Page 3 of Tangled Past
Chapter One
Hope Island, Maine
Present Day
The island emerged from the mist like a ghost resurrected.
Asa Dutton drove across the bridge that spread across the waters of the Atlantic connecting the mainland to Hope Island, Maine. Each rotation of his truck’s tires seemed to echo the beat of Asa’s pulse.
His gaze fixed on the smear of land rising through the mist. He hadn’t set foot here in twenty-five years. Not since the night the storm took his father and left him with nothing but questions and nightmares.
Despite the bitter late-December day, Asa rolled the window down. Seagulls cried out as they circled above. The same birds he remembered chasing along the beach as a boy. Back then the island had felt endless, a world built of pine woods and rocky coves, a place where his father’s shadow stretched over every street. Now it seemed smaller. Tighter. Like a cage.
His hand touched the thin case file on the passenger seat. Too thin for a murder that had shattered a community. A police report with very little in it, including witness statements.
At the very bottom of the folder was the photograph, creased and smudged with age. It showed a little girl. Four years old. Tangled dark curls , a stuffed rabbit clutched in her arms. Eyes wide, empty with shock.
She was the only one besides the killer who might know what happened that night.
Her name was Maya Callahan. She’d been adopted, given a name, and raised by a family on the island. Both parents had died in a car accident when Maya was in her early twenties. Maya still lived on the island in the family’s home. She’d recently started managing the Tide & Thyme Bistro for its owner who was away on vacation.
Asa’s jaw tightened.
She was the key to unlocking the decades-old murder of his father. Asa was done waiting for answers that would never come.
At the end of the bridge, he’d reached his destination. Hope Island, Maine. Everything still looked the same. Even the air smelled like he remembered. Of pine. Salt. Smoke from woodstoves curling out of chimneys along the harbor.
A dozen memories hit him at once. Riding his bike down Main Street, skipping rocks at low tide, sitting on his father’s shoulders during the Fourth of July parade. Memories he’d buried deep now clawed their way back.
Asa forced himself to focus. He wasn’t here to relive memories. He was here for the truth.
Fishing boats bobbed against their moorings. The Mariner’s Catch Bistro still resided at the corner of Main and Harbor, but time had left its scars on the island, too. Several empty storefronts grabbed his attention. A “For Sale” sign hung cockeyed in the old hardware shop window.
There was an air of things left undone, and under it all hovered the weight of whispers. The kind that clung to a place after a murder remained unsolved.
He drove slowly while searching for the weathered white building that was part of a group of shops. A sign above the door announced Hope Island Securities. This was it.
Asa slipped into a parking spot across the street and climbed out with the folder in hand. Would he find the answers he’d longed for with the help of this skilled investigation team? He sure hoped so, because the facts in that folder were slim, and his only witness didn’t remember a thing.
Reaching the business, Asa drew in a shallow breath before he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Warmth greeted him. The scent of coffee brewing, a faint hum of computers, the quiet murmur of voices.
A man in his forties looked up from a desk, dark hair brushing his collar, his eyes sharp despite the easy smile. JT Wyatt. Asa recognized him from research. Former Ranger. One of the founders of the firm that had become the island’s private line of defense.
“You must be Asa Dutton.” JT stood and extended his hand. His grip was firm, his gaze steady. “We’ve been expecting you.”
Asa nodded once. “Appreciate you seeing me.”
Behind JT, another figure leaned against the wall. Declan Thomas, if Asa wasn’t mistaken from the website he’d pored over. His watchful eyes said he was measuring Asa already. Janine Blackwell passed by with a file under her arm, offering a polite nod but not stopping.
JT gestured toward a chair. “You said this was about your father’s case.”
“That’s correct.” Asa dropped into the chair and slid the thin file onto the desk. “Raymond Dutton, my father. Chief of police. Murdered here in 2000.”
JT flipped the folder open, his brows tightening as he skimmed the scant reports. “There’s not much here. I believe the case is still unsolved?” JT’s sharp gaze found his.
“That’s right.” Asa leaned forward, his voice low, controlled. “But there’s someone who might hold those answers. She was found in the barn where my father died. A little girl. No ID. No family. She was adopted a year later. Grew up here.”
