Page 36 of Tides of Change (Seacliff Cove #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Garrett

Monday morning, I loaded Noah into the car, my mind already running through a hundred different tasks for the day ahead.

Rain drummed steadily against the roof of the SUV, the storm still raging, and wind gusted through the trees lining the street.

As I buckled Noah in, my gaze flicked to Ethan’s house across the road.

Something about it sent a sharp prickle of unease down my spine.

Then I saw it.

Someone had damaged Ethan’s car. The rear bumper bore a deep dent, the passenger-side taillight was smashed, and glass littered the driveway. My pulse kicked up. That hadn’t been there yesterday.

Finch. It had to be him. He’d escalated his game.

I shut the car door, rounded the rear of my Escape, and climbed into the driver’s seat, out of the rain. I quickly typed out a message to Ethan.

You okay?

I hit send and waited. Nothing.

I dialed his number. The phone rang and then went to voicemail.

Dread twisted in my gut.

I forced my hands to stay steady on the wheel as I pulled out of the driveway. I had to drop Noah at school first. I had to go to roll call. But the entire drive, my mind kept circling back to the smashed taillight, the silence from Ethan. Something was wrong. I felt it in my gut.

Noah chattered in the back seat, oblivious to the storm raging both outside and inside my head.

I forced a smile when I kissed his forehead at drop-off and watched him run inside.

The drive to the station was a blur. I barely registered roll call, barely heard my sergeant rattling off incidents that happened during the night shift, and assignments.

The second I got the chance, I requested permission to perform a wellness check on a neighbor.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Finch had only damaged the car to mess with us.

But my instinct told me otherwise.

Rain lashed against my slicker as I climbed out of my Interceptor at Ethan’s house, and my boots splashed through puddles.

The damage to his car seemed worse up close—a deep indentation with the taillight shattered completely.

I doubted there would be any trace evidence left in this rain, but I pulled on a pair of gloves.

I crouched and ran my fingers over the dent.

Made by a blunt object. And still no answer from Ethan to my many calls. My stomach clenched.

I ran to the door and pounded on it. “Ethan!”

The door creaked open from the force of my knock. My breath caught. Unlatched and unlocked.

I stepped to the side of the door and pulled my gun. “Sheriff’s department! Come out with your hands where I can see them!”

No answer. I wasn’t waiting for backup, though I’d probably receive disciplinary action for it. But Ethan could be injured.

Or worse.

I peered around the doorframe and cautiously stepped inside. The home was eerily silent. I swept the house, room by room.

Nothing seemed out of place—until I saw his bed.

The sheets were rumpled, twisted, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. As if he’d planned on returning. My chest tightened.

“Ethan?” My voice was sharp, urgent. Still no answer.

Then I saw his phone on the nightstand.

He wouldn’t have left his phone behind. Not willingly.

I snatched it up. He’d given me his passcode when we’d switched phones during the stakeout. My fingers flew across the screen as I pulled up the security feed. I fast-forwarded through the night.

And my blood ran ice cold.

At four in the morning, the night vision footage showed Ethan stepping onto his porch. A shadow moved in from the side—then a blur of motion.

A long, blunt object connected with Ethan’s skull.

My breath left me in a ragged exhale. Ethan crumpled instantly, limbs limp, and his body hit the wet concrete of the porch.

My grip on his phone tightened as I watched a figure step forward—Finch.

He bent, grabbed Ethan under the arms, and dragged him off the porch, his unconscious body trailing down the rain-soaked walkway.

They disappeared out of sight around the corner of the garage.

I scrubbed a hand down my face, and my stomach twisted. Finch had taken him.

I rewound and watched the footage again, scanning for clues. I focused on the long object in Finch’s hands.

Was that…an oar?

I fast-forwarded through the footage after the attack. Finch never passed in front of the house heading east, which meant he’d headed west. Toward the coast. We’d concentrate the search in that direction.

I toggled my radio and called in the abduction, my voice taut. Dispatch confirmed that assistance was en route, ETA five minutes. I paced while I waited.

Think.

Where could Finch have taken Ethan? He couldn’t have gotten far on foot—not while dragging an unconscious body.

That meant he had to have had some kind of transport.

A car? But there hadn’t been any unusual vehicles caught on the security footage.

Finch was too smart for that. Had a car been down the street, toward the beach, and out of sight of the camera?

