Chapter One

As a child, Gabrielle Long didn’t appreciate the beauty of Virginia’s Paradise Island. The tall sea grass swaying and bending in the wind, or the feel of hot-pebbled sand under her tiny feet, or the ache, wonder, and peace of the island’s solitude. She could spend hours with memories of sinking her toes in the mud while she searched for oysters. Or in wonder over the island’s bounty. The musical bird songs, whales bigger than a cottage spouting as they arrived with the warm weather. The dolphins and their acrobatics all so spectacular that technology couldn’t begin to duplicate it.

Back then she hadn’t appreciated the gathering of family around her or what role each person played in her life.

As a child, she’d enjoyed the beach, playing and swimming with her cousins. She loved Aunt Anna and Grandma’s island cooking. If she closed her eyes, she could almost smell Aunt Anna’s crabs frying in her cast-iron skillet. She and her cousins had squirmed in their seats waiting for Aunt Anna to place the first bunch of crabs on the layers of newspaper stacked high on the table to gather up the grease, which barely had a chance to touch the paper before the children had reached out, only to snatch their hands back when Aunt Anna warned them to wait while she patted up the excess. By then the crabs would have cooled enough not to burn their fingers.

And that first bite of succulent crabmeat. Oh, my gosh. Nothing on God’s green earth could beat that.

Stomach growling, Gabrielle smiled at the memory. But this island was so much more than fun and food, or maybe it was a combination of those things and many other experiences that made it special.

Of one thing she was certain. It would take a lifetime to appreciate all of its bounties. A lifetime because you couldn’t see it or appreciate it with your eyes alone. Vision only revealed a fraction of the story. You had to live it—you had to know the old folks to appreciate the rest. Which was almost irony itself. It wasn’t until time had passed that wisdom emerged.

Wearing a thick housecoat over her pj’s, Gabrielle Long stood outside her kitchen door enjoying her first cup of coffee while listening to the birds’ racket outside and gazing at the wash of waves against the shore just a hundred feet from her old bungalow. She might have stood there for tens of minutes or only five. She didn’t know which. But finally she turned and made her way inside through the screen door that had holes so large a cat could climb through. Boards on the screened-in back porch badly needed sanding; some also needed replacing and certainly a good coat of paint.

Once inside, she refilled her cup and glanced at the newspaper. A photo of an SUV was prominently displayed on the front page. Roger Moore drove a black Jeep Cherokee.

Gabrielle’s hand trembled as she read the article. Coffee sloshed over the rim of her cup. Slowly she set it down on the table. He’d been missing since February. February 14, to be exact. Valentine’s Day. That night Gabrielle had been feeling sorry for herself. Everyone seemed to be paired off. Her unromantic grandfather had even roused himself enough to spring for the last bunch of bedraggled roses and a box of inexpensive chocolates for her grandmother. Her cousins and friends had gotten roses, gourmet chocolates, diamonds, and whatever—and a man and sex. Sex seemed like something in the distant past for her.

Gabrielle had promoted a special romantic package for Paradise Bed-and-Breakfast—a romantic happy hour with truffles, chocolate-dipped fruit, and wine. A single red rose in each room. The B&B had sold out. But being around all those lovers made her realize how alone she was. She’d drunk wine with her guests, and it only intensified her bleak emotions.

After she left the B&B, she’d gone home to check on her aunt. Aunt Anna had soon gotten sick of her sour disposition and had demanded she go out with some friends. Gabrielle tried not to sink into depression. After all, she was alive, wasn’t she? That should count for something.

After putting her aunt to bed, she drove to the bar. She had already downed a couple of Long Island iced teas before Roger joined her. It seemed that every time she drank, something horrible happened. She should have learned her lesson two years ago.

Gabrielle shook her head, casting that night to the back of her mind. All this time, Roger had been dead. And she’d thought he’d run away with her aunt’s golden bowl.

Gabrielle nearly jumped out of her skin when the doorbell rang. It was, after all, nearly five in the morning. People didn’t visit that early—not unless there was a problem.

Gabrielle padded to the door, and looked through the curtains. Sheriff Harper Porterfield—all six-three of him, dark and huge—stood on her front porch. He wasn’t a man you wanted to get on the wrong side of or meet up with in an alley on a bad night. Years ago he had been the star linebacker of his football team. He’d even gotten a college scholarship, but he’d hurt his knees his senior year and never went pro. Defeated, he’d come back to tiny Paradise Island, where there wasn’t much work to be had, and joined the local police department. They say he was fifty now and still single. The hair around his temples was turning gray, but that only made him look sexy as heck. Women ran after him as if he were the last breathing male.

