Four

Windemere Bay had two kinds of locals: the ones who belonged, and the ones who pretended not to notice everything. Maddie York didn’t fit neatly into either box.

I found her waiting at the coffee shop downtown, tapping one manicured finger against the rim of her cup. The place smelled like espresso and fried dough, the air thick with the low hum of gossip. Everyone in town knew Maddie. Single mom, freelance blogger, pretty enough to attract attention but sharp enough to cut it off quickly.

“Detective Grant,” she said when I slid into the booth across from her.

I stiffened. “Not a detective anymore.”

Her mouth tilted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Force of habit. You’ve got that look. The one that says you don’t let things go.”

I sipped the bitter coffee the waitress had dropped off. “You asked to meet me.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice even though no one was close enough to hear. “I know you’ve been asking about Sadie Cooper. You should know, she wasn’t the first.”

I waited.

“Seventeen girls,” Maddie said, her voice steady, too steady. “Over twenty years. Vanished. All connected to this place.”

The number settled in my chest like lead. I’d expected one, maybe two. Not seventeen.

“You’re telling me there’s a serial killer in Windemere Bay?”

“Not a killer,” she said. “A club. The Tides Club.”

The name slid across the table like a knife. “Never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t. Not unless you’ve lived here long enough or lost someone who mattered.” She glanced at the door, then back at me. “Sadie came to me two weeks ago. She’d been digging into financial records. Don't ask me how she got them, because she didn’t say but she thought she’d found proof. Money laundering. Bribes. Names that shouldn’t be tied to numbers that big.”

I thought of Hank Delaney telling me to stop asking questions. The way his eyes had darkened when I’d pushed.

“And you believe her?”

Maddie’s jaw tightened. “Sadie was smart. Stubborn. If she said she found something, she found it.”

I leaned back, studying her. “And you? Why tell me?”

Her eyes met mine without flinching. “Because I’m raising a daughter in this town. And I want her to grow up safe.”

For a long moment, we just sat there, I thought about the whole situation over and over again. Maddie York wasn’t hysterical, and wasn't desperate.

“Do you still have what Sadie found?” I asked.

Her hesitation told me everything. She had something, but she wasn’t sure if I could be trusted with it.

“I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “In the meantime, you should talk to Emma Chen. Sadie’s best friend. She’s the one who knows where Sadie kept her notebook.”

Notebook. My pulse kicked up. Every case I’d ever worked had one the thing victims left behind, the map to the truth if you were stubborn enough to follow it.

The bell above the door jingled. Maddie glanced up, stiffened, then smoothed her face before I could see what had rattled her.

I turned just in time to see Hank Delaney, walking past the window. He didn’t look inside, but the sight of him still made my chest tighten, a ripple of something I didn’t want to name.

When I turned back, Maddie was watching me carefully.

“You know him,” she said.

I didn’t answer.

“Be careful with that one, Elise. He’s not what he seems.”

---

That night, the ocean wouldn’t shut up. The waves pounded against the cliff like fists, louder than usual, restless. I sat at my kitchen table, notebook open, scribbling connections.

Sadie → Financial records → Missing girls → Tides Club

Emma Chen → Notebook

Maddie York → Knows too much

And circling them all, like a shark in dark water: Hank Delaney.

The man who told me to stop asking questions. The man Maddie warned me about. The man who had looked at me like he could already see the pieces I was trying to hide.

My hand shook as I wrote his name, but not from fear. That was the problem.

I pushed away from the table, restless, pacing the small cottage until the floor creaked under my bare feet. Part of me wanted to slam the notebook shut, throw it in the drawer, and forget I’d ever found Sadie’s body. Pretend I was the woman I told myself I was quiet, invisible, sober.

But the other part, the detective was wide awake.

I pulled on a jacket, grabbed my flashlight, and headed for the cliffs.

The night air was cold, cutting into my lungs with every breath. Below, the ocean churned silver under the moonlight, everything looked peaceful and calm.

I stood where I’d found Sadie. The rocks were still slick, seaweed tangled like veins. I imagined her fighting, wrists raw, fingernails broken, waves swallowing her screams.

Behind me, gravel crunched.

I spun, the flashlight beam slicing through the dark.

And there he was, Hank, standing just beyond the reach of the light, hands in his pockets, watching me.

For a long beat, neither of us spoke. The ocean roared between us.

Finally, he said, as he removed his hands from his pocket “You don’t listen well.”

I forced my voice steady. “You don’t warn well.”

Something like amusement flickered in his eyes before it disappeared. He stepped closer, into the beam of light and just seeing him carely made my breath seize. I need to sleep cause I'm feeling right now can't be true.

“You keep coming back here,” he said. “That’s dangerous.”

“I don’t get scared easily.”

“No,” he said quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

The words hung there, charged, heavy. And for the first time, I wondered if Hank Delaney wasn’t just warning me off for

his own sake. Maybe he was trying to protect me.

Which begged the question: from what?

Or from who? Why does he even care, can he feel what I feel too?