“You’re up early.” Ryan’s deep timbre shakes me out of my thoughts.

“Early riser.” I hold the mug up in a morning salute. “Thanks for making coffee.”

“Is it even five yet?”

“Just turned. Guess you’re an early riser, too?”

“Military. What’s your excuse?” Ryan rips off his goggles and wipes water droplets off his forehead. He hoists himself up, over the edge.

The predawn light highlights chiseled biceps and solid eight-pack abs. Oh, my. I sip my coffee to thwart drool. Lordy, the man has abs of steel, and with water dripping down carved muscles… I avert my gaze as he grabs a towel off a nearby chair and wraps it around his waist.

I have no business gawking. This exact reason is why business experts say colleagues shouldn’t be around each other in swimsuits. But, bloody hell, if I could sneak a photo, Sabrina would love me forever.

“Did you not sleep well?” He bumps the end of my lounge chair with his leg.

It takes a few seconds for my brain to kick into gear. Why am I an early riser?

“No, um. It’s just the way I am. Especially in a new place. And when I have a lot on my mind.”

“Well, come on back. I’ll fix you an omelet and we can do a situation review.”

“Unless I’ve missed something, we’re in the same place we were yesterday. Nowhere.” I rise and follow Ryan back to the house.

“The surveillance night shift worked last night,” he says.

“Did they find anything?”

“As of when I woke, no. Let’s go back and see.”

“You left your phone in your room?”

“It’s not like I’d hear it when I’m swimming.”

Obviously.

The sliding glass doors open automatically on our approach.

“There’s an unlocked gate from a public beach to enter this property. The sliding doors open automatically when approached from the ground level. There are a million ways you could approach the house under the eaves of the deck and not be picked up by one of the handful of security cameras hanging from the third floor of the house. The only way someone might have difficulty breaking in is if they decided to go through the front door.”

“You don’t sound impressed with his system.”

“I’m not. After we find her, he needs an overhaul.”

“You think we’ll find her?”

“We will.” He brokers no option for failure.

For the school year she lived with us, Cassandra had been like a sister to me. I’d looked up to her, shared my secrets with her. I keep thinking of Cassandra and imagining how she would react now and what she would want us to do. I imagine her combing the beaches, standing in front of a podium talking to the press, crying, pleading for her daughter to come home. But of course, if she were alive, this would’ve never happened. Last night, Jack came across like a fragile dam on the brink of collapse. Not too different from the man I remember at Cassandra’s funeral. Did he never recover from Cassandra’s death?