Page 9 of Lost Love Cove 2
Carrie exhaled softly and then pivoted back to deal with the other problem.
Matt and Paula.
They were too close, their postures angled toward Ian, ears practically twitching to catch every word. Carrie walked up to them, her voice firm but polite. “You both should go home now.”
Matt’s eyes didn’t waver. “I’d rather not leave you here alone.”
The words should have irritated her. She didn’t need protection, didn’t need anyone questioning her control of a scene. But instead, the statement hit differently. A flicker of warmth spread across her chest before she pushed it down, burying it beneath the steel of her expression.
Paula, ever quick to find her place in the moment, nodded in agreement. “He’s right. We’ll wait with the dogs. Someone should keep watch outside.”
Carrie’s lips pressed together. For a second, she considered ordering them both away, but the set of Matt’s jaw, the earnestness in Paula’s tone, made her relent. “Fine. But stay outside. Both of you. And keep the dogs close.”
Muttley and Luna sat in the sand, tongues lolling, watching her like they understood every word. Carrie almost smiled. Even they looked unwilling to let her out of their sight.
She turned away before the warmth in her chest could grow and started toward the Marshall house.
The porch steps loomed, and with them came the memory.
A door splintering. The crash of boots over a threshold. The high-pitched scream of a woman shoved against a wall. Carrie’s pulse spiked as the old scene played out in her head—her own voice shouting commands, the flash of hate in a man’s eyes, the feel of the taser in her hand. Then the gun. The crack of a bullet. The force of impact as it tore through her side.
She swayed, her palm catching the porch rail, cold sweat breaking along her neck.
“Captain Ware?”
The young detective’s voice sliced through the memory. She snapped her head up, meeting his concerned eyes.
“I’m fine,” she lied smoothly. “Just a migraine.”
“Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head. “No. Let’s get on with it.”
Her legs steadied beneath her, though her chest still felt tight, throat clamped as if the air had thinned. She forced herself forward, into the house.
The kitchen greeted her first—neat, spotless, everything in its place. Counters gleamed, chairs tucked in, the faint smell of lemon polish lingering. She scanned the space with trained eyes. Nothing broken. No struggle. Her gut said Katy hadn’t died here, but that didn’t excuse her from checking every detail.
Ian followed, stiff-backed, his gaze darting to every movement she made.
“The detective will look around,” Carrie told him evenly. “Unless you’d prefer we come back later with a warrant.”
His jaw flexed. After a long beat, he shrugged. “Go ahead. We have nothing to hide.”
Carrie signaled to the rookie, who was already pulling gloves from his pocket and raising his phone to snap photos. She slipped on her own latex gloves, handed to her earlier by an officer on the beach.
“Take me to Katy’s room,” she told Ian.
He hesitated for half a second, then nodded, leading her up the staircase.
The door creaked open to reveal a bedroom that was almost unnerving in its order. Every surface gleamed. Books were stacked by height. Shoes aligned perfectly in rows. Clothes in the closet hung by color, sleeve length, and fabric. Even the jewelry on the dresser lay in neat, equidistant lines.
“Katy was… particular,” Ian said, his laugh hollow. “Obsessive, some would say. Even her food had to be arranged just so on her plate.”
Carrie glanced at him, catching the shadow that passed through his eyes. She softened her tone. “Tell me about her relationships.”
Something flickered across his face, fast. Too fast to pin down.
“She never told me who she was seeing. She didn’t share that kind of thing.”
