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Chapter 1 – Anya

Wind blew across the trail, whipping the grass and obscuring my vision of the winding dirt track beneath my feet. My left foot slipped on a patch of grass, shooting out from under me. A flash of panic tightened my chest as I wobbled dangerously close to the edge. The Salish Sea boiled beneath us, entirely too close. Wind frothed the waves into whitecaps, tossing a lone boat over the swells in the distance.

My friend Lucy grabbed me from behind, holding on to me by the hood of my sweatshirt. “You okay, Anya? I promise, I only dream of murdering you when you pick me up for these morning hikes. I’d never go through with it, no matter how often I fantasize about giving you a push when you pack herbal tea instead of coffee.” She shuddered. “Decaf.”

I laughed, the sound low and timid, as if the karmic imbalance from laughing at Mother Nature would make me slip again. My friend’s dark sense of humor was something I’d learned to brush off in my year on the island. In truth, she’d be the first todangle from her ankles and pull me back over the cliff edge if I stumbled.

The dark blue water churned below, a silent testament to Mother Nature’s wrath. I shuddered. The islands were beautiful, but that didn’t make them safe.

Rae drew to a stop at the front of our group and turned to make a face at Lucy. “Luce, your jokes are only funny when you haven’t had to help carry a floater up from the cove.”

“Sorry, Rae. Let’s all just keep our eyes on the trail.”

“How much farther?” Violet asked, catching up.

The fourth member of our hiking group looked winded, her brown hair escaping its braid in wisps that whipped around her rosy cheeks. She adjusted her glasses, peering ahead.

“A half mile,” Rae said.

She was the most outdoorsy of our bunch, a member of the local search and rescue squad, and low maintenance enough to live on her sailboat in the harbor. She was the only one who’d truly dressed appropriately for the crisp spring morning on San Juan Island off the coast of Washington state.

Wind sliced through my clothing, my legs numb and tingling. My yoga pants and hoodie were no match for the cutting winds on the bluff.

“And then twenty minutes back to civilization andrealcoffee,” Lucy sounded almost worshipful. I tried not to take her disdain for my herbal teas personally.

Violet pushed her glasses up her nose, staring out to sea. In the distance, a container ship chugged across the waves.

Our hiking trail wrapped along the coastal bluffs toward the lighthouse at the south end of the island. It was steep in some places, but in early spring, not so wet that it was dangerous.

The motion of the water down below was disorienting, almost dizzying. I focused on the waves. Maybe if I was stationary for a minute, the seasick sensation would ease. Whitecaps lappedagainst the shore in the cove. The tide had gone out far enough to leave a sliver of beach. Something navy blue floated against the rocks.

I paused, squinting. It was difficult to make out. My stomach tossed against my ribcage as the debris settled into a recognizable shape.

I extended a shaking finger. “I think there’s someone floating in the cove.”

“Where?” Rae’s sharp question only made me tremble harder.

As much as I wanted to blame my imagination, it wasn’t my first dead body. “There.”

“I think I see it,” Lucy said grimly, like I’d offered her more chamomile tea.

“Me too. But maybe it’s just a tarp blown off a boat?”

The lump looked too human to write off as floating trash.

“Vi, call your brother,” Rae said. “I’ll call the sheriff. He’ll probably want the rest of the SAR team to meet us near the trailhead. We’ll need to send a crew down.”

Violet’s conversation with her brother was short. Impressively so. Most older brothers would have questions if their baby sister called claiming to have seen a dead body. It was either a testament to their sibling bond or a sign of Drew Fenwick’s abruptness that he didn’t ask any questions other than the obvious: where?

Rae’s conversation with the sheriff was slightly longer, and I let it flow over me, envisioning myself as a shell tossed against the beach by the surf. I shuddered, the image hitting too close to home, the person in the frigid waters below haunting me. No one expected a survivor.

We hiked back to the trailhead in silence. There was none of the easy chatter I’d come to treasure on our weekly treks. By the time we reached the parking lot, four familiar vehicles, including the sheriff’s SUV, were assembled.

The sheriff, identifiable from his uniform, kept speaking to the men around him as we joined the group. He nodded to Rae, acknowledging us with one economical gesture. The sheriff was on the short side, with a full silver mustache and a stern expression. He always made me think of Santa’s long-lost cousin, focused more on naughty-list enforcement than gifting.

Drew Fenwick stood at his right shoulder, easily towering over the older man. Dark and stormy. Violet’s brother could be his own cocktail. Tall, strong, and just a little bit spicy. Simple ingredients, but they packed a punch. That was Drew. Inky hair, broody brown eyes, and the serious nature that came with being the oldest brother in a sea of Fenwicks.

“You game to show them where? I know you probably don’t have your gear with you,” the sheriff addressed Rae, who nodded.