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DEAD IN THE SURF Jill reached across the table and patted my hand. “So is Justin dead?” I nodded. “The news isn’t saying much. Just that they’re searching for a lost swimmer.” “I hope they find his body.” “What do you think happened?” Jill asked. She offered Matt more coffee. He shook his head. “I’m not sure. He had a huge gash on his forehead.” Jill squeezed my hand again. “Did he crash?” “Probably.” I looked at both of them. “But something doesn’t add up. Everyone said he’s the best surfer. He didn’t even wear a helmet. What was he doing all the way on the opposite side of the river?” Jill tapped her fingers on the table as I spoke. “He had a big gash in his forehead. It almost looked like he’d been hit by something.” “You mean like he was murdered?” Jill asked.
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Silenced in the Surf Kate Dyer-Seeley
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
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KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018 Copyright © 2016 by Kate Dyer-Seeley All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.” All Kensington Titles, Imprints, and Distributed Lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use. Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington special sales manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018, attn: Special Sales Department, Phone: 1-800-221-2647. Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off. ISBN-13: 978-1-61773-002-3 ISBN-10: 1-61773-002-5 First Kensington Mass Market Edition: April 2016 eISBN-13: 978-1-61773-003-0 eISBN-10: 1-61773-003-3 First Kensington Electronic Edition: April 2016 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America
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Chapter 1 Hood River, Oregon Somewhere in the middle of the Columbia River The swells were relentless. Crashing one after the other and overwhelming the board. I almost laughed. How ironic, Meg. The one sport I actually thought I could hold my own in, and now I was holding on for dear life. I scanned the river for any sign of my instructor or the rest of my windsurfing group. The water and sky blended together in the dull predawn light. “Help!” I shouted into the wind. A whitecap broke in front of me, sending spray down my lungs. I coughed and grabbed the board tighter. No one was going to hear me over the sound of the wind and raging river. The current had carried me away from the group so fast, I couldn’t get my bearings. Somewhere in the
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middle of the Columbia River, Meg. And not where you want to be. I forced my mind back to the instructor’s directions. I knew I had to maneuver the board so that the sail was downwind. The question was how? I paddled as hard as I could against the current, trying to reposition the mast. It sunk beneath the waves. My instructor’s words rang in my head, “Remember, if you have to drop the boom—and try not to because you’ll get exhausted if you have to keep picking it up—always drop it in front of you.” I hadn’t planned on dropping it at all. In fact, I had been quite pleased with my ability to hold the “safety position,” as he called it. Basically that meant balancing on the board while holding on to the mast with both hands and letting it swing. The problem was it swung in the high wind and quickly swept me far from the safety of the shore. After paddling with all the force I could muster, I decided I had to give it one more shot. I climbed onto my knees. The board rocked on the waves. You can do this, Meg. I let out a sigh and carefully made my way to my feet. The freestyle windsurfers I’d been watching earlier made balancing on a board look easy. Trust me, it wasn’t. My feet clenched the grainy board. I extended my hands, trying to keep my center of gravity as low as possible. The muscles in my thighs quaked in response. Hang on, Meg. I bent toward the sail, focusing on my instructor’s
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advice to keep my body and back as upright as possible. I grabbed the sail. Then, like pulling a rope, I reached hand over hand, trying to free the heavy sail from the water. It wouldn’t budge. I took in a powerful breath and tried to picture what Gam would say. “Find your inner strength, Margaret, and call on your guides for help.” It was worth a shot, right? I took a deep breath, and yelled, “A little help, please!” It worked. The sail slowly emerged from the water. I got it about a foot high, when another gust of wind hit, sending me and the sail back into the ice-cold water. My heart rate lurched in response to the shock of the water. Swim, Meg. I commanded my arms forward and kicked with all my might. The water was frigid. Every muscle in my body twitched with cold and stress as I climbed onto the board. I had to find a way to paddle back to the other side or I would drift downriver. The sun began to rise overhead, casting a sepia glow on the dusty hills. I suddenly realized that drifting down the river was the least of my worries. Land was looming on my left. The waves were carrying me straight into the shoreline of the opposite side of the river. In a matter of minutes I would be smashed into the rocks. That’s when I spotted a body dragging along the shore. ***
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When the opportunity of covering the King of the Hook windsurfing competition for Northwest Extreme first came up, I jumped at the chance. Portland, Oregon, had been under a sweltering heat wave all summer. We don’t do well with the heat in Portland. Well, at least I don’t. The minute thermometers read eighty degrees, there’s a mad dash for window air-conditioning units, fans and bottled water. Portland is known for perfect summers with cool morning breezes blowing down the gorge and mild daytime highs. Really the only reason we all subject ourselves to the rain-soaked winter and spring is for summer. Aw, summer. It’s like the weather gods conspired and offered up a bonus for sticking through all those soggy gray days. During the glorious summer months the sun doesn’t set until nearly ten. Portlanders congregate at parks and spend leisurely evenings strolling through neighborhood shops and stopping for hand-cranked ice cream and late-night pints. There’s a youthful vibe in the city as people emerge from their winter hibernation, set aside their rain boots, and revel in the warmth of the sun’s return. From farm-to-plate dinners to outdoor concerts under the stars, Portland comes to life. However, since the Fourth of July, Portland had seen thirty consecutive days over ninety degrees with matching high humidity—something almost unheard of in the city. The weather and complaints about the heat were the hot topic wherever I went. Everyone was talking about the heat wave from the
