it and risk us all drowning.”
Carrie's eyes hardened to dark flint, her jaw setting with the practiced authority of her years as police captain. She jabbed a finger toward the door, her voice dropping to the commanding tone that Matt was sure had cleared many crime scenes anddirected SWAT teams. "Then go. Take him now. Every second that ticks by is stealing his chances."
"I'll help you carry him," Matt said, already moving toward Ian's crumpled form, his broad shoulders squaring with determination as he planted his feet wide on the bourbon-slick floorboards and bent at the knees, hands outstretched and ready to cradle the weight of the unconscious man.
Together, Matt and the detective lifted Ian's limp body, the older man's weight surprisingly substantial for his slender frame. Ian groaned faintly, his head lolling against Matt's shoulder, breath sour with bourbon and fear. They maneuvered him through the doorway and down the wooden steps, their shoes scuffing against it. The aluminum dinghy waited at the edge of the dock, tied with thick rope and bobbing in rhythm with the evening tide, its metal hull gleaming dully in the fading light. Carrie was right there by Matt's side, her fingers brushing his arm as they moved, her face taut with the practiced calm of someone who'd seen too many emergencies.
"Careful with him," Carrie said, her hands hovering inches from Ian's slack face, fingers spread like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. She backed up against the weathered dock railing, sun-bleached wood pressing into her spine as she created space for the men to maneuver.
Matt's muscles burned like hot iron as he lowered Ian's deadweight into the aluminum hull, the boat dipping dangerously under the sudden burden. The detective scrambled in after, fingers slipping on the taut rope as twilight shadows deepened across the water. Sweat trickled between Matt's shoulder blades, his shirt clinging to his back at the exertion, reminding him that although he was fit, he was not as young ashe once was when lifting a deadweight like Ian would’ve been child’s play.
With a grunt, Matt planted his feet against slick planks and shoved the dinghy away from the dock. Cool seawater splashed up his calves, soaking his running shorts and leaving dark patches that clung to his skin. The detective yanked the motor’s cord once, twice—the engine sputtered, coughed a plume of blue exhaust, then roared to life with a sound like angry hornets. The small craft lurched forward, carving a white wake through water that had turned the color of bruised plums in the fading light.
Matt remained rooted to the dock, chest heaving, until the boat cleared the moss-slicked pilings and became a diminishing silhouette against the darkening horizon. When he finally turned back toward shore, he caught only a glimpse of Carrie's determined form as she disappeared through the doorway of the Marshalls’ house once again.
Matt sprinted forward and caught up with her and the dogs in the office. Carrie stood in the center of the room, her shoulders tense beneath her pink T-shirt, her eyes sweeping methodically over the mahogany desk, the leather-bound books on built-in shelves, and the gleaming silver tray that now sat conspicuously empty on the antique sideboard. Muttley's nails clicked nervously against the floor as he circled her legs, while Luna remained frozen in the doorway, ears perked forward in alert vigilance.
“It’s gone,” Carrie hissed, turning toward him. “It’s all gone.” She looked down at the floor. “And all cleaned up.”
“What?” Matt’s brow furrowed, and his head moved around the room.
“The open bottle of bourbon—gone!” Carrie pointed to the silver tray that had held the bourbon, which stood empty. The bottle itself was gone. “The broken glass on the floor and the spilled bourbon—gone.”
Matt frowned. “Where is it?” he asked, knowing that as soon as the question left his lips, it was a stupid one.
Carrie shook her head, scanning the corners as though the answer might reveal itself. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Matt stared at the gleaming surface of the floor. “That makes no sense. We left it here only moments ago.”
“You can’t even smell the alcohol,” Carrie pointed out. “It’s like Ian passing out never happened.”
“But…” Matt was confused. “How?” His eyes met Carrie’s. “We weren’t even gone for fifteen minutes.”
“Exactly!” Carrie stated. “It’s like the CIA or FBI or some other highly trained ghost clean-up crew sped through here.”
“No!” Matt uttered, then snapped to attention when he saw Carrie’s brow furrow deeper, and she tilted her head to look past him at the door.
“Where is Paula?” Carrie asked.
Matt blinked. He hadn’t noticed when she slipped away. He glanced through the open doorway toward the porch. Only the dogs remained, their bodies restless as they paced the sand.
“I thought she was right behind me,” Matt admitted.
“I did too.” Carrie’s eyes narrowed, and Matt could all but see the wheels turning in her head. “Don’t you find it strange that Paula was the only islander who appeared on the beach when Katy’sbody was found. She claimed she heard sirens, but I never heard any at all.” Her brows shot up. “Did you hear any?”
