Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
He silenced the phone and tossed it onto the couch. Tomorrow he would start his temporary position with the Westerly Cove Police Department. Today was meant for unpacking, for orienting himself in this new place before stepping into the role of the outsider detective. Chief Sullivan had seemed decent enough during their video interview, if a bit gruff. The department was small, just the chief, another full time officer, a part time deputy, and now Brooks. It would be a dramatic change from the bustling Austin PD, but that was precisely what his therapist had recommended.
“A smaller community,” she had said. “Less pressure. A place to heal.”
Changing location wouldn’t erase Traci lying on the warehouse floor, blood pooling beneath her head while he stood frozen ten feet away, service weapon aimed at the man who had shot his partner before he could pull the trigger.
He’d managed only three hours of sleep last night, woken by the same nightmare that had haunted him for months. Traci standing in thick fog, her uniform soaked with blood, trying to warn him about something he couldn’t quite hear. Her lips moved urgently, but the fog swallowed her words. He’d jerked awake with her voice in his ears: “Don’t trust what you can’t see, Brooks. Don’t trust what they tell you.”
Traci had wanted to wait for backup that day. Her instincts said the tip was wrong; the setup was too convenient. He pushed forward with the arrest warrant. Their informant was reliable. The data was solid. He dismissed her concerns as caution, insisted they had tactical advantage for two suspects.
The mandatory leave. The inquiry. The ruling was that he’d followed protocol but was a fraction too slow to save her. None of it mattered. Traci Washington was dead because he’d ignored every warning she’d tried to give him.
He pushed the thoughts away and grabbed a box cutter from his jacket pocket. Might as well start unpacking. The first box contained books, mostly crime novels and a few textbooks from his criminology courses. The second held clothes, which he carried to the bedroom. The third and fourth contained kitchen supplies and miscellaneous household items.
The last box he approached with reluctance. It was smaller than the others, sealed with extra tape, and unlabeled. Brooks knew exactly what it contained. With precise, careful movements, he cut through the tape and opened the flaps.
Inside lay his mounted commendations from the Austin PD, framed photos he could not bring himself to display but couldn’t bear to discard, and beneath them, wrapped in an old t shirt, Traci’s badge. Her family had wanted him to have it, a gesture of forgiveness he did not deserve and could not refuse. He closed the box without removing anything and slid it under the bed..
The cottage suddenly felt confining. Brooks grabbed his jacket again and stepped outside, locking the door behind him. A walk might clear his head, help him get the lay of the land. He had driven through the town center briefly before finding the landlord’s office, but had not taken the time to really look at this place that would be his home for . . . well, however long it took to outrun the ghosts that had chased him two thousand miles across the country.
His rental cottage sat on the outskirts of town, about a half mile from the historic district. The narrow road leading toward the center was framed by old growth trees and dotted with other small cottages, most in better repair than his own, with tidy gardens and fresh paint. As he walked, the houses became larger and more ornate, Victorian structures with elaborate trim and wraparound porches.
Empty houses scattered throughout the residential streets. Not just vacant—boarded up, windows covered with weathered plywood. Permanent. Entire blocks had gaps where well-maintained homes sat next to abandoned properties. Fresh paint on one Victorian, then three doors down, plywood and dead lawns. Then fresh paint again. Random. Or maybe not random at all.
Harbor Street ran parallel to the waterfront. Shops and restaurants on one side, a boardwalk overlooking the harbor on the other. Tourism money everywhere, but none of the plastic sheen. No airbrushed T-shirt shops or chain restaurants. A working harbor with authentic New England character. Boats bobbed in the water—fishing vessels, pleasure crafts and yachts big enough to live on.
The lighthouse stood at the end of the northern point. Tall, stark white against the blue autumn sky. It commanded attention from every vantage point along the harbor. Standard late nineteenth-century construction. Built to guide ships around the rocky coastline.
The lighthouse beam made its rotation in daylight. The light passed over certain buildings—the boarded-up houses he’d noticed, specific shops along Harbor Street, what looked like a small church on the hill. Probably a normal rotation pattern. But the way it lingered on specific structures caught his attention.