Storm Surge. Celia Ashley

with recognition she also recalled the stories of his reputation as a ladies’ man.

      “Paige Waters? Oh, right, you and your mother left town rather abruptly. Don’t remember the reason why, though. Something personal, I heard.”

      Stunned he had recalled her that quickly, Paige eased past the congestion at the counter. With a gesture that Dan should join her, she headed for a table and took a seat. Stauffer followed. He sat across from her and leaned his forearms on the tabletop.

      “You said you needed some information. What’s up?”

      Now that she’d come to it, Paige wasn’t sure where to begin. She could sense him sizing her up and she wondered if his womanizing behavior had persisted all these years later. Paige spun the coffee cup between her palms in a slow circle on the table, feeling the liquid’s heat through the thick paper.

      “My mom passed away almost three years ago. And then I received a letter from an attorney in January of this year notifying me my dad had passed away, too. I think it took a while for the attorney to locate me. My dad had no property, nothing to pass on. He’d had a house—our house—but I found out he’d sold it. The notification just said he died at sea. I don’t know the exact circumstances. I tried researching online but, oddly enough, couldn’t find anything. I came back to find out what I can about his life, and my mom’s, too. Perhaps you might be able to give me some assistance?”

      Dan shifted in his seat, his vest creaking, handcuffs on his belt clanking against the metal tubing of the chair. “I don’t get it. What do you hope to accomplish, digging around like this?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to dissuade you. I’m just trying to understand what you want me to look into. Do you think they were involved in something the police would know about?”

      The paper cup jerked in Paige’s grip.

      Keep your mouth shut, Paige.

      But Mom...

      “Of course not. I thought you might have some way to uncover more details about my father’s death. I don’t even know where his ship went down.”

      Considering her a moment, Dan finally nodded. “Makes sense. What was his name again?”

      “Waters, same as mine. First name Edwin.”

      “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.” Wheels turned visibly in his expression. She guessed he’d already begun formulating ideas as to why she wanted to know. During her final days, Debra Waters, in her delirium, had hinted all had not been as she’d let on since their flight from Alcina Cove. There had to be a reason Paige’s father had written her from his life. Maybe he plain hadn’t cared enough to do otherwise once he’d driven his wife away. Or possibly some of Debra Waters’ ramblings hadn’t solely been the result of opioids and cancer.

      “Where are you staying while you’re here?”

      She hedged, hesitant to share the information. Wouldn’t he think it suspicious she’d rented a place next door to her old home? “Do you have a card?” she asked. “I’ll write my cell number down.”

      He pulled a business card and a pen from his pocket. Paige scrawled the number across the back. She asked him for another card and tucked it into her purse. Clutching her coffee, she pushed back her chair and stood. Stauffer followed suit.

      “Thank you,” she said.

      “Not a problem. What about that list of names? What’s that for?”

      “People I think might be able to answer some questions.”

      “Be careful. People in this town don’t like being approached by—”

      “Outsiders,” she said. “I know. I’ve been told. Thing is, I’m not. An outsider, I mean. I’ve been away. That’s all.”

      “A long time away.”

      Right. She needed no reminders.

      * * * *

      He watched her exit the coffee shop, a damned cop on her heels. They were cordial in parting. Not like total strangers. Not like some chance meeting. What the fuck did that mean?

      Stepping behind a tree, he kept an eye on her as she crossed the street to her car. She had a nice step, long and sort of uneven. Yup, the Plain Jane daughter had turned into a fine-looking woman after all. Just like Deb.

      But first, before he placed any wagers on whether she had the personality, too, he’d better figure out why the hell she’d come back.

      Chapter 4

      “Oh, goodness, yes, come in, come in!” The face of the elderly woman who opened the door folded into a thousand smiles. Her snow-white head bobbed in greeting. Paige was taken aback by the exuberant welcome and wavered on the threshold in uncertainty.

      “Do you really know who I am?”

      “You’re the image of your mother, dear. I know that much. Come in and sit down. Tell me how your mother’s doing.”

      Chest tightening, Paige followed Beatrice Hunt—the only person on her list who’d been willing to talk to her—into the living room. Taking the seat the woman indicated, she perched at the edge of the cushion, folding her hands between her knees, purse dangling from her wrist. “Mrs. Hunt—”

      “Bea. Call me Bea.”

      “Bea—”

      “Would you like some tea, Paige?”

      Paige settled her bag on the couch arm. “No, thank you. I have sad news. Mom passed away nearly three years back after a long battle with cancer.”

      “Oh,” the woman said in a hushed voice. “I didn’t know.”

      “I’m so sorry. I thought I had notified everyone.”

      “Is your father aware?”

      Paige hesitated. The woman was speaking in the present tense. Apparently, Bea Hunt didn’t know he had died, either.

      Paige hadn’t told him about her mother. Flowers had appeared at the funeral home in his name nevertheless, leading her to assume someone she’d notified had let him know, or he had seen the small notice she had placed in the local paper. She’d spent several days agonizing over whether she should write to her father, but in the end figured her mother would rather she didn’t. The day of the service she’d considered removing the small bouquet from the room, but ultimately took the flowers home with her, together with the other arrangements that hadn’t ended up at the gravesite. The bouquet had withered, and for some reason that defied her understanding, she’d scooped up the fallen petals and put them in an envelope. The yellowed envelope still sat on the kitchen counter at home.

      “He knew,” she said. “He sent flowers.”

      “Surprising, all things considered.”

      Paige remained mum.

      “I guess I don’t have to tell you,” Bea added. “And it’s all right. We won’t talk about that.”

      “Thank you,” said Paige. “You do know Dad’s gone now, too, don’t you?”

      “Oh, well, yes, I’d heard that. I forgot for a moment. I never saw him. Your mother and I fell out of touch years back. She was always very independent, your mother. Ideas about everything. I found I couldn’t keep up.”

      Paige twisted her fingers together in her lap. “What kind of ideas?”

      “The wild kind. She once told me she wanted to be a famous singer. Now, she could sing, as you well know, but she had no control over the famous part. I told her that, but she didn’t want to hear it.”

      Shifting on the cushion, Paige shook her head. An ambition to be a singer didn’t strike her as all that wild.