Page 12 of Lost Love Cove 3
But then she fought against the thought, along with the pulling mud, and pressed harder. While Oscar may have played them, and this was probably some crazy diversion, Andy didn’t deserve to die chasing after Oscar, who was also someone’s kid and could have bitten off more than he realized, charging into the storm as a diversion to search the main bedroom.
A blast of lightning fried the sky, making Carrie jump as she glimpsed a shape up ahead: the shed near the old beach path, its tin roof buckling and flapping like a wounded bird. The dogs had gone that way, she was sure of it, and she could see a faint glow of light right before she walked slap into a solid object. Glancing up, she saw it was Matt.
“Carrie,” Matt had to yell above the wind. “Go back.”
“No, I can’t leave you,” Carrie said stubbornly. “I locked the front door in case Oscar tried to double back.”
“That idiot kid,” Matt hissed. “I have to catch up with Andy, but I can’t do that while worrying about you.” As he said that, a gust of wind hit Carrie in the back, sending her into Matt’s arms, whichinstantly closed around her. “I can barely stand in this wind. It’s shoving you around…”
“Like a big bully!” Carrie shouted.
Matt snorted with a grin. “Nice analogy. Please, go back to the house. I’ll get Andy and the dogs.”
Carrie’s protest died in her throat as another violent gust slammed into them, nearly sending them sprawling. Her fingers dug into Matt’s raincoat, anchoring herself against the howling chaos. “Matt—” The word tore from her with raw urgency. Their faces were inches apart, rain streaming between them like tears.
“I’ll be okay,” he growled, his voice barely audible above the storm’s fury. Then his mouth crashed against hers with the same wild force as the hurricane around them. The kiss burned through the cold, his hand gripping the back of her neck, their bodies pressed together as if the wind might rip them apart if they didn’t hold on tight enough.
When they broke apart, both gasping, the taste of salt and rain lingered between them, electric as the lightning splitting the sky. Before either of them could register what had just happened, wild barking came from behind Matt. Carrie was about to dart forward, but Matt stopped her.
“Go back to the house,” Matt ordered. “I’ll take care of whatever that is.”
Before she could argue, Matt turned and disappeared into the swirling vortex of rain and wind, his broad silhouette dissolving like a mirage in the silver-gray sheets of water. With the barrier of his body gone, the wind hit her with the force of a freight train, knocking her backward into the churning mud that sucked greedily at her boots. She stumbled, arms windmilling againstthe howling gale, and managed to steady herself against the trunk of a palm tree, its fronds thrashing like desperate fingers above her. Turning toward the house—now just a smudged yellow glow through the tempest—she surrendered to the wind that pushed against her shoulder blades like some hidden ally of Matt’s, urging her homeward with insistent, violent hands.
6
CARRIE
The hurricane unleashed its full fury on the Carlton house, transforming the once-peaceful island into a battleground. Rain hammered against the shutters like buckshot, each drop exploding on impact. Wind shrieked through the hairline cracks between weathered planks, creating an eerie, high-pitched chorus that rose and fell with each new gust. Even the walls groaned under the assault, timbers flexing and contracting with audible creaks that seemed to speak of surrender. Salt spray mixed with the downpour, leaving crystalline residue on the windows between each wave of water, while palm fronds torn from their trees slapped wetly against the roof like desperate hands seeking shelter.
Carrie paced the living room, her slippered feet whispering across the cool hardwood, arms folded so tight across her chest her knuckles whitened. The antique clock on the mantel had ticked off almost twenty minutes since she'd toweled her hair dry and changed into some dry sweats. The hurricane lamps cast elongated shadows that danced like specters along the wainscoting, their amber glow like some old-fashioned horror movie.
Each second Matt remained outside twisted another loop in that invisible wire constricting her lungs—that same suffocating tightness she'd felt when the bullet had pierced her vest back in Nantucket. He had vanished after Andy, after Oscar, after the dogs, and now the banshee wail of the storm had consumed them all, leaving her marooned in this groaning colonial with nothing but the acid-tang of fear coating her tongue.
The fire in the grate had dwindled to a sullen orange glow, embers collapsing in on themselves like dying stars. The last cedar log crumbled into ash with a soft hiss, sending a spiral of smoke up the chimney. But the last thing Carrie was worried about was the fire. She forced herself to stop pacing, her slippers leaving faint impressions in the nap of the rug, and drew a long breath. She pressed her palms flat against her thighs, fingers spread wide to stop their trembling. If she stood here counting seconds, cataloging disasters, she would unravel like an old sweater before Matt returned.
