Sea Struck (Lupine Bay Book 3) Read online

  Sea Struck

  Maribel Fox

  Copyright © 2019 by Maribel Fox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  For our fans who so patiently waited for this installment.

  You make it all worthwhile.

  1

  Callie

  The warring crashes of wind and waves makes me hold the headphones tight against my ears, straining for the tiniest beep to give me a glimmer of hope.

  The further I walk down the beach, the more I start to think Trenton might’ve been right about this place.

  No, I tell myself firmly as a gust of wind blows half my hair free from its messy bun. Resting the metal detector against my thigh, I set to work fixing my hair while giving myself yet another pep talk.

  Trenton’s a fool. He doesn’t know that there’s nothing here anymore than I know that there’s something. But that’s the whole point of an investigation, isn’t it? Isn’t that what we, as archaeologists, are all about? Wild treasure hunts that may or may not produce results?

  Guess this one was a little too wild for my team back home, but that’s why I decided to take matters into my own hands.

  Of course, when I set off for my self-imposed sabbatical, I figured I’d find something worth rubbing their noses in.

  Instead, in almost a month, I’ve found nothing.

  Bubkus.

  Zilch.

  Nada.

  I’ve been combing this dreary beach day after day with my metal detector, eyes glued to the sand for any glint or shimmer.

  When I was a kid, there were loads of treasures on the beach. I seemed to always be finding weird rocks and other things that sparked my curiosity enough to lead me into this line of work. And I’ve never forgotten the spoils of my youth, but I don’t have access to my old collection anymore, so any study we conduct of the area is going to hinge on finding new materials.

  Which isn’t happening.

  The dark clouds above break into a light drizzle, making my hair cling to my head, my fingertips starting to go numb from the cold. I’ve got a couple layers of weather-proof gear on, but there’s something about this weather that still manages to seep in and drag me down.

  Am I wasting my time back in Lupine Bay? When I left, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be back, and now that I am…

  Well, it seems like maybe I shouldn’t be.

  Could it be that I’m misremembering what I found on this beach as a kid? Ascribing false importance to boring rocks?

  Or maybe everything’s been washed away or picked over by tourists. There are more people in town than I remember from my childhood — more storms, too. The Oregon coast is known for being drizzly and gray, but I don’t remember there ever being such a long stretch without a break of blue sky before. I haven’t seen it at all since I’ve been here, and that’s not helping my mood.

  I just feel like I’m missing something. Something that’s got to be staring me right in the face.

  Even though my metal detector is rated for light rain, it doesn’t like the moisture and starts giving me static noise, the signal worthless until I can dry off the sensors.

  Great.

  I slump down, taking a seat on a nearby boulder and rip the headphones off with a huff, eyes drawn to the ocean.

  It makes me shudder. The dark blue-gray depths, murky and dangerous, the unrelenting power, churning the seas, forming the continents around the world. There’s a haunting mystery to it. A beckoning call that chills me to my core as I pull my knees up to my chest, tucking them under my chin.

  For all its allure, the ocean is a deadly place. A place I’ve done my damnedest to avoid thanks to the fear my dad instilled in me.

  But what if the clues I’m looking for are out there?

  “Hi.”

  I start at the little girl’s voice, head whipping around to look over my shoulder at her.

  “Hi,” I say back, recognizing her from the Drowning Duck — a diner I’ve been frequenting since I returned. They’ve got killer breakfast. I don’t remember her name, if I know it at all — kids aren’t really my thing — and I’m not sure what she’s doing out here, unsupervised in a storm.

  Nonetheless, I work to force a smile, breaking into a gag as she steps closer and I get a whiff of the rotten meat smell coming off her. That can’t be healthy.

  “What’s that?” she asks, pointing to the metal detector, head tilted to the side, beaded braids clacking together when she moves.

  “It helps me look for stuff underground,” I say, turning slightly to be upwind of her.

  “Like bodies?” she asks, eyes going wide. “Well how do you know?” she snaps suddenly to the empty space beside her.

  “Uh… No. Just metal things.” Do I need to be worried about her? She’s talking to people that aren’t here, asking about bodies, and smells like something dead.

  It seems like I should probably mention this to someone, but what am I going to say? There’s a weird little girl on the beach asking me questions? Hardly hurting anything.

  Besides, when was the last time anyone actually seemed interested in what I do?

  “What are you looking for?” she asks, eyes darting back to that empty space, making my skin itch with goosebumps. It’s uncanny how intently she seems to see something where there’s nothing.

  Then again, she’s out here all alone. Maybe she needs a friend wherever she can get one. Doubt there are many kids that want to hang out with the smelly goth girl.

  I shrug as the tide pushes waves closer.

