Page 3 of Chain Reaction
Maybe sheshouldcall 911. What could it hurt?
But, first, she’d take the thing back outside. She’d carried it all the way across the beach, and nothing had happened. Certainly, she could take it a few more feet.
She didn’t want anything to happen to her beach house—all her treasures were stored inside these walls. She had an entire bookshelf full of shells and bottles and even a couple of old buoys she’d found.
Without wasting any more time, Eleanor set down her coffee and her phone and carefully lifted the object, holding it the same way she did before.
Then she turned and headed toward the door. But after taking two steps, her foot caught on the table leg, making her stumble and lose her balance.
Eleanor reached out to steady herself with one hand.
Lost her grip on the ordnance.
The metal object tilted. Slid out of her hand. Then it hit the floor.
Nose down.
CHAPTER 2
Raven Newton pulled her car to a stop behind two police vehicles at the end of a gravel lane only feet from the beach along the Atlantic Ocean on Lantern Beach.
Nestled off the coast of North Carolina, Lantern Beach was a slender barrier island accessible only by ferry. Its isolation was part of its charm. The narrow strip of land sat embraced by the vast Atlantic on one side and the sheltered sound on the other, a sanctuary of undulating sand dunes crowned with swaying sea oats.
The island earned its evocative name generations ago when a desperate lighthouse keeper, unable to light the tower’s beacon during a storm, placed lanterns along the shoreline to guide ships away from the treacherous waters known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic.
Originally established as a humble fishing community in the late 1800s, the island remained relatively undiscovered until tourists began arriving in the 1970s, forever altering its character while somehow preserving its soul.
The heart of Lantern Beach pulsed in its quaint downtown, where a weathered wooden boardwalk stretched along the oceanfront, lined with locally owned shops, nostalgic arcades,and ice cream parlors perfuming the salt air with sweet temptations.
A substantial pier jutted into the ocean, topped with a beloved sandwich shop where locals and visitors alike gathered to watch the waves crash below. Instead of towering hotels, the island was dotted with vacation cottages and a handful of bed-and-breakfasts, their pastel exteriors weathered by sea and sun.
A lighthouse stood sentinel at the island’s edge, a silent guardian surrounded by gnarled live oaks that had bent and twisted under decades of coastal winds, creating an otherworldly canopy over the sandy paths leading to its base.
Raven had only been here once before, but she knew life on Lantern Beach moved according to nature’s rhythms rather than the insistent pace of the mainland. Locals collected their mail from PO boxes rather than home delivery, exchanged news at the local market, and conducted business with a relaxed efficiency that frustrated newcomers.
The island’s temperament could shift as quickly as its weather—warm sunshine giving way to cooling evening breezes, placid waters transforming into angry swells during approaching storms. Sandy lanes and gravel roads connected the community, sometimes becoming impassable during the height of tourist season as visitors flooded the two-lane main artery with cars.
Yet despite these occasional inconveniences, Lantern Beach maintained its reputation as a peaceful haven where serious crime was unknown for thirty years—at least until recently.
The strong sense of community among year-round residents created a protective embrace around the island, where everyone seemed to know everyone, their histories intertwined like tangled fishing line.
Local lore whispered of buried treasure and maritime mysteries, stories shared around bonfires that sparkedimagination while the Atlantic’s constant rhythm provided a timeless soundtrack to this coastal sanctuary, where the boundary between past and present seemed as fluid as the tides themselves.
Raven wished she was here to enjoy this place.
Instead, she stepped outside and stared at the carnage in front of her.
A beautiful beach house had once stood at this location, mere steps from the beach. Now, the home had been reduced to shambles. Only a few posts and beams remained standing—or leaning or sagging—and burned embers scattered the sandy ground and dune.
The fact only one person had died in the explosion was a near miracle. Thankfully, the two houses on either side had been unoccupied. Otherwise, this could have been even more of a tragedy. Their windows had been blown out and the sides of the houses charred.
Raven knew about tragedy firsthand, and she didn’t wish the feelings on anyone.
“You must be Dr. Newton,” a voice said beside her.
She turned to see an attractive woman in her mid-thirties approaching from a police vehicle. The officer had blonde hair pulled into a low bun and wore a police uniform. Her name badge read Chief Chambers.
Raven extended her hand. “I am. But you can call me Raven. It’s nice to meet you, Chief Chambers.”