Making a decision, Carrie turned toward Trevor's study. The crumpled letter with its jagged handwriting, the veiled threats that had made her skin prickle, and Oscar's frustrated muttering about a wall safe—they all converged like evidence markers on a crime scene map. Something valuable lay hidden in this hurricane-battered colonial, something Trevor had secreted away before his death. Oscar's search, while by no means amateurish, was sloppy. Carrie's many years on the force had honed her eye for overlooked details: the slight discoloration of paint that might indicate a patch job, the almost imperceptible gap in baseboards, the hollow sound of a false bottom. If there were a safe or a cache of documents and a flash drive hidden in this house, her trained eyes would find what others had missed.
Carrie stepped into the study this time, armed with two hurricane lamps that cast flickering amber shadows across the mahogany wainscoting, and her police-issue Maglite, which she swept methodically over Trevor's desk. The leather blotter remained perfectly centered, and the brass letter opener lay where she and Matt had left it after opening their letters earlier. She crouched behind the desk and ran her fingertips along the ornately carved edges, feeling for the telltale catch of a hidden spring. She rapped her knuckles against the undersides, the hollow thumps echoing in counterpoint to the storm's fury, then pressed each decorative panel until her fingertips ached. Nothing.
Carrie then pivoted back toward the bookcases, stared at the spines of all the books gleaming in the lamplight, and began extracting volumes one by one—Hemingway, Fitzgerald, leather-bound law journals—searching behind each row, pressing the rear panels for that distinctive echo of concealed space. Still nothing.
Finally, she turned to the closet. The same cramped space where she and Matt had hidden earlier. She stepped inside, her fingertips trailing over the knotted cedar planks, catching on splinters that threatened to pierce her skin. The closet smelled of mothballs and forgotten summers, empty except for a few wire hangers that clinked softly against each other in the draft. But standing there, surrounded by bare walls and dust motes dancing in her flashlight beam, the memory hit her with physical force: Matt's broad chest pressed against her back, the heat of him radiating through her sweater, his breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. Her pulse had hammered so violently then that the blood rushing in her ears had nearly drowned out the sounds of Oscar searching the study.
Carrie shut her eyes, forcing the memory away. She had never — not with Connor, not with anyone — felt that sudden, reckless surge before. It rattled her more than the storm did, and yet some treacherous part of her wanted to feel it again, to lean into that dangerous warmth despite every professional instinct screaming against it.
She ruthlessly shoved the thought down and refused to let herself worry about where Matt, Andy, and the dogs were. Instead, Carrie gripped her flashlight more tightly and continued her methodical search. In the living room, she knelt and rolled up the rug, running her fingers along the seams of the floorboards. She tapped each plank, listening for hollows, but they all rang true. She checked beneath the sofa cushions, behind picture frames, inside cabinets. Nothing.
Her gaze drifted to the mantel, and frustration tightened in her chest. The fire was still too hot for her to check the chimney. Besides, if Trevor had hidden anything there, it would be ruined now with the fire, or worse, long gone. She cursed under her breath, then pushed herself to her feet, dusting off her hands.
“Let’s hope it’s not up there then,” Carrie muttered to the empty room.
She walked to the window, pressing her fingertips against the strips of cold glass she could see between the wooden boards that had been hammered over them for protection. Outside, the world was still a churning void. Lightning split the sky like a jagged white knife, briefly illuminating the yard where rain pelted the ground hard enough to bounce, the splintered dock beyond with its loose boards flapping like broken wings, and the writhing mangroves whose roots clawed at the shoreline as if desperate to escape. Water pooled in every depression, forming miniature lakes that rippled violently with each gust.
Still, there was no sign of Matt, Andy, or the dogs in that maelstrom. Her pulse hammered against her throat, each beat a tiny explosion behind her eyes. She inhaled sharply through her nose, held it for three counts, then exhaled, determined to force the rising panic back into its box.
Carrie had one more place to check. Upstairs.
Carrie climbed the stairs with slow, careful steps, her flashlight beam bouncing along the wall like a drunken firefly. She pushed into her bedroom where hurricane-filtered moonlight cast strange, elongated shadows across the bed with its rumpled quilt. She began methodically working her way across the space, tugging open each drawer of the oak dresser, running her fingertips along the seams of the floorboards. She blew out a breath that stirred the dust motes dancing in her flashlight beam, her frustration coiling as tight as a spring in her chest.
