Raven's Cove. Jenna Ryan

time. Moon and stars vanish and take you with them into the great unknown. The only time I knew you’d be there without fail was at the safe house. And even then I understood why you were training Boris. You’d leave, he’d stay, and that would be the end of it. It’ll be the end again when this mess we’re in now is sorted out. I’m not going to live my life on a carousel that you come to and go from whenever a situation requires your attention.”

       Rogan didn’t push her, but he didn’t move away, either. “What about Boxman?”

       “What about him? He’s here, we’re here, and our reasons all seem to be rooted in the growing possibility that Malcolm Wainwright didn’t die in that helicopter crash.”

       “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

       “Oh, God.” Suspicion at his cryptic tone had her turning to look. “What aren’t you telling me?”

       He ran a light thumb across her cheek. “Boxman said Daniel’s contact sent him a text message yesterday.”

       “And you don’t buy that because…?”

       “Crocker’s dead, Jasmine. His throat was slashed. I found his body in the trunk of his car two days ago.”

      * * *

      IN THE TWELVE YEARS HE’D been a cop, Rogan hadn’t given a second thought to lying. It came with the territory, and most of the time that territory was a cesspool. So why did he feel like slime for not telling Jasmine the whole story?

       She’d figure it out eventually, or see it for herself. In a town the size of Raven’s Cove, how could she not?

       With annoyance beginning to rise and no answers in sight, he jogged to his truck, traded guilt for mistrust and moved on to Boxman.

       Was the sergeant searching for a measure of off-duty glory, or something else entirely? Time would tell, he supposed, but with the stakes high and Jasmine’s life on the line, he didn’t plan to give anyone, cop or civilian, much rope.

       The storm appeared to have taken root on the coast. Lack of light and power made it difficult to follow directions, but he reached his destination at last, parked and settled in to wait.

       He’d left Jasmine sleeping at Daniel’s cottage. Boxman had grumbled, but agreed to spend the night in his camper. Boris would ensure he didn’t change his mind.

       The passenger door opened while he was once again contemplating Jasmine’s feather. A man climbed in, soaked and cursing.

       “Piece-of-crap night.” He started to rub his wrist, then flapped it forward instead. “Take us down to the water. Fishermen don’t care if the lights are powered by gas or electric. All they want’s the drink.”

       As Rogan shoved the truck in gear, his companion sniffed once. And again. Then he grunted out a breath. “You brought her with you, didn’t you?”

       “Yeah, I did.”

       “Why?”

       “Someone threatened to kill her. Slowly. He left that as a token.”

       The man beside him sighed when he spied the feather. “You were right, then. Except now we’re talking local legend, or the borrowing thereof, to do the same job to Jasmine that’s been done to the others.”

       “Daniel has two feathers.”

       “And just how would you know that unless you’ve been talking to him? And if you have, you might’ve mentioned it before I spent half of this hellish night slip-sliding around town—and I mean that literally as you’ll see when and if the sun ever comes out—trying to locate him.”

       Ignoring the question, Rogan pointed his truck down a steep hill. “Any luck?”

       “None. Far as I can tell in my extremely limited time here, no one’s seen him for two days.”

       Rogan wasn’t surprised. “He called Jasmine tonight, told her about his feathers and suggested she contact someone she could trust.”

       His companion snorted. “Contact someone she could trust before, once again, his meddling got her killed. Bastard’s probably gone into hiding.”

       “Odds are.”

       “Could as easily be dead.”

       “Also possible, but only if the killer’s working with a partner, which I doubt. That feather wasn’t on Jasmine’s door when she got home from work.”

       The man pointed. “See that shack near the piers that shoot out from the dock? It’s called Two Toe Joe’s. Place smells like piss. Beer tastes like it. The oldest geezer on the planet parks his bony ass there every night. You got questions about legends and feathers, he’s your man. But you gotta keep his cup full, or his vocal cords dry up.”