Saltwater Graves: A totally gripping crime thriller (Detective Casey White Book 3) Read online

  I’d arrived at the eastern barrier islands for a respite during the latter part of the previous summer, but I had also come to continue my search for Hannah. I’d been following up on an old lead, the case having a possible connection to her kidnapping. And although I was the detective, it was Hannah who’d found me. It was the sweetest possible relief after years of searching. Now the two of us were navigating what it was to be mother and daughter again, chasing time to make up for the loss of it.

  One more minute, according to the timer. My pants were crumpled around my bare feet, and I realized I was still sitting on the toilet for no reason at all. I got up, the empty tub across from me turning on its side, a heady lightness making me shut my eyes and brace against the sink and wall. I had felt like this before, the memory a strong one from the first time I’d been pregnant.

  I turned off the timer and put my phone back in my pocket. My hands shook, palms sweaty, a hot stew in my gut urging me to look at the pregnancy test.

  “Casey?” I heard Jericho calling. He appeared in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, glancing at the test perched on the sink and drying my hands nervously against my legs. “What are you doing here?”

  He was clean-shaven and dressed in one of his best suits, a Vote Flynn to Win button neatly pinned to his lapel, his wavy brown hair combed back. A television interview was scheduled for early afternoon. His eyes narrowed, showing more green than blue in my apartment’s light, a deep concern cutting ridges between his eyebrows as he said, “I got a call that you’d left work sick.”

  When it came to working at the largest police station in the Outer Banks, there were no secrets. Especially when your boyfriend had been the sheriff for as many years as Jericho had, and was running for office. He knew everyone and everyone knew me.

  “Someone called you?” I asked. In the years since I’d become the lead detective, I’d never been ill, had never called in sick or even had a cold. I’d had a feeling that my abruptly leaving in the middle of a team meeting would raise a question or two. “Dr. Swales?”

  Jericho gave a nod, catching the annoyance in my voice. Dr. Terri Swales was the town’s medical examiner. She was also one of Jericho’s closest friends. “She was concerned.”

  “That’s sweet, but what about your interview?”

  He checked his phone, a screen showing a list of messages. “Rescheduled,” he answered, though I could tell he was lying. A part of me was glad he’d lied, that he was here with me, the pregnancy test sitting on the sink waiting to be read.

  His eyes flashed with the bathroom light as he spotted the plastic stick. I didn’t try to hide it and picked it up, covering it in my palm so I couldn’t see the results. “I’m late,” I told him, my voice shaking.

  With those two words, Jericho’s expression changed instantly with a recognition I was certain had been shared by every man who had ever heard the same phrase.

  “How late?” he asked, brow raised, an odd smile showing.

  “Almost two weeks,” I answered with a stir of excitement as I rechecked the math in my head.

  “Well?” he asked, a smile inching from ear to ear. I almost burst into tears, his reaction answering one of my biggest concerns. “Aren’t you going to look?”

  “I can’t,” I said, hands trembling.

  “Together?” Jericho said, emotion breaking in his voice. My knees were weak and my head felt light again. I dropped to sit, and he joined me, no care for wrinkling his suit. Shifting closer to me as I held the test in front of us, he cupped my hand, and said, “On three?”

  “Okay,” I answered, barely able to get the word out.

  “One,” he began, his voice changing as the excitement grew. “Two.”

  “Three,” I blurted, opening my palm flat, the test results revealed.

  I held my breath. I had to hear his reaction before I said another word. Jericho studied the results, all emotion gone from his face. Then tears stood in his eyes, and his smile returned. “Question now is, do we have a little girl, or a little boy?”

  TWO

  We’d decided to share the news after breakfast the next day. We were both nervous, having no idea how Jericho’s son Ryan and my daughter Hannah would react. Jericho side-eyed me, biting his lip, ready to reveal the news to all. I gave him a warning glance, the fun of it almost unbearable. Hannah definitely caught on to the shenanigans, but said nothing. No matter what she was thinking, she was definitely going to be surprised, and I hoped it was in a good way.

  “This French toast is terrific,” Jericho said. My stomach was surprisingly settled as the smell of our late breakfast filled the kitchen. He stabbed another piece, holding it in the air, looking at Ryan. “When did you learn to make this?”

  “Wasn’t me,” Ryan said, giving Hannah a nod. “I only assisted.”

  “You did this?” I asked, happily surprised. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “I’ve got a few tricks,” she said. “You should see what I can do with a can of Spam.”

  “Spam?” Ryan asked, and grimaced jokingly, clutching at his throat as though sick. He shook his head, saying, “Hard pass!”

  “Hey, I like the stuff,” I warned. “It’s not as Philly as scrapple, but it’s in the top ten.”

  “No, not scrapple!” Jericho mocked with a shout, dropping his fork and mirroring Ryan with his hands around his throat.

  “I love scrapple,” Hannah said, delight in her eyes. “I should have added that.”

  We laughed a long minute, before quieting to finish breakfast. I couldn’t stop smiling, though, the news pressing to come out. I glanced at Jericho to see that he was feeling the same, the two of us like children the night before Christmas.

