Hidden Identity. Carol J. Post

group had gathered. When the plane went down, she’d been alone. Now three boats dotted the shoreline. With her focus on the fire guys, and their motor left idling, she hadn’t even heard the others approach. At least none of them looked to be reporters.

      Within moments, a low rumble filled the air and a helicopter approached to circle the island, Channel 20 News, WCJB-TV painted clearly on the side. Meagan flinched, the instinct to run and hide overpowering. Seahorse Key was covered in trees, but at low tide there would be any number of places for the aircraft to land.

      She gave a couple sharp tugs on the pull rope, and her motor roared to life. As she raced toward the island, Hunter matched her speed. Ten or twelve sets of eyes watched them approach. One of the bystanders was Buddy, a local fisherman. The others she didn’t know. Probably tourists.

      The moment she stepped ashore, she was inundated with questions. She held up a hand. “The pilot didn’t make it. The other guy’s unconscious. That’s all I know.”

      The terse answer had the intended effect. The curious group fell back, and she hurried down the path leading to the lighthouse. Hunter followed. The chopper descended a short distance east of them and disappeared behind the trees. She corralled the urge to leave everything and run back to her boat, and instead willed herself to remain calm. But as she jammed the unfinished canvas into her portfolio case, anxiety chipped away at her composure and her hands shook.

      Hunter lightly touched her forearm. “Are you all right?”

      He had likely intended the gesture to be comforting. But she jumped as if she’d been burned. “I’m fine. I’m just ready to head home and get into some dry clothes.” She pushed her dripping bangs aside and forced a smile.

      He didn’t return it. His mouth was set in a firm line. Of course he would see right through her excuses. He was a cop. And behind that handsome face was a discerning mind that wouldn’t give up its quest for the truth.

      She snatched up the chair and began to fold it. Hunter picked up the cloth cover and held it open.

      “Tell me what’s going on. What are you afraid of?”

      Her heart began to pound, and moisture coated her palms. As she slid the chair into its case, she gave an uneasy laugh. “Spiders. Snakes. The usual things women are afraid of.” Drowning. Edmund.

      More than anything, Edmund. Her dream come true. How quickly dreams could become nightmares.

      She tucked her portfolio case under one arm and slipped the other through the camera bag strap. Leaving Hunter to follow with the chair, she started back up the path at a full jog.

      His footsteps pounded behind her. “That’s not what I meant.”

      No, that wasn’t what he meant. But it was the only answer she could give. Her life depended on keeping her identity secret.

      From everyone. Even handsome, kindhearted cops.

      Especially handsome, kindhearted cops.

      When they reached the beach, three people had joined the others, two loaded down with camera equipment and a third holding a microphone.

      One of the tourists pointed. “That’s her there.”

      Before Meagan could react, all attention turned to her. A camera clicked, and a DVR began to record. She threw her hand up a half second too late.

      No! They couldn’t put her picture on the news. The only reason she was alive was because the world believed Elaina Thomas was dead. Her hair was different, cut short and dyed dark. But her face was still the same.

      “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you tell us what happened?”

      With her head dipped, she placed her portfolio and camera bag into the boat, ignoring the reporter’s words. Hunter loaded the chair, and she continued her tasks—pushing the boat off the beach and into the water, moving her things to make way for her wet feet, and finally stepping into the boat.

      Not getting anywhere with her, the reporter turned his attention to Hunter. “Someone said the lady pulled Senator Daniels from the plane. Can you verify that?”

      Meagan gripped the pull rope and started the motor. As she began to back away, Hunter’s voice came to her over the rumble of the four-horse.

      “She did. She’s a hero.” He glanced toward her, then continued. “But apparently she’s a modest hero and doesn’t want the recognition. I think we should respect that.”

      “What’s her name?”

      She shifted into forward, holding her breath. Hunter wouldn’t give her away, would he?

      He gave a noncommittal shrug. “She’s not from around here.”

      She turned the throttle and let her breath out in a rush. The reporter would assume she was a tourist and wouldn’t look any further. And since Buddy had returned to his fishing, no one on the beach knew her. At that moment, she could have kissed Hunter.

      What he had said was true—she wasn’t from around there. She’d been in Cedar Key all of two months. Ever since her cross-country bus trip following her middle-of-the-night escape from her psycho ex-fiancé.

      It wasn’t just the abuse. It was the threats to her family. And the fact that she had learned Edmund’s secret. And Edmund knew it. So she’d had no choice. Edmund would have never let her go.

      Unless she was dead.

      So she’d faked a fever with the help of a heating pad, gathered up minimal belongings and disappeared. Edmund’s rowboat would have been found the next day with her blood on the gunnel and her hair caught under one of the oar brackets, pulled out by the roots. There would have been only one conclusion: in her delirious state, she’d taken the boat out, hit her head, tumbled overboard and drowned. In spring-fed lakes, bodies could disappear indefinitely. Edmund knew her fear of water. And that she couldn’t swim.

      He had underestimated her determination. And the effectiveness of YouTube videos.

      A day and a half later, she’d shown up in Cedar Key with all the accoutrements of her new life—two changes of clothes, a few toiletries, a single loved photo, a bag of cash and new IDs. And an old book of poetry, cherished because it had belonged to the closest thing to a friend she’d had in over a year.

      She cast a glance back at Seahorse Key. The reporters had turned their attention from Hunter and appeared to be speaking with the woman who had ratted her out. Tension spread through Meagan’s shoulders, and she shook it off. The woman didn’t know anything that could hurt her. Hunter did, but he had read her fear and, without knowing her past, had chosen to protect her.

      She released a sigh and turned back around. The mouth of the channel was ahead, the route that would take her home.

      Home. The word didn’t mean what it used to. But she had come to accept that. With no real connections to the community, home would never be any more than an address. And a temporary one at that.

      The night she fled from California, she’d walked away from everything—her family, her possessions, a promising art career.

      But she was alive. Her mother and sister were alive.

      And that was all that mattered.

      * * *

      Clouds hung low in a steel-gray sky, and a rain-scented breeze swept down Second Street. Another August thundershower on its way. It was only five-thirty, but already the heaviness of impending dusk had settled over Cedar Key.

      Hunter walked around the corner of Tony’s Seafood Restaurant. He was still in uniform and had just picked up dinner to go. Ahead of him, Meagan stepped from The Market, a plastic grocery bag hanging from each arm. Since the plane crash two weeks ago, he’d seen her a handful of times. But never alone. Maybe this was his opportunity to find out how she was doing.

      She’d been in such a hurry to get off Seahorse Key. It hadn’t worked. The