  “I’m not sure, really. I used to live here when I was a kid, and I found all kinds of neat stuff. Now that I’m back as a grown-up, I can’t seem to find anything at all.”

  The girl nods sagely, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “I know what you need to do,” she says with complete conviction.

  I’m not sure whether to be annoyed or amused, but since I’ve been annoyed enough as it is of late, I go with amused, barely holding back a smirk.

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

  “Use your feet,” she says with another decisive nod.

  “My… feet?” I ask, skeptical and confused.

  The girl nods, beads clacking again.

  “Yeah! Walk through the sand, climb the dunes, play in the water — you’ll find stuff for sure! That’s how I always do,” she says, beaming proudly. Clearly, she’s provided the perfect solution and I’m just not getting it.

  “Thanks, that’s a good idea,” I say with another — tiny — forced smile. She’s a kid. She means well, and has no idea how insulting it is to tell me to walk around barefoot in lieu of conducting actual research.


  “Don’t mention it. I’ll bring you anything I find too, in case it’s important,” she says, glancing back towards her imaginary friend. “I know,” she hisses to the air.

  “That’s very helpful, thank you,” I say with mock seriousness. I can’t wait for all the useless twigs and shells she dumps at my feet hoping it’s important.

  “I’m Nora,” the girl says, extending her hand. That catches me off-guard. What kind of kid offers a handshake to a stranger?

  “Callie,” I answer, shaking her hand cautiously anyway, eyes slightly narrowed.

  “I look forward to our working relationship,” she says, somehow surprising me even more before she runs off.

  I’m left on the beach alone, more than a little bewildered by the whole encounter.

  What a weird kid.

  I glance over at the metal detector, thinking about what she said. Use your feet.

  Ridiculous.

  Thunder rolls in the distance, and I know that’s the end of my working day out here. Even if my gear wasn’t failing in the rain, lightning isn’t something to screw around with. Especially not when you’re walking on an unobstructed stretch of beach with a metal rod in your hand.

  I’m stubborn, and maybe too dedicated to my work at times, but I’m not stupid. Thunder means it’s time to pack up and face this dreary wet job another day.

  Secretly — or not-so-secretly, since I have no one to keep secrets from — I’m kind of grateful for the reprieve. I’ve done digs in all kinds of extreme temperatures, in pouring rain, at camps where the comforts of modernity seemed like a distant dream of a fictional world. But today?

  Today I’m feeling it. I’m feeling the drag of coming up empty again. I’m feeling the strain of failure start to take its toll.

  Taking the afternoon off is probably a good idea, even if I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.

  With my gear all packed up, I start to trudge off toward town, thinking of a big stack of fluffy pancakes at the Duck, my mouth watering with the image of glistening syrup covering every carby square centimeter. My stomach grumbles, and then my brain finally catches up, bringing up thoughts of Iseul, the cook at the diner. He’s got an easy charm that always puts me at ease. He’s fun, carefree, and a wizard at the griddle.

  What more could I ask for?

  Problem with the Duck is that Nora hangs out there a lot, and after our earlier conversation, I’m not really eager to run into her again. I’ve had enough of little Wednesday Addams for one day. Enough of kids, period. Nothing against Nora, to be honest.

  And while we’re being honest, it’s not pancakes I’m after. Not in this mood I’m in. Today, I’m thinking booze is the answer. Maybe that’ll drown out the mantra of Trenton’s laughter echoing on a loop in my head.

  Maybe getting drunk will help me forget that I’m risking my credibility on what could amount to a wild goose chase.

  Seems like a long shot, but one I’m willing to take.

  And if I’m looking to get drunk, what better place than the bar attached to the B&B I’m staying at? So convenient to have that. They charge the drinks to my room, and when I’m done, I don’t even have to go outside. I just stumble upstairs to my cozy room with the canopy bed and ocean-view.

  I’ve been staying at Brigid’s for almost a month, and I’ve settled into a little routine of sorts. The people that hang around The Shamrock are almost always the same, and I’ve gotten to know a couple of them enough to be friendly.

  None as well as the bartender, though. For obvious reasons.

  “Hey girl!” Rue exclaims brightly as I slide onto a barstool, my stomach still sour from a shitty day on the beach. I try to put on a brave face for her, but I’m lucky that she’s got something on her mind keeping her from spotting it.

  “I’m glad you’re here! We just got our latest liquor shipment in and I got the rum you like,” she says, beaming.

  I pause, frowning. “The… rum I like?” I’m not sure what she thinks that is, because I’m pretty sure we’ve never talked about the independent distillery that makes my favorite rum somewhat locally. I think I’d remember a conversation that specific, so I’m prepping myself for some god-awful Caribbean coconut nonsense.

