She doubled back to the living room and flashed her light into the fireplace. The inside was pristine, suggesting no fire had ever touched it. Nor did the fireplace implements beside the logs show any sign of use.

Strange.

Stranger still? Despite all the weirdness, she wasn’t freaked out. Nor did she feel any urge to flee.

Instead, all she wanted to do was light the fire, curl up in her blanket, and go to sleep.

And that was exactly what she was going to do.

In the morning, after the fog lifted, she’d clean out the grate and stop at the city offices in town. Someone there would know—or could find out—who owned this place, and she’d leave enough cash to cover the cost of the logs, plus a little more. In the end, it would be cheaper than a motel room.

Mind made up, Christi returned to the door. There was a bolt on the inside, so once she made a fast trip to the car for pillow, blankets, and purse, she could shut herself in for the night.

Four minutes later, all those items in hand, she locked the cottage door behind her, opened the damper on the fireplace, and lit a match. The kindling flamed at once, and within minutes the logs were crackling and sending warmth into the room.

Bliss.

Christi stretched out on one blanket in front of the fire, pulled the other one over her, and scrunched the pillow under her head. It wasn’t the softest bed she’d ever slept on, but it was cozy.

And as she drifted off to sleep, halfway between consciousness and slumber, the oddest thing happened.

She’d never been to Hope Harbor before. She didn’t know a soul here except Jack. She’d stumbled onto this cottage by chance.

Yet for the first time in years, she felt at peace—and at home.

3

Why was there a car in the driveway of Sea Glass Cottage?

And why had he discovered it near the end of his eleven-to-seven shift, on his last patrol circuit?

Jack slowed the cruiser on Pelican Point Road, in front of the gravel drive that wound through the trees toward the cottage. While the sun wouldn’t crest the hills to the east for another fifteen minutes, the dawn light was sufficient to dispel a few of the shadows.

But dawn, dusk, or midday, that car didn’t belong there.

So much for clocking out fast and heading home to write for a few hours before he crashed. Depending on what he found at the cottage, his plans for the morning could be toast.

He swung into the driveway, called in his location to dispatch, and ran the Texas plates.

The car was registered to a Christine Powers from Dallas.

Brow puckered, he scanned the Nissan again.

Christine—as in Christi?