Page 18 of Whispers on the Water

Tilly joins me at the coffee pot with a victorious smirk. “Don’t worry. He can’t say no to me. He’ll fold quicker than laundry at a nudist commune.”

I sip my coffee and give her my patented eyebrow raise. “Maybe we should parade him around with someone and see who comes out jealous.”

“Shut up, floozy,” Tilly says, but a sparkle is in her eyes. She might say she hates fighting, but that twinkle doesn’t lie. Sparring with Tommy is one of her favorite pastimes. I’m not as in love with it. The unresolved sexual tension between them is a constant undercurrent in our lives and honestly, they should either get a room or get therapists. Maybe both.

Trying not to dwell on it, I check my phone for any sign from Greg; disappointment washes over me. “Still nothing. Zip, zilch, nada. Not even a ‘thanks for not being a serial killer.’ God, ghosting should be a criminal offense.”

Tilly snorts into her mug. “Punishable by up to twenty minutes of in person closure conversation.” That coaxes a smile out of me and Tilly offers a comforting pat on my arm. “Worry not my dear. Even if Tommy backs out, just stepping into the club in your best look will turn heads. Trust me, a little public attention might just do the trick. If he’s not there, maybe someone else will want a nibble.” Her words spark a flurry of thoughts and emotions. The idea of igniting jealousy feels so unlike me, yet the desire to see Greg again, to feel that connection once more, is overwhelming.

I grab a power bar, needing something to ground me in the whirlwind of plans and feelings. Besides, before we can go rub Greg’s face in what he’s missing, we have six surf lessons and a bar to stock. “Ready?” I ask. Tilly agrees, her coffee cup refilled, and we leave the apartment behind.

Chapter twelve

Greg

I’m slumped on my couch, aimlessly flipping through channels, unable to focus. The date with Sam last night... it just didn’t go the way I hoped. She could sense something was off and kept asking if I was okay. But how could I be?

The damn tattoo. When Elaine’s mother died, she and her sister, Penelope, got matching tattoos. The good luck clover on the back of her neck. And though it was obvious she had tried to cover it up, I got a look at the edge. And now? I’m staring at a picture of the young woman that is Elaine, knowing that the tattoos match.

Everything is pointing to her being Elaine, the woman I was tasked with bringing in for murder. Yet, dialing my superiors, informing them? I find myself physically incapable.

It’s ludicrous. The more I learn about her, the more incongruous the idea of her as a murderer becomes. When I flipped out over the bee, she gently put the damn poison-tipped assassin outside and whispered sweet nothings to it in the process.

I mean, cold blooded killers don’t save bugs from certain doom, right? And if she hadn’t taken care of my stripped assailant, I would have sucked it up and smashed the fuck out of it. Seriously. No shame. That thing would be bug juice.

And her temper, or the lack thereof, doesn’t match the profile we have either. Instead of lashing out at the men who can’t keep their hands to themselves during surf lessons, she chooses to entertain herself by giving them a defective surfboard. I’ve only known her for a very short amount of time, but it’s my job to see through people. And Sam? Everything in the profile I’ve built of her is the opposite of a murderer. She’s calm, collected, and careful, even in the face of provocation, completely contradicting the volatile persona we were briefed on.

Because of all this, next thing I’m bound to find is that she trains seeing eye dogs and bakes cookies for orphans. Just wait, I swear it’s going to turn up in my investigation.

Now, here I am, trapped in my own head, the indecision eating at me. I know what I should be doing, but I can’t. Not only am I ignoring my duties to the FBI, but I’m ignoring Sam, too. Until I truly decide what I need to do, I can’t talk to her. Nothing will sit right unless I’ve made up my mind. Right on cue, my phone rings, snapping me out of my reverie. “Sanderson,” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Hey, Sanderson. Just looking for an update before I head out for the weekend. I haven’t gotten your weekly report.”

It takes all I have not to start stuttering. “Uh, yes. Sorry, I was just about to send it off. But I…” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I might have a lead.”

“Okay. And?”

“Well, it’s not for sure. She might have gotten her nose fixed. Can you have the team do some mockups? Age her to 28, add twenty pounds, copper-red hair, and a straight nose?”

“You got it, Sanderson. Why don’t you hold off on filing until you see the photos?”

“Of course, sir,” I say, practically panting with relief. Putting off the official filing of my update can only help my confused consciousness.

“Alright, then. I’ll let you get to it. Keep me in the loop.” I promise I will, and we hang up.

At the very least, the mockups might buy me some time and maybe even point me in a new direction. Four-leaf clover tattoos aren’t rare, right?

After hanging up, I start pacing the small apartment. The entire time, I keep my hands either on my forehead or running through my hair. After twenty minutes of the same thing, I know I can’t stay cooped up here; I need a distraction, something to break the cycle of thoughts about Sam and murderers and getting fired from my dream job. Staying inside is impossible. I’ll probably end up drunk and staring at the photos of my suspect. Of her. My Sam or Elaine? I’m not sure if they’re the same person.

Fuck, and now I’m lying to myself. Or, at the very least, I’m in denial.

In a fit of sheer desperation, I throw on my least wrinkled shirt, a somewhat awful Hawaiian shirt with bright pink flowers all over it, and I head out. The club, that’s where I need to go. It’s the very place Sam said she avoids. Maybe the loud music and the crowd will help me forget, even if just for a moment. At the very least, I can lament to Claire, the bartender. She’s become a friend for lack of a better word. In fact, she’s the one who told me to try Ron’s Surf Shack for a good lesson.

Fuck me. Claire knows Sam. Claire likes Sam. Everyone I’ve met likes Sam. I like Sam. Because she’s perfect and amazing.

Before I can even say, ‘Kill me now,’ I’m already at the club. There’s no line; the cruise ship isn’t in town, but still, the place is packed. The effect is immediate. Lights, booze, music, and beautiful women are flowing like a waterfall all around me. Yes, it’s the perfect distraction. Have a drink, dance with someone, and keep busy. Despite my inner monologue, the smile I expect from seeing scantily clad women smiling at me only makes me scowl. Even as I take my seat at the corner of the bar, a beautiful blonde is at my side, her hand on my forearm.

“Buy me a drink?” she purrs, batting eyelashes so aggressively that I’m worried she might take flight.

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