  “Yeah,” Rue says, plucking a bottle from under the counter. My jaw drops. “Three Rocks. From Edgefield?”

  She says it like I don’t recognize what she’s holding.

  “Right…” I mutter, pressing my lips together, trying not to frown.

  The hell?

  How could she possibly know that about me? I’m not much of a drinker in most circumstances, but being back in this town, with the bar downstairs… I’ve picked up the habit a little. The fact that I even have a favorite rum would probably shock most people that know me.

  And here Rue is with the exact blend.

  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Cal, I tell myself, forcing another smile as Rue dumps some ice into a tumbler for me.

  “Your timing is perfect,” I tell her. “I’ll take a beer back with that shot and keep ‘em coming.”

  Rue lifts an eyebrow, and I can see she wants to say something, but the professional in her is keeping her mouth shut.

  “Yes ma’am, coming right up,” she says instead, sliding the glass of rum across the bar to me before turning to the taps.

  I take one long sip and sigh, my whole body sagging as the warmth floods through me.

  That’s the stuff.

  I know rum’s not going to make things better forever, but the time being is enough for me right now. One step at a time.

  2

  Miles

  Fat drops of rain fly off my head as I shake, then wince at the door slamming behind me. I wasn’t trying to slam the damn door, but the wind out there is wild, and even I’m not loving all the water coming out of the sky.

  Weather like this makes spending time on the boat… not great. I wouldn’t trade living in the houseboat for anything, but it’s not meant to take the kind of weather we’ve been having lately. There’s a reason I keep it moored in a protected inlet, but even that isn’t completely safe from the rocking ripples of distant waves.

  Course, if I’d’ve known who’s at The Shamrock right now, I would’ve just sucked it up, gone to the grocery, and went home with my booze.

  Or at least come in a little quieter.

  The slamming door’s erased any hope of me coming into the bar unnoticed, which means Rue and the girl opposite her at the bar both turn toward me.

  The world falls out from under me the moment I lock onto her cerulean eyes. The yellowed pendant light hung above the bar only enhances the coppery tone of her curly hair, and for just a second I wonder if she still uses that shampoo that smells like lotus — or if it was ever a shampoo at all.

  I snap out of the shock of seeing Callie again long enough to realize I don’t know what the hell to do. If I just turn around and walk out, I’m going to look like a lunatic or an asshole. Maybe both. Neither of which are the reputation I want to foster in this town.

  Callie might be content to flit in and out on a whim, but I’ve got family here. A life. A business. I don’t want to make a scene, and I say my prayers Callie doesn’t either as I sidle up to the bar and take a seat far enough away that there’s no chance of bumping into her, no chance of losing myself in her sweet, subtle scent.

  Rue can clearly sense that there’s some unspoken tension between the two of us, but I’m making a point to not look at Callie, while she’s pursing her lips and quietly grumbling under her breath. It’s impossibly adorable how her freckles stand out in stark contrast against her alcohol-flushed skin.

  She looks good. A hell of a lot better than she did at fifteen, that’s for sure.

  She looks a bit of a mess at the moment — her hair wild, falling out of the bun she’s tried in vain to contain it with, and she’s obviously drunk. I can’t imagine I’m the person Callie wants to see — drunk or otherwise — but I’m not going to force her to talk
to me.

  “I’ll have a Mac & Jack,” I tell Rue, looking straight ahead at the back of the bar, even though I can feel Callie’s eyes boring into me.

  What is she doing here? After all these years?

  I haven’t heard anything about her dad, about him being sick or anything like that. I don’t know why else she’d be back though. She seemed to walk away and never look back. Over a dozen years ago.

  Now she’s here at my local bar, glaring daggers at me.

  Even after Rue brings me my drink, the two of them don’t go back to talking, though I’m pretty sure they were in deep conversation when I walked in. When I look to the bartender for some reprieve, a distraction — for either one of us at this point — she looks intently at the glass she’s polishing.

  “What did I ever do to you?” Callie erupts suddenly, fiery curls lashing out around her face as she whips her head to look at me with unsteady eyes.

  Her outburst makes me choke on my beer, coughing and sputtering as carbonation tickles in the back of my sinuses. I hate that.

  Once I’ve wiped the beer foam off the bar, Callie’s words sink in, and I arch a brow at her, not sure if this is some kind of joke.

  “Uh… What?”

  She scoffs, and I catch the faintest hint of rum when she blows out a breath in my direction. There’s nothing faint about the slur in her voice, though.

  “We used to be friends! Or… I thought we were, at least,” she mutters, eyes a little unfocused before centering on me again. “You started hating me, then you just… You just went and dumped me!” she cries, more dramatic than I remember her being even as a teen. That’s rum for ya.