Page 51 of Is Anyone Listening?
"I hope not, too. But this is the first time in my life I feel like I'm actually doing something that might matter, might make a difference in someone's life. I have to keep going."
"So do I." He glanced at me and smiled as we shared a moment of truly being on the same page.
Then the GPS announced we were approaching Cork Harbor, breaking the moment.
I sat up straighter, looking out at the larger town emerging ahead of us. Cork Harbor was definitely bigger than Stonecross—more boats in the harbor, more restaurants lining the waterfront, more tourists walking the docks. The late afternoon sun glinted off the water, and I could see why people came here. It had that picture-perfect coastal town charm.
Tyler pulled into a parking lot near the marina. As we slowed, I caught sight of two men standing near a white pickup truck at the far end of the lot. One of them looked familiar—tall, lean build, dark hair.
"Is that Cole Holloway?" I asked, peering through the windshield.
Tyler followed my gaze. "Could be. Hard to tell from here."
The two men separated, the one who might have been Cole getting into the truck and driving off before I could get a better look.
"Why would he be here?" I wondered aloud.
"He works with his uncle, Jeff Holloway. Maybe they had a charter up here."
"That makes sense," I said. But something about seeing Cole here felt wrong. Or maybe I was just suspicious of everyone now.
We parked and got out of the car, walking through the marina that was busy with late afternoon activity—boats coming in from day trips and tourists browsing the waterfront shops. The smell of fried seafood permeated the air. It would have been more pleasant under different circumstances.
"There, Carmichael Charters," Tyler said, pointing to a small office on the dock.
We walked over, but the office was closed, a Be Back Soon sign hanging in the window.
"Damn it," Tyler muttered. "This happened to me the last time I came here."
"Excuse me," I said to an older man coiling rope on a nearby boat. "Do you know where we can find Nathan Carmichael?"
The man straightened, squinting at us. "Nathan? His boat's over there." He pointed down the dock. "The Wanderer. Third one on the left."
"Thank you."
We made our way down the dock, our footsteps echoing on the weathered wood. The Wanderer was a thirty-foot boat, white with blue trim, showing signs of wear but well maintained.
"Nathan?" Tyler called out as we boarded the boat. "Hello?"
A man in his late thirties came up the stairs, his long dark hair pulled back in a small ponytail. He wore jeans and a Red Sox T-shirt. "Can I help you?"
"Nathan Carmichael?" Tyler asked.
"That's me." His eyes were wary. "Do I know you?"
"I'm Tyler. This is Cassidy. We need to talk to you about Jessica Trent."
Nathan's expression immediately closed off. "I already talked to the police about that. Months ago. There's nothing more to say."
"Actually, there is," I said, stepping forward. "You took my friend Tessa out on your boat yesterday. Along with Finn Kelly. You showed her where you found Jessica's boat."
"So?" Nathan crossed his arms, giving me a challenging look. "Is there a law against that?”
"No," I said. "But there might be a law against withholding evidence. Like a diamond ring you found on that boat and never turned over to the police."
Nathan's face went pale, then flushed red. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Tessa remembers," I said, which wasn't entirely true, but Nathan didn't need to know that. "She told us all about it. And she's at the hospital right now, being treated for injuries she sustained after spending the day with you. The hospital ran a tox screen. If you put something in her drink to make her forget what you told her, that's going to come out."
