Page 1 of Risky Obsession

CHAPTER 1

Lacey

Ihave lived on both sides of the law and survived, though not unscathed. But I’d been lucky. After I’d spent many years breaking the rules, I got my shit together before the downward spiral I was on ended with me six feet under.

I was officially off duty this sunny Sunday morning, but my detective obligations never stopped at the end of my shift. Keeping busy was my way of making up for all the wrongs I’d done in my life and there was no such thing as a day off, especially when I had open cases to solve.

As the Border Force boat I’d hitched a ride on approached the only jetty on Amber Island, both dread and excitement tangled in my mind. The sun edged over the top of the steep hilltop, casting an eerie glow that produced shadows that stretched across the island, adding fuel to my niggling doubts.

I was operating on a hunch, and my visit to a grieving woman on Amber Island could turn out to be a waste of time. But something tingled in my brain, telling me otherwise. I’d learned the hard way not to ignore my instincts.

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you, Lacey?” Whisper asked as the noise of the boat engine reduced to a dull purr.

“Nah. This shouldn’t take long. Are you still okay to hang around for a bit?”

“Sure. There’s always something to do on this boat.”

Whisper was an incredible Border Force operative, and she was alwaysbusy. I was just lucky she was available to bring me here during her work hours.

“Ring me if you need anything,” Whisper said as she secured the boat to the pylon with a rope as thick as her wrist.

“Will do.” I flashed a smile, then jumped onto the jetty.

During our ninety-minute trip to the island, Whisper and I had shared stories. She was six years younger than me, yet her maturity and qualifications were outstanding. And she’d been smart enough to choose her career from an early age.

Eight years ago, I’d been given a choice too: help the police take down my boyfriend, Axel Mullins, who was the president of the Jinx motorcycle gang, or go to jail for a very long time.

My choice made me a lot of enemies, but I could live with that.

I marched along the weathered timber boardwalk toward the road that ran from the water’s edge to the top of the hill. According to the most recent census, just seventy-six people, housed in twenty-seven homes, were on Amber Island which was accessible only by boat. The woman I was visiting had been born on this island, inherited the home from her parents, and had never lived anywhere else.

Halfway up the hill, I removed my sunglasses, slotted them next to my loaded Glock 43X pistol in the crossbody bag at my hip, and zipped the bag back up. Unlike the weapons I used in my stupid years in the bikie gang, this weapon fit nicely in my hand, and it was legal.

I pushed through a creaking gate and strode along the stone path flanked with pretty flowers. Before I knocked on the door, it opened and a woman who looked like she’d lived through decades of grieving twisted her hands together.

“Are you the police officer?”

I received this look of confusion often. I appeared younger than thirty-one and dressed in jeans and my pale pink shirt with white buttons, my casual outfit made me look like I was out for Sunday lunch rather than serious police business.

I offered a sympathetic smile. “Hello, Carol. Yes, I’m Lacey Brooks. Thank you so much for seeing me.”

“Come in.” Carol waved me into her home and shut the door behind her. “This way.”

She shuffled ahead of me with a prominent limp, and we crossed a hallway lined with dozens of mismatched frames displaying happy times.

At a sofa that faced a large deck with sweeping views of the ocean, she indicated for me to take a seat. “Would you like coffee? Tea?”

“Just a glass of water, please.” I sat, and as I waited for Carol to return to the room, my stomach churned. This was the part of my police career that I disliked the most: visiting distraught loved ones who desperately wanted answers . . . answers that I didn’t have.

Carol placed a glass of water on the table in front of me, and she sat in the next chair, nursing a coffee mug, which, based on the potent aroma emanating from the cup, contained rum, rather than coffee.

“Do you have some news for me about Gordon?” As she drank, her glossy eyes pleaded with mine.

I nodded, and her trembling hand went to her mouth.

“A boat has been found that we believe belonged to Gordon.” I slipped a photo from the side zipper of my bag and handed it to her.

She gasped.

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