LITMIR.BIZ

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to believe a fellow islander could ever bring such harm down on one of his own. Since Owen grew up on the mainland and not with these people, he could offer a more unbiased investigation of all the inhabitants, new and old.

      Plus, Owen knew firsthand how the ones closest to us had the power to destroy us. And he knew this not because he’d been on the receiving end, but because of the people he’d destroyed. His past offenses convinced him that anyone could be a suspect—including the owner of the fishing boat coming at him.

      At first, the vessel bobbed alongside a huge rock and lighthouse up ahead. When it shot off like a bullet, Owen questioned its hurry. Was its retreat an innocent maneuver, or had Owen intruded on an illegal happening of some kind?

      He kept his undercover status in mind and prepared to make all neighborly with the captain of the... He strained to read the name of the fishing boat scrawled on its hull.

      The Rita Ann.

      A harmless enough name. Although typically a drug trafficker wouldn’t be advertising its wares on its exterior for the world to see. Owen observed more of the rusty, white fishing boat with its tall, lit masthead. A rule follower, it would seem, with his adequate safety equipment. But if one were carrying illegal cargo, it would be in his best interest to keep the lightbulbs in working order. Why risk the chance of being pulled over?

      Owen searched the tinted pilothouse windows for the captain, but only the reflection of the setting sun glinted back at him. He closed in, waving his hand high, then slowed to an idle to wait for a response.

      Instead, the Rita Ann increased its speed and changed its course—directly at him.

      Stunned, Owen felt his hand slip off the gearshift. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. The sun was setting, but he could still be seen. The last time it had been pitch-dark. This didn’t make sense.

      Snap out of it, Matthews! He ordered himself to reengage, but his stiff hands might as well have been petrified wood. He had to move, but past visions of a splintering boat flying sky-high immobilized his reflexes. Six years of time dissolved into this moment as he relived his first crash.

      No. He wouldn’t let history repeat itself. Move! Now!

      A surge of adrenaline pushed him to hit Reverse. He blasted back out of the Rita Ann’s path. The fishing boat jetted past him without an acknowledgment.

      Owen questioned whether the driver had seen him or not. How could he not, though? He watched the Rita Ann chug out to sea. Owen forced his hand to turn the wheel to follow. He would flag it down to find out, but first he would need to speed up to catch it.

      Duty called, and Owen’s previous driving-with-caution vaulted to the wind. He kicked up his speed a notch, then another and another. The front bow parted the rolling waves into a frothy wake as he set his sights on the Rita Ann.

      With his attention drilled straight ahead, he nearly missed a gray object flying past him on his starboard side. Immediately another followed. Owen’s head whipped from side to side while his mind registered what they were.

      He slowed a bit to identify them as flat rocks, smaller, less visible than the large one with the lighthouse on it. Some even submerged. The sight of the solid, unmovable masses caused him to slam back the throttle, jolting the craft to a rumbling crawl.

      The Rita Ann raced on ahead without him.

      It wasn’t the fact that he let her go that choked him, but rather that he could have had a disastrous collision if he had been a few scant feet more to his left.

      At least no one was in the boat with me this time. Owen blew out a breath of anger at his stupidity. I have no business being out on these waters. Not even for a job.

      With tighter fists than before, he gripped the steering wheel again. In an anxious cold sweat, Owen drifted with the tiniest bit of gas sent to the engine. In such a slow motion, he realized more and more of the rocks protruded up from the ocean floor around him, leading up to the island of Stepping Stones.

      The island apparently got its name from these rocks. The lighthouse was built on the largest of them, while the others dotted a sporadic path. A beautiful scene for a painting, but in reality the rocks posed a deadly threat to boats cruising their way up the coast of New England. How the ferry could dock here was beyond him. Maybe that’s why it only came in once a week. Too risky with these formidable pieces of stone that required a wide berth.

      Owen slowly made his way back to the lighthouse. As he approached, something red and gold caught his attention. It looked like a person’s hair fluttering on the sea breeze. Upon closer inspection he saw the strands belonged to a woman.

      She lay motionless on the rock. His mind reeled with concern. Was she injured?

      Owen swung his gaze back at the departing Rita Ann. Perhaps the woman had been hurt by the same hands that piloted the boat. That would explain the hasty departure. Had someone on the Rita Ann dumped her there? Thrown her overboard? Owen’s stomach twisted at the thought. Time was critical if that was the case.

      He steadied his gaze on her, but from his vantage point all he could make out was her shock of long red hair, glinting with gold in the sun’s rays. The tresses fanned out against the rock like the rays themselves. He leaned over the steering wheel as if that would get him closer faster.

      With the engine of his boat chugging, he hoped she would hear him approach and lift her head or wave a hand, but she didn’t. Not even when his boat sidled up to the rock and bobbed idly in the waves.

      “Miss?” he called out over the rattling engine. “Miss, do you need help?”

      No answer. No movement, either.

      Owen cleared his throat and tried again louder. When that turned out the same, the words deathly still crossed his mind. Apprehension niggled at the back of his neck. He rubbed it and the horrid thought away and called out again. “Miss?” he yelled forcefully, but he couldn’t deny the waver of uncertainty in his voice.

      He hadn’t seen someone this still since his wife, Rebecca, lay in the sand, paramedics going through the motions of saving her only because he begged them not to stop. Owen’s throat filled with a golf ball–size blockage. He shot a jittery gaze toward the island, willing someone else to come help this woman.

      The docks glimmered in the sunlight, waiting for his boat to find its place beside them for the night. Oh, how he wanted to do just that. To allow someone else better qualified to help her. He was good at chasing bad guys, not rescuing women. But not one person came into his view. Not one fisherman. Not one loitering teenager. No one at all stood on the pier for him to wave at for assistance.

      Owen cut the engine. It has to be me. He dropped his shoulders as he dropped anchor.

      He thought about radioing for help, but maybe the woman was just in a deep sleep. Just in case she was hurt, though, Owen grabbed the lifesaving equipment stored in the rear stern under the padded seats. He yanked open the compartment to find a first-aid kit and blanket, along with life vests. He scooped up the blanket and kit and went port side, reaching out to grab at the crusty barnacle-covered stone.

      Swells rocked the woman in and out of his view. With every rise and sway of his boat, he caught sight of her one-piece red-and-blue bathing suit. He thought it was a mishmash of flowers or something but didn’t concentrate enough on it to be sure. His full attention was given to the state of the woman’s wellness. In a quick scan, his eyes followed from her bathing suit down her long, muscular limbs of milky white to a set of small feet sprawled motionless.

      “I’m coming, okay?” he assured her loudly as he threw his load up on the rock and hoisted his body to follow. Please be sleeping. “Don’t move. You may have a neck injury.” Like Rebecca when she was thrown.

      The woman didn’t move. Not even to acknowledge his presence. He watched for any sign of a twitch or breathing as he scraped along the sharp barnacles. Pain sliced through his palms and bare forearms. He used the discomfort to propel him up and forward, but was glad for the protection of his denim jeans. Lying flat, he came face-to-face

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