Page 33 of Echoes at Driftwood Cottage

“I see your point. But just remember, people do strange things out of love or when they’re grieving.” Daniel glanced at his watch. “I need to get to work. When do you want to go see Brent Cody?”

“I’m not sure I do. I’m not in the mood right now to be told I’m the one who’s crazy. By now, Officer Woodsong has had time to write his report and make it as unflattering for me as possible. Hence the reason I mentioned proof. At this point, I have nothing concrete to tell anyone, let alone a cop.”

“So you want to wait?”

“Hey, I have a business to run, bills to pay like everyone else, and a huge mystery hanging over my head about who I really am. I’d say Brent Cody will just have to wait.”

Chapter Eight

To take her mind off everything, after Daniel left for work, Rowan tried to organize the small dining room into a suitable office space, using the table as a desk. She unpacked all the boxes labeled “workstation” and “office” and set up her Apple iMac desktop, including her twenty-seven-inch monitor. She spent an hour testing and configuring everything to make sure the devices performed to her satisfaction. She played with the setup until she found a spot where the screen wasn’t affected by the glare.

By one-thirty, Ryder had come and gone and worked his magic getting the WiFi up and running. Immersed in making sure all the software updates were current on her laptop, she was oohing and aahing over internet speed when she glanced up to see the ghostly Scott standing in the doorway. “What now? Do I have another dead sibling somewhere?”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Rowan said, pushing back from her makeshift desk. She stood up and flung her arms out wide. “Who knows what else is out there that I don’t know about? Why is this happening now when I’m just starting my own company? Why did you have to show me that stupid grave? Couldn’t you have waited a week, a month, maybe wait until Christmas to deliver bad news in my stocking?”

“You need to talk to Brent.”

“Why should I go to the cops? Have you met Theo Woodsong? It wouldn’t hurt if you introduced yourself to him in the middle of the night. After all, timing is everything.”

“I’m not talking about Woodsong. Talk to Brent.”

The doorbell rang.

“That’ll be him now.”

“Who him? The Chief of Police?”

“Brent needs to know.” In a shimmering burst of scattered light, Scott vanished.

“Great,” Rowan muttered, trudging to answer the door.

Brent Cody wore a white shirt with a PPPD insignia over the pocket, dark jeans, and work boots. No uniform for this top cop. He carried a black leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm. “Rowan Eaton?”

“That’s me. Might as well come in. I’ve tidied the place up in case you’re thinking about walking into a crime scene,” Rowan enlightened. “Your guy took his own photos.”

“I read the burglary report,” Brent said, wiping his feet on the welcome mat before entering the living room.

“There was nothing taken. Did the report mention that? Someone came in here and trashed the place, looked around for something, then moved on to Daniel Cardiff’s place—where I was staying at the time—and jimmied the lock on the window there. Coincidence? Daniel didn’t think so.”

“The second attempted break-in wasn’t in the report,” Brent noted with a frown.

Rowan crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive manner, prepared to do battle. “Ah, you mean Officer Woodsong omitted key details? Now, there’s a surprise. Maybe it was because he assumed I’d been drinking—I hadn’t, not a drop all day—especially after I mentioned my name appearing on a headstone at Eternal Gardens. My mistake for full disclosure. Should I mention that Daniel had to wake me up to come over here? I was half-asleep. In my defense, I’ve been in town for approximately seventy-two hours—I’ve dealt with burglarizing, vandalizing, and your department marginalizing what happened. I’m not drunk or crazy. And I don’t do drugs. I’m perfectly sane and more than a little miffed. I didn’t even call the police Sunday night. That was Daniel’s idea to involve a surly officer who implied I was drunk and making things up. I didn’t wreck my own house after just moving in here.”

“Are you finished?” Brent snapped. “You left your doors unlocked.”

“Trust me, I won’t make that mistake again either. Forgive me for thinking I’d moved back to the quiet little town I remembered as a kid. Don’t worry. I’ll install security cameras and a state-of-the-art alarm system before I depend on local law enforcement to keep me safe.”

“Take a deep breath. I’m here to get the full story from you without assumptions or accusations. Let’s sit down and have a civil conversation about what you think is going on. Take me through everything that’s happened since Friday night, and we’ll address it, one detail at a time.”

Rowan blew out a breath and plopped onto the couch. “Fine. Please. Have a seat.”

Brent followed her lead and sat down across from her, opening his notebook and taking out a pen. “Let’s do this in chronological order. I know you inherited the house from Lynette Dewhurst. And you decided to move back after several years in San Diego.”

“Yes. I’m a graphics designer.”

“So what happened on Friday after you arrived?”

---