  Hannah took to her phone between bites of food. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her piercings gone, and her neck tattoo covered slightly with makeup. She’d been changing subtly since entering my life again, working a lot of hours while going back to school. I touched my own neck, asking, “Why did you cover it up? It’s so beautiful.”

  “Really?” she asked, dimples showing with a faint red warming her cheeks, glancing at Jericho and Ryan to gauge their reactions. She cocked her head bashfully. “I wasn’t sure it fit in.”

  “Who cares what fits with what. Just be you,” Ryan said, his mouth full as he flashed her a smile. “Who knows, maybe I’ll get one too.”

  “What? What’s that?” Jericho spoke abruptly, then laughed it off, adding, “Let me know when; I might join you.”

  “You guys are full of jokes,” Hannah said, sounding more comfortable.

  “Seriously, Dad?” Ryan asked. “Can I get one?”

  “We’ll talk about it,” Jericho told his son.

  Ryan was a mirror image of his parents. I could see resemblances to both Jericho and Jessie from any angle. Approaching nineteen, a freshman in college, he had Jericho’s wavy hair but without the salt-and-pepper grays, and with light brown highlights like his mother’s. He also shared Jericho’s eye color, a rich blue-green, but they were Jessie’s eyes too, the shape of them matching what I’d seen in the framed photographs Jericho kept in the house. He was home for the summer, working long shifts as a lifeguard. While we only saw him a few times a week, I could always tell it made Jericho happy to have him near.

  “Ryan’s right, you only need to be you,” I told Hannah.

  “Thanks, guys,” she answered, her eyes fixed on Ryan. It was great to see them getting along. They’d hit it off almost instantly, the two of them sharing the same interests, talking movies and music. Ryan had even offered to help Hannah with school, where she was studying to take a high-school equivalency exam. With a diploma, she’d mentioned taking some classes at the local community college in the fall.

  I eased back into my chair, a sudden burst of emotion warming my insides with a giddiness that pushed upward like a park fountain and forced a smile across my lips. I covered my mouth with a napkin, not wa
nting anyone to see. For the first time since my daughter’s kidnapping, I had a family again.

  The touch of Jericho’s hand on my shoulder came with a soft sting in the corner of my eye. I put my hand on my belly, imagining a high chair between the two of us, an eruption of baby sounds, a tray covered with bits of French toast and sticky with syrup, a stub of crust in the baby’s fist, half chewed. Was that what this scene would be like a year from now? I pinched my eyelids shut, wishing it with all of my being, with every fiber of me.

  “Babe?” Jericho asked.

  “I’m good,” I answered, my hand on his, a smirk forming on his face, knowing I was about to break the news.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” Ryan asked, dropping his fork onto his plate. He folded his arms, casting a glare at each of us. “There’s news? Don’t tell me you’re moving?”

  “Well, yes and no,” I said. His brow rose as Jericho speared another stack of French toast. “My apartment’s lease is up at the end of the month.”

  “We’ve been talking,” Jericho began with some hesitation. “We decided to move in together.”

  Hannah stopped mid chew, the news of a move coming as a surprise. She had only just settled in with me, and I could see she was afraid. Her life had been filled with lies, and after a tumultuous year living in a corrupt detention center, she ended up on the streets. “All of us!” I said, reaching across the table, taking hold of her fingers.

  “Yes,” Jericho said. He dared a touch of affection, his hand on her arm briefly. “I thought you would like the guest bedroom. It has a full bath, all yours, private.”

  “Really?” she answered as Ryan’s interest in the conversation waned and he seized another slice of toast, shoving it into his mouth. She searched his face, looking for a response. “You’re okay with it?”

  Ryan shrugged. “The more the merrier.” Though he barely showed it, I could see he was considering the change. Jericho could too. This was his mother’s home—a house she’d rebuilt, restoring it over the years. And it was the only home Ryan knew. His knee bobbed, his shoe tapping the floor, a look of concern appearing. “Do you think that maybe we could keep some of Mom’s things around, though?” he asked.

  “Ryan, of course we can,” his father answered, his voice breaking.

  Ryan gave a nod, focus shifting from me to Hannah and then to his father. “It’ll be good to fill this big house,” he said, offering a reserved grin. “I think Mom would want it that way.”

  There was a sense of relief in the room, clearing the air enough for me to risk what I had to tell them next. Jericho’s eyes were locked on mine, waiting for me. “Thank you,” I began, my nerves shaky. “We’ve still got a few weeks, giving us time to pack and get things sorted. And then the three of us will be here. Me and Hannah, and your new baby sister or brother.”

  Ryan gave a nod, slow, his head moving and then stopping as the words registered. “No way!” he laughed. “A baby! That’s awesome.”

  “Really?” Hannah asked, the shock on her face priceless. “You guys are having a baby?”

  Ryan raised his hand. “I can babysit, but I’m not so sure about changing any stinky diapers.”

  I took a moment, looking at Jericho and Ryan and then Hannah. I had a family, and we were adding one more to our happy home.

  The moment was stolen as my phone buzzed. As I read the message, the warm family gathering feeling drained out of me like water through a sieve. I cleared my throat and wiped my lips, Jericho’s hand on my arm, understanding on his face. A body had been discovered, and it was my job to determine if it was murder.

