stack of pink message slips at him. “Shouldn’t I take care of these first?”
Peter shrugged. “Where’s the statement?”
Screaming inside, Corey dug out the piece of paper on which she’d jotted the press release. Peter, snatching it away from her, started to read.
Corey braced herself for the usual nit-picking critique.
After a minute, he looked up, but made no effort to catch her eye. Instead, he frowned at the statement and said, “You’d better pray this works. That was Finlay Trowbridge, the on-scene commander, on the phone. After you get there, seek him out and he’ll brief you on the clean-up operation. Then, do whatever’s necessary to make this whole mess go away. I’m counting on you, Cordelia. Don’t let me down.”
“B-but,” Corey sputtered. “There’s no way to—”
“Find a way,” he snapped, cutting her off. He handed her back the statement. “Or find yourself another job.”
Chapter Four
Corey hugged herself to ward off the cold as her gaze roamed over the face of Ronay’s only dwelling, a white-washed stone cottage with a small wooden porch and a dormered slate roof. The windows were dark, as was everything else on the tiny island, but, thankfully, the owner—a balding, barrel-chested Scot named Donald MacLeod—had brought along a flashlight. As she followed him up the rickety steps to the door, he shone the beam back toward the water, whose gentle splashing was making her sweat despite the freezing wind.
“In the daylight,” he said, “there’s quite a nice view of the loch from the front windows.”
Corey didn’t turn. She didn’t want to see how close the enemy was to the front of the house. It was bad enough she could hear it slapping against the rocks a few feet away. As always, it seemed to be saying, “I’ll get you one day…just like I got your parents.”
Gulping, she threw an anxious backward glance at the loch. Except for the crescent moon’s dancing reflection, the water looked as black as the granite on her kitchen countertops back in Belmont Shores. Black and menacing. Long gone were the days when she’d taken comfort in its sultry smell and the soft sound of it licking the shore. Once upon a time, she’d felt a soul-level connection to the sea.
MacLeod fiddled with the lock for a moment before pushing through the front door. The smell of damp and stale cigarettes rushed out to greet them. With the flick of a switch, light filled the space—a quaint sitting room with a rose settee, small fireplace, and mint-green walls. Corey set her suitcase down just inside the door. It was as cold inside as out, but a relief to get out of the biting wind.
“Burr.” Shivering, she rubbed her arms.
“I’ll just light the stove then,” he said, crossing to the black-metal box.
When it was going, he took her on a tour. “The house was built in the sixties by my parents… and completely refurbished by me and the missus ten years ago,” he told her as he showed her around. “It’s solar, for the most part. Except for the stove, obviously, and a generator we keep out back to operate some of the bigger appliances. Oh, and we’ve got satellite for the telly.”
The cottage had five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a good-sized kitchen with bright yellow tile, open shelves crammed with glassware and dishes, and a shiny black “cooker.” Seeing how large the place was, Corey wondered why Peter hadn’t opted to use it as the command center instead of the hotel in Benbecula, which was a good forty minutes away.
“I’m going to need to make some calls,” she said as they returned to the living room.
“I’m afraid there are no landline and no internet…and the mobile coverage from the house can be a bit spotty.” He motioned toward the back wall. “Coverage is better a few yards up the hill.”
Up the hill? In the dark? Corey’s already sagging spirit wilted further. She could hear wind whistling around the windows—wind she knew cut like
Peter shrugged. “Where’s the statement?”
Screaming inside, Corey dug out the piece of paper on which she’d jotted the press release. Peter, snatching it away from her, started to read.
Corey braced herself for the usual nit-picking critique.
After a minute, he looked up, but made no effort to catch her eye. Instead, he frowned at the statement and said, “You’d better pray this works. That was Finlay Trowbridge, the on-scene commander, on the phone. After you get there, seek him out and he’ll brief you on the clean-up operation. Then, do whatever’s necessary to make this whole mess go away. I’m counting on you, Cordelia. Don’t let me down.”
“B-but,” Corey sputtered. “There’s no way to—”
“Find a way,” he snapped, cutting her off. He handed her back the statement. “Or find yourself another job.”
Chapter Four
Corey hugged herself to ward off the cold as her gaze roamed over the face of Ronay’s only dwelling, a white-washed stone cottage with a small wooden porch and a dormered slate roof. The windows were dark, as was everything else on the tiny island, but, thankfully, the owner—a balding, barrel-chested Scot named Donald MacLeod—had brought along a flashlight. As she followed him up the rickety steps to the door, he shone the beam back toward the water, whose gentle splashing was making her sweat despite the freezing wind.
“In the daylight,” he said, “there’s quite a nice view of the loch from the front windows.”
Corey didn’t turn. She didn’t want to see how close the enemy was to the front of the house. It was bad enough she could hear it slapping against the rocks a few feet away. As always, it seemed to be saying, “I’ll get you one day…just like I got your parents.”
Gulping, she threw an anxious backward glance at the loch. Except for the crescent moon’s dancing reflection, the water looked as black as the granite on her kitchen countertops back in Belmont Shores. Black and menacing. Long gone were the days when she’d taken comfort in its sultry smell and the soft sound of it licking the shore. Once upon a time, she’d felt a soul-level connection to the sea.
MacLeod fiddled with the lock for a moment before pushing through the front door. The smell of damp and stale cigarettes rushed out to greet them. With the flick of a switch, light filled the space—a quaint sitting room with a rose settee, small fireplace, and mint-green walls. Corey set her suitcase down just inside the door. It was as cold inside as out, but a relief to get out of the biting wind.
“Burr.” Shivering, she rubbed her arms.
“I’ll just light the stove then,” he said, crossing to the black-metal box.
When it was going, he took her on a tour. “The house was built in the sixties by my parents… and completely refurbished by me and the missus ten years ago,” he told her as he showed her around. “It’s solar, for the most part. Except for the stove, obviously, and a generator we keep out back to operate some of the bigger appliances. Oh, and we’ve got satellite for the telly.”
The cottage had five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a good-sized kitchen with bright yellow tile, open shelves crammed with glassware and dishes, and a shiny black “cooker.” Seeing how large the place was, Corey wondered why Peter hadn’t opted to use it as the command center instead of the hotel in Benbecula, which was a good forty minutes away.
“I’m going to need to make some calls,” she said as they returned to the living room.
“I’m afraid there are no landline and no internet…and the mobile coverage from the house can be a bit spotty.” He motioned toward the back wall. “Coverage is better a few yards up the hill.”
Up the hill? In the dark? Corey’s already sagging spirit wilted further. She could hear wind whistling around the windows—wind she knew cut like
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