Page 44 of Her Wild Coast Promise

I lean on my elbows and steady my gaze on her. “It sounds like you’re being really hard on yourself. I’m sorry you were going through so much. And I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

She shakes her head, as if the action can shuck her vulnerability the way a dog sheds water after a cold swim. “I shouldn’t have overshared like that.”

“I’m glad you did,” I say.

She gathers her plate and the bread basket and stands up, like she needs distance.

“I got this, Cora,” I protest. “You cooked, I clean up.”

“I can help clear,” she protests, stepping back from me before I can take the plates from her hands.

“Then I want you on the couch with your feet up,” I say.

Her eyes shine with a playful gleam. “Bossy much?”

“You like it,” I say with a wink.

I let her help with clearing, but my curiosity chews through our conversation, unable to rest.

Newly single.

Homeless?

Children.

Mistakes.

I don’t like that she’s so torn up about being perfectly human, but what’s worse is I knowing I can’t fix it.

ChapterTwelve

SETH

I’m just leavingfor home to get ready for the Hope House gala when Dr. Crandle’s number lights up my phone.

“Got those final results you wanted on the Jane Doe. You got a minute?” he says, skipping the pleasantries.

I put him on speaker and pull out of the station lot. “Go ahead.”

“The ligature marks contained some fibers. Looks like rope. There’s nothing special about it,” he says, “except trace elements of salt, which fits that it might have come from a seagoing vessel.”

“But she was found in the salt water, so—” I stop at a red light.

“Salt crusted into the fibers of the rope changes its properties. It’s stiffer, and the crystals are sharp enough to cut skin.”

Now I get it. “The rope was dry, and the embedded crystals left impressions on her skin.” This very likely means she was killed on a boat, or at the docks before her body was dumped. Madison’s party barge idea flits through my mind.

“She was right-handed, and your phone number was written on her left palm, which indicates she was most likely the one to write it.”

The light turns and I accelerate onto the straightaway. “How do you know she was right-handed?”

“Broken fingernails on that hand and the callouses. I think several fingers got caught beneath the rope. There’s a mark on her neck, an indentation from where her ring got trapped.”

I grip the steering wheel and try to force the disturbing images of Jane Doe’s last moments from my thoughts as Dr. Crandle winds down.

“…sending it now,” he says.

I thank him and we end the call.

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