  THREE

  “Female, mid forties,” I said, taking a knee next to the body. The woman’s skin was pale and creased by deep grooves, the morning light reflecting in her dead eyes, the side of her head partially buried and her arms and hands covered entirely with sand.

  “Detective White.” Tracy Fields greeted me as she took a photograph. Daybreak colors glowed on her face and her sandy hair, lightened by the sun. She smiled with a show of dimples that reminded me how much she looked like my daughter, and how close they were in age.

  “Tracy,” I said, motioning to the victim’s exposed neck and shoulder. Without missing a beat, the camera’s strobe struck with a blinding flash, its charge cycling, followed by two more. “Good, get coverage of her torso and legs too.”

  Without questioning, Tracy followed my lead. She was the youngest crime-scene technician I’d ever worked with, and also one of the brightest, having received multiple certificates and college degrees at a very young age. I’d gotten close to her, mentoring her and helping with school and career decisions. She worked full-time on my team while she continued her path to becoming a crime-scene investigator, which I was sure was just one of many successful careers she’d have in her lifetime. “Anyone else joining us?” she asked.

  I checked the time and the running surf, then shook my head. “For now, I think we’re alone on this one.” I tapped my watch. “Time-sensitive.”

  Tracy followed my gaze into the ocean and refocused her camera, a ring flash mounted on the nose of the lens. “The surf buried some of the victim’s body. Should we roll her?”

  “Not quite yet,” I answered, adjusting my position carefully. Air bubbles erupted through the sand, threatening to steal my foot. “Female, early to mid forties,” I repeated, making an adjustment while flicking a ghost crab from the victim’s neck. There was substantial evidence of the critters having consumed portions of the body, the fattier pockets of flesh gnawed. “Get a picture of this,” I said, motioning to the damage, believing it might assist us in constructing a feasible timeline.

  As Tracy framed the pictures, she said, “That’s not something I’ll ever get used to seeing.”

  “You shouldn’t have to,” I said. “But they’ll help tell a story.”

  “Like the flies we see further inland,” she commented, referring to fly larvae and other insects infesting a body, their presence used to determine time of death.

  “Correct.”

  Although the side of the victim’s face was covered by sand, I saw enough to make out her appearance. Short salt-and-pepper hair framed a narrow face with high cheekbones. She wore a pale blue jogging outfit, the kind meant for working out. Her legs below the knees were buried in the sand too, one heel showing, the color bright and easily mistaken for a seashell. Her running shoes were missing, her feet bare. “No blunt trauma immediately evident,” I continued.

  “She drowned?” Tracy asked, bright speculation on her face. “Drinking and a late-night swim?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, eyeing the woman’s hands, her slender fingers interlaced and poking through the packed sand like colorless flower stems. “It’s the clothes. Exercising, yes. But a swim when fully dressed?”

  A car engine rumbled over the breaking waves, the medical examiner’s van pulling up to the scene and parking along the packed sand, which glistened wet and reflected the blue and red flashing lights of the pair of beach patrol vehicles bordering the scene. I gave the island’s chief medical examiner a nod as she exited the vehicle and followed a rutted footpath toward us. Dr. Swales ducked beneath twisted yellow and black crime-scene tape slung from the beach patrol vehicles, the corners anchored.

  “Be right there,” she said, stopping at the patrol car, holding her finger in the air. “Gloves and boots.” Her rigor for protocol was a constant, regardless of where we were. She stuck her familiar dark-green Crocs in a bootie box, the elastic of the shoe covers snapping around her ankles. Latex gloves went on next, the wind batting the empty fingers like a balloon until she sleeved them thoroughly.

  “Morning,” I said.

  “Detective,” she answered. A rush of seawater ran toward her feet. She peered over a thick pair of fogged glasses, nudging her chin toward the receding wave, a frown forming. “Looks like we’ll have to make this quick.

  I checked my phone, opening an app Jericho had suggested: a chart showing th
e times when low and high tides would occur. Urgency ticked, a clock setting in motion like a countdown. “We only have forty minutes before all of this is under water.”

  “We’ll be racing the tide,” Dr. Swales said, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Derek!” she yelled over the surf and wind. “We’re falling short on time. Get the van ready to receive the body.”

  When she rejoined us, her glasses slipping to the end of her nose, I said, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I heard the call over the radio,” she answered, her frizzy hair blown briefly across her face. She pointed toward the ocean’s lip curving unevenly, the hazy surf a blur of white and blue along an endless coastline. “This is almost in my backyard.”

  “It’s good to have you,” I said, my confidence firmed knowing what she’d lend to this investigation. “We better make the most of the time we have.”

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Discussing the possibility of a drowning,” Tracy answered.

  “And?”

  “I’m questioning it,” I said, motioning to the woman’s outfit, the jogging pants and top. “Especially with the exercise clothes.”

  “Drowning is still a possibility,” Dr. Swales replied. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “I suppose. But odd that her shoes are missing,” I commented.

  Tracy took another picture, adding, “She could have taken off her sneakers before going in the water?”