Page 33 of Love Always

“Do you want a sandwich or something? I can make one to go. Get you a malted?”

How young do I look?

“No, that’s okay. I’ve got work at Weaver’s in about an hour.”

“Sorry,” she says. The bell on the door tinkles on my way out.

What a waste of time and gas. When I get to my car though, there’s a slip of paper under the windshield wiper. I look at the signs on the street, but this is not a limited parking area. Then I realize it’s not a ticket. It’s an old receipt with some writing in pen.

Forgot my wallet. Grabbed a sandwich from the street cart. Meet me down by the breakwater. SORRY!

My phone clock is telling me I have no time for this. The breakwater is at the northern end of town and too far to walk, given I have like thirty minutes before I have to head back for work.

There are no cars in the parking lot, not that I was expecting any. The breakwater is a great summer spot. Built in 1880, it spans more than 4,300 feet into the water, is forty feet wide, and it’s made out of 700,000 tons of local granite all fitted together like a puzzle. At the very end is a lighthouse, built in 1902, but like all the lighthouses now, it’s electric and no one lives there. I used to love going out on the breakwater with the whole family on Sundays, mid-mornings, when we could get away and Dad wasn’t out on a call.

And there’s Colleen, sitting facing the ocean, her sandwich in hand, the paper fluttering in the breeze. It’s freezing out here.

The rocks are dry—it takes a major storm or snow to leave them wet. She’s only about a quarter of the way down, where the rocks bend into the sea and the flat walking area breaks into great places to sit in the tumble of rocks. But the wind is kicking up and the waves must make it hard for her to hear me. She still doesn’t see me either. She’s propped herself in the rocks.

I’m about thirty feet from her when I try to call out. “Hey! Colleen, I can’t stay.” But she still doesn’t turn around.

It’s at this moment the paper in her hands snaps free and blows into the rocks before catching an up drift and disappearing. The sandwich tumbles from her lap.

“Want me to get this,” I say, coming around. I squat down next to her and throw my legs over the edge of rock. “What’s the deal with—” and then I stop.

Her face is pale, the streak of pink in her hair, splattered with blood.

There’s a small hole in her forehead and blood drips from there to her nose and into her lap.

I fall trying to get up and away from her, twisting my ankle in between the rocks. Someone is screaming. It’s me.

Chapter Eight

Mateus

I’m just pulling out of the gravel parking lot when two things happen. My phone rings and Finn slams into my window. He motions to roll it down, but it’s already engaged.

“Get up to the breakwater in Rockland, now.”

I glance at my phone. It’s a 207 number I don’t recognize.

Finn goes on: “That’s going to be Detective Carlson. Answer it and tell him you’re on your way.”

He’s correct. It’s a gruff sounding guy who immediately identifies himself as Jack Carlson with the Rockland Police Department. Finn’s busy mouthing the next words I tell the detective. “I have no comment right now.” Finn taps his watch, “But I’m coming to you, will be there in … fifteen minutes.”

Carlson gives me his badge number, which I immediately memorize, repeat back to him, and hang up.

Finn’s voice is low and serious. “We’ve got two things going on right now. The Chris Proctor thing—” Our meeting with Bryce upstairs was about Chris Proctor who had skipped out on his parents the night before and we think is heading south. “—And,” he looks at me and puts both hand on the door. Whatever it is, it’s bad. He clenches his jaw. “That girl that was here last night? The little blonde one? Laurel just found her body on the breakwater.”

For a moment, everything is crystal clear. Finn gives me fast directions to the breakwater, the address of the Russo family’s attorney, and he texts me the guy’s phone number.

“Do the girls know?”

He shakes his head. “This all just happened. Claire’s out on a call, Devon’s at the fire station, and Chloe has Cory. I’ll tell them.” He pauses. “You go to her. I’ve got to drive to Portland with Bryce and Jackson. Nic’s coming up from Boston. You help Laurel deal with the police while we go and find that kid.”

΅

When I pull into the parking lot there are two ambulances, six police cars and several unmarked vehicles. Slamming the car door, I trot down the dirt road searching for her. Out on the breakwater there’s a gurney but they have not removed the body yet and are taking measurements, photos, securing the scene. Two reporters are held back behind police lines. I ask one of the cops where Detective Carlson is, rattle off his badge number, and he points me toward a car in front of the trees between the path and bay.