Perhaps even to possess, Carrie thought uneasily as she remembered the strange undercurrent in Tia’s last letter.
“Maybe Andres was afraid the authorities were on to him so he loaded his family into one of his boats and fled in the middle of the night,” she suggested. “The blood in the boathouse could have been a ruse to throw the police off track.”
Cochburn’s eyes met hers. “That’s an interesting theory.”
She smiled at his tone. “But you’re not buying it?”
“I barely remember Andres Santiago, but my father was the attorney who arranged the trust that allows Alma Garcia to remain in the house. The two of them were very good friends even though they were as different as night and day…the dashing smuggler and the straitlaced attorney.” He paused, and his expression turned pensive. “I never learned how or why they became friends, but I do know that my father remained loyal to Andres to the end.”
“So what did he think happened to them? If he was that close to Andres, he must have had his own theory.”
“He believed that someone Andres had crossed in the past came looking for revenge or else the insurgents who killed Medina’s family wanted to make sure she could never return to her homeland. In either case, my father was convinced the family met with a tragic end because if Andres was alive, he would somehow have managed to get word back to him.”
Carrie mulled over the possibilities for a moment. “What about the nanny…Alma Garcia? Was she never considered a suspect? It seems she’s the one who benefited most from the family’s disappearance.”
Cochburn grimaced. “If you call living alone on an island all these years a benefit. Alma didn’t inherit the property outright, and the only monetary compensation she receives is a small monthly allowance that barely takes care of her basic needs, much less the upkeep of the house and grounds. That’s why some of the property has been converted into apartments and rented out. Her inheritance was hardly the kind of fortune that would motivate one to mass murder. Besides, my father said that she was devoted to those children. She loved them as if they were her own. She would never have done anything to harm them.”
Stranger things have happened. “Why do you think she’s stayed on the island all these years?” Carrie asked.
“One can only speculate, but I think at first she was waiting for the children to return. Then later, once loneliness and dementia set in, she forgot why she was there. Whatever her reason, she’s remained in that house all these years, living in her own little world.”
Carrie tried to imagine what the woman’s life must have been like for the past thirty years, but it was hard to put herself in Alma Garcia’s place. Carrie had been born and raised in Miami, and she loved the daily hustle and bustle of big-city living. As a graphic designer for a local magazine, she was used to a hectic pace. She’d go crazy living so far from civilization. “You say she’s one of only two permanent residents on the island?”
“Yes, and as you can see, the area is quite isolated. If your friend came out here looking for solitude, she certainly found it.”
Carrie didn’t bother telling him that Tia had come to Cape Diablo for more than just solitude. She’d been running away, not only from a future with a man she no longer wanted—a man she might even have come to fear—but from a past that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Carrie knew what that was like because she shared Tia’s past. The two of them had been running from the same nightmare since they were twelve years old.
“Are there any other tenants?”
“A man named Ethan Stone moved into one of the apartments a few days ago. I don’t know much about him. His secretary made all the arrangements, but I gather he’s a Wall Street–type suffering from a bad case of burnout.”
“He has my sympathies,” Carrie murmured.
“And, of course, there’s Nick Draco, the carpenter I hired to do some repairs. He’s staying in the old servants’ quarters.”
“So at the moment there are only five people living on the island,” she said.
“That’s right. Like I said, if your friend wanted solitude, she came to the right place.”
They both fell silent after that, and Carrie turned her attention to the scenery as she tried to imagine Tia’s frame of mind when she’d traveled across these same waters three weeks earlier. She must have felt desperate when she’d fled Miami, but why Cape Diablo? Carrie had never even heard of the island. How had Tia found out about it?
Perhaps a friend or colleague had told her about it, Carrie decided. It was the kind of place that would only be advertised by word of mouth. Not at all like the five-star resorts Trey was undoubtedly used to, which was probably why Tia had chosen it.
For all Carrie knew, Tia had been contemplating the trip for weeks as her wedding day approached and her jitters had turned into panic. Maybe she hadn’t been able to work up the courage to call off the ceremony until faced with the inevitable.
Tia had left a note for Carrie in the bride’s room, begging her to break the news gently to the distraught groom. Trey Hollinger had put up a poised front for the hundreds of guests assembled in the chapel, but once he and Carrie were alone, he’d unleashed his fury on her. She’d tried to convince herself his misplaced anger was classic kill-the-messenger syndrome, but Trey’s wrath cut more deeply than that. He blamed Carrie for what happened. Everything had been fine, he’d raged, until she’d started planting ideas in Tia’s head.
“I know what you did to her back then. She told me all about it…how you ran off and just left her there. And now here you are back in her life and look what’s happened. You just couldn’t let her be happy, could you?”
Was he right? Had her rekindled friendship with Tia somehow set her friend back on the path of self-destruction?
Retrieving Tia’s letter from her bag, Carrie quickly scanned the contents for the umpteenth time, hoping for something that would reassure her. But far from putting her mind at rest, a fresh reading only deepened her foreboding.
After the first paragraph, Tia never mentioned Trey’s name. It was as if she’d put him completely out of her mind. Instead, she’d written about the island and the missing family. By the time she’d scribbled the last page, she’d begun—unwittingly, Carrie hoped—referring to the Santiagos by their given names, as if she’d known each of them personally.
I’ve seen photographs of the children. What beautiful little girls! I don’t know why, but I feel strangely drawn to them. Sometimes I go down to the beach and try to imagine the two of them collecting shells, building sand castles, playing chase with the surf. Reyna, so quiet and shy, and Pilar, too adventurous for her own good. They remind me of the way you and I once were.
Carrie’s grip tightened on the paper.
Maybe it’s because of our own tragic past that I feel so compelled to find out what happened to those little girls. Did they sail off with their father and stepmother that night or did something dark and sinister befall them? Are they out there somewhere leading normal, happy lives, or do their spirits still wander restlessly through the halls of this crumbling mansion?
I know how strange all this must sound to you, Carrie. It’s hard to explain, but I don’t think I can leave here until I find out what happened to them. Sometimes I think I was drawn to Cape Diablo for a reason. It’s as if the island itself is trying to tell me something…and it won’t let me rest until I uncover its secrets.
“CAPE DIABLO, DEAD AHEAD,” Pete Trawick shouted over the engine noise.
His gruff voice drew Carrie’s attention from Tia’s letter, and as she glanced up, she found Robert Cochburn watching her intently. The moment their gazes met, however, he smiled and jerked a thumb toward the front of the boat. “Heads up. You don’t want to miss the scenery. The island is beautiful this time of day.”
Carrie