What other options were there?

I tried to remember roll call, but my mind had been on Ethan, too distracted to focus on details.

Had there been any new reports of stolen cars?

I forced myself to search my memory. There’d been a traffic accident, a downed tree across the coastal highway, a breaking and entering at Seacliff Beach Rentals…

I froze.

Beach rentals.

My pulse kicked up as I toggled my radio and requested a report on the B&E. “What was stolen?”

The radio crackled before the response came through. “An oar and a beach utility cart.”

A cold weight settled in my gut. An oar . The same kind of weapon Finch used to knock Ethan out. And a beach utility cart—perfect for transporting an unconscious body.

On the beach.

I raked a hand through my damp hair, frustration and adrenaline surging through me. This was it. Finch took exactly what he needed to carry out the abduction. And now I had a direction to follow.

I checked my watch, my jaw tightening as the numbers glared back at me: 8:42 a.m. Ethan had been missing for almost five hours. Five hours of uncertainty. Five hours of Finch having him—God knew where. The weight of that realization pressed against my chest, suffocating.

Where was my backup? The storm slowed response times, but every passing minute felt like a lifetime.

The wind whistled around the corner of the house and rattled a loose gutter.

Rain hammered against the windowpane in a relentless rhythm.

I flexed my hands, trying to stop them from clenching into fists.

Every second that ticked by was another second Ethan was vulnerable, injured, or… my mind couldn’t go there.

I forced myself to take a breath, but it was shallow, useless. I was wasting time while I just stood there. And time was the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose. I needed to search the beach.

I left the house, paced in front, fists clenched, and watched the street. Waited.

Finally, the wail of sirens cut through the downpour. Two cruisers skidded to a halt, lights flashing, and sent flickering red and blue streaks over the rain-slick pavement. I rushed forward as deputies Holt Larson and Nate Decker jumped out, their faces grim.

I toggled my radio. “Where’s Detective Ballard?”

A crackle, then dispatch responded, “He was at the sheriff’s headquarters. ETA forty-five minutes.”

Too long. We didn’t have forty-five minutes.

I took charge, not worried about a reprimand. Sarge could suspend me, for all I cared. “Nate, start canvassing. Someone had to have heard or seen something. We need a witness, anything that gives us an edge.”

Nate nodded and took off toward the nearest cluster of my curious neighbors watching from under umbrellas.

“Holt, you’re with me. We’re checking the beach.”

Together, we pushed through the wind toward the beach path, our boots squelching through the rain. The storm had already tried to erase any sign of Finch, but as we reached the path, I spotted faint, washed-out tire tracks in the wet sand. Beach utility cart. My gut clenched.

At the beach-end of the path, Holt said, “Tracks lead north.”

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

Sheets of rain turned the world into a swirling gray blur, but I could still make out the churning, frothy, violent waves. The rising tide had obliterated the tire tracks along the beach.

I turned my gaze north and spotted the sea cave, half-submerged beneath the surging tide. My pulse hammered against my ribs. That had to be it.

“He’s got Ethan in the cave.” I raised my voice above the noise of the storm. I could feel Holt’s stare on me, but I was already moving. Fear tightened my chest, but I shoved it down. Ethan needed me.

I sprinted forward and sand shifted under my boots as I charged toward the jagged rocks. Holt followed, but he was a step behind. My mind screamed that I was too late, that Finch had already won, but I didn’t let myself believe it.

Then—a blur. A dark shape emerged from a fissure between the rocks.

Finch.

He swung at me, and I barely had time to twist out of the way before the oar whooshed past my head, missing me by mere inches.

“No!” Finch bellowed, his face distorted with something wild and unhinged. “I won’t let you save him!”

Rage and adrenaline exploded in my veins.

I ducked and dodged the second swing. I sprang forward and tackled Finch, slamming him into the wet sand. He grunted and thrashed beneath me, but I was stronger, fueled by something raw and unstoppable.

We struggled, rolling once before I gained the upper hand. I wrenched the oar from his grip and tossed it aside. Finch snarled, trying to claw at my face, but I yanked his arms behind his back and snapped the cuffs around his wrists.

“I’ve got him!” Holt’s voice cut through the wind as he arrived. He grabbed Finch and hauled him to his feet. Finch struggled briefly before sagging in defeat. “Go!” Holt shouted.