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cashier at the grocery store to the brewer at my favorite pub. And no one was happy about it. So when Greg, my boss and the editor in chief of Northwest Extreme, asked who wanted to cover King of the Hook in Hood River, I shot my hand in the air. “I’ll do it.” A chance to get out of town and watch windsurfers take flight sounded perfect. Plus, swimming is my sport. This was my chance to prove myself not only to Greg, but to the rest of my colleagues. I’d been focused on continuing my outdoor training during the spring. I was slowly improving, but I still had a ways to go on my practically nonexistent athleticism. But I had to admit I was really starting to enjoy this whole outdoor gig. What started as a job to pay the bills was turning into a bona-fide career. I loved working at Northwest Extreme. Given how my first assignment started out, I couldn’t believe I was actually enjoying my job. I’d made some major progress since that crazy hike up Angel’s Rest. The idea of covering King of the Hook in quaint Hood River, and escaping Portland’s heat, had me ready to pack my bags. “You sure, Meg?” Greg raised his brow. When I first met him, I thought I would never get used to his ruggedly handsome face and chiseled body, but things had changed between us over the winter. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him, and he knew it. Even though he was my boss, he’d been treading carefully with me. I could have used his caution to my advantage and gotten off without taking a single assignment. Instead the subtle tension between us
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had spurred me on to make sure my work was top-notch. Greg looked like he wanted to say more, but shrugged and wrote my name in blue pen next to King of the Hook on the whiteboard. I spent the next two weeks researching the annual windsurfing event and finding a place to stay in Hood River. The latter proved more challenging than I expected. Not only were surfers descending on the small town from all over the world for the competition, but everyone in Portland was trying to escape the heat wave. Hood River in the Columbia River Gorge is about an hour’s drive east of Portland and is known as the windsurfing capital of the world. The deep canyon stretches for miles, creating a boundary between Oregon and Washington. Winds funnel through the gorge, making it an ideal location for big air. Temperatures wouldn’t be any lower in Hood River. In fact, if anything, it would probably be hotter in the gorge, but there was always the promise of wind. Plus, the rocky banks of the Columbia River were a short walk from downtown. When the heat got to be too much, I could simply jump in the river. It was perfect. Thanks to a new vacation rental app that I discovered, I scored a bungalow just a few blocks from downtown that was available the week of the event. Greg didn’t blink when I showed him my expense report for the three-bedroom house, so I decided I might as well take advantage of the extra space and
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invite my bestie, Jill, and sort-of-boyfriend/friend Matt to join me for the long weekend. Jill agreed immediately. She was “on a break” with her boyfriend, Will Barrington. Thank God. Will and I don’t exactly get along. I tried to play nice for Jill’s sake, but when I caught him with another woman last winter up on Mount Hood, I was done pretending. Jill hadn’t said much about their break, but she was painting again, which I took as a promising sign that her heart was on the mend. Matt took a bit more convincing. Not because he didn’t want to join us, but because he’d been slammed at work. Matt covers the technology beat for The O, Oregon’s largest newspaper. It was the paper I had always assumed that I’d write for after graduation. I was a legacy after all. My dad, Pops, as I called him, had been The O’s lead investigative reporter until he was killed two years ago. In hindsight it was probably a good thing that I hadn’t landed a job there. Newspapers had been struggling with changing technology. None of my friends read their news on printed paper anymore. They kept abreast of current events and pop culture on their phones. I was the only holdout in our crowd. I still loved the feel of newsprint and how the ink smudged my fingers. Even Matt, who worked for an actual paper, read all his news on his tablet or phone. The O had announced another giant round of layoffs in early June. Fortunately for Matt, the technology department was thriving, but the cuts had decimated the news desk, so Matt had been doing double duty for the summer. When he
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wasn’t covering his regular beat, he was tasked with breaking news when his editor needed a warm body. I hadn’t seen much of him, and was starting to wonder if maybe his feelings had changed. Matt’s texts about joining us in Hood River had been noncommittal, so I couldn’t believe it when my phone buzzed as I was packing a bag with flip-flops, a swimsuit, rash guard and a collection of sundresses. I answered right away when I saw Matt’s face flash on my screen. His shaggy blond hair covered one eye. “Megs! I’m in.” He sounded excited. “You’re in?” “Yep, I’m coming. I owe Bob in Features a case of my home brew.” “Why?” “I traded him assignments. He’s going to cover breaking news for me while I’m gone and I’m going to do double duty—an event write-up on King of the Hook and a demo of the new GoPro.” “That’s the best news! I can’t believe you’re coming. I’d pretty much written you off.” “Story of my life.” He laughed. “I’m going to have to work, though.” “Me too. It’ll be fun.” I smiled as I hung up the phone. Yeah, fun. I’d be working with Matt and hanging on the sunny shore with Jill. What an assignment. It was going to be like summer vacation. Only as I would soon learn, this trip would become the farthest thing from a vacation imaginable.