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.
Apparently, Megan already had. Mom, gone for coffee, back soon, have my phone.
Okay, then. No need to panic. Megan was fine. The coffee shop was just across the street. It was one of the reasons they’d chosen Harbinger Cove with its only two hotels and slow start to the tourist season, given that it was off the beaten path compared to Hilton Head and Savannah to the south or Charleston to the north. Nick’s family had been coming here for years—called the town “quaint” and loved that the beaches were quiet and relatively free of tourists since most of the ocean-side property belonged to millionaires who rarely visited their sprawling mansions.