Undoing the four locks, Gabrielle opened the door. Her aunt had been paranoid, and although her aunt was dead, Gabrielle still followed her routine before she went to bed, as if a thief couldn’t break a window and come right in.

“Morning, Gabrielle,” the sheriff’s booming voice thundered in the room. “I went by the B and B but no one was stirring.”

“I’m running a little late, Sheriff. Come on in.”

“I won’t take long,” he said as he shut the door behind him. For such a large man, he was light on his feet.

“Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks. Have you seen the morning paper?”

“I was just reading the article about the man they pulled from the lake.”

He nodded. “The Virginia Beach PD contacted me about a key they found in John Doe’s pocket. The key was to room 302 in your B and B. Could you check your records for a customer who may have stayed there in the last few months?” He gave her the license plate number.

“I don’t have to check.” She took a deep breath. “It was Roger Moore. He stayed there in February—around the time Aunt Anna died. He left a few things in the room. He’d been with us off and on for more than a year, so it wasn’t unusual for him to leave things behind. I was wondering why he hadn’t been back.”

The sheriff took a pen and a small pad from his pocket and scribbled. “You’re sure it’s him?”

Gabrielle nodded. “He always asks for the same room. Room 302. He likes the privacy, and it’s in a secluded area. He also drives a black Jeep Cherokee. I don’t remember the license plate number, but I can pull the records as soon as I get to work. It won’t take long.”

“As soon as you do, call me. In the meantime, I’ll send John Aldridge by to pick up his things. Can you have them ready by this afternoon?”

Gabrielle nodded.

The sheriff left, and Gabrielle stood there taking in deep breaths as she slowly closed the door. Heron Lake was her hangout with her cousins when they were teenagers and for summer vacations during her college years. She knew the area around that lake like the back of her hand. Not many people hung out there. It was out of the way, near the Dismal Swamp. People were afraid of all kinds of creatures out there.

Gabrielle had seen Roger in the bar that night. He’d told her he’d give her a bonus if she talked her aunt into selling him her gold heirloom antique bowl; he had even suggested she steal it. With her dementia, her aunt would never remember what had happened, he’d assured her. As if she’d even dream of doing such a thing. Angry enough to wring his neck, Gabrielle had tossed his wine in his face. She’d already told him a thousand times she wasn’t going to sell it. It had been in the family since the early 1600s. He’d apologized profusely and told her he respected her integrity, but she didn’t trust him one bit.

That night, Gabrielle had had enough of the bar scene. Suddenly, she felt wiped out and had gotten up to leave. As angry as she had been, why had she left the bar with him? No, she hadn’t left with him. He’d gone outside at the same time.

After that, her mind was a complete blank.

Now she wondered—had she put thought to action? It was easy to say you wouldn’t kill a person. And a golden bowl certainly wasn’t just cause, even after being pestered for an entire year. But something had made her blank out. Had she been drugged? Had she seen something too horrendous for her brain to assimilate? Oh, God. Gabrielle rubbed a trembling hand across her brow. What happened between her and Roger on Valentine’s night?

Cornell Price was sick and tired of crazy women. He’d gone back to New York to pack up the last of his belongings to ship to Virginia and close up his apartment. But his crazy ex-girlfriend, Angie, had trashed the place. Place had looked like a frigging chicken fight with feathers coating everything.

Ever since Waiting to Exhale, when Angela Bassett’s character had filled her husband’s car with his treasures and burned them, car and all, women started doing even more senseless shit.

But he’d made sure Angie paid. He’d given her an ultimatum. Either she paid for the damages—right then—or he was pressing charges. After a bout of tears and pouting he was totally immune to, she’d marched with him to the bank, but only because with her high-powered corporate position she couldn’t afford to have a record. She could also afford to pay for the damages.

His gut roiled with regret. The greatest loss had been his mother’s vases. She’d let his brothers and him choose their favorite designs. Angie had smashed every one. She knew they were his prized possessions simply because his mother had made them. They were irreplaceable.

He’d returned from New York the evening before and had spent the night at his parents’ place in Norfolk. Now he was on the morning ferry to Paradise Island.

He couldn’t count the number of times women had trashed something of his in a fit of anger, and he wasn’t taking that crap anymore. Women were devious creatures. It was enough to make a man shake in his boots.