CHAPTER ONE
TREY HARRISON SLID farther down in the seat of his 2009 Chevy pickup and frowned at the blue-and-white cottage at the end of the street, deliberately relaxing his tense hands on the steering wheel. “That can’t be it,” he said to his dog, King.
From the back seat, King’s tail beat rhythmically against his crate. He gave one short bark.
Guilt pounded Trey’s already-aching head, because he knew what that bark meant. King wanted to get to work.
But because of Trey, that wouldn’t be happening for either of them. No more police work. Not for a while, and maybe not ever.
His own stupidity and recklessness had stolen not only his career, but King’s. He moved his seat back and opened the door of King’s crate, and the big German shepherd jumped into the passenger seat and leaned against his arm. Offering trust and forgiveness Trey didn’t deserve.
He looked again at the neat little cottage set off by itself, the front facing the lane, the back oriented toward the Chesapeake Bay. He’d been expecting something institutional, impersonal. Rehabilitation wasn’t supposed to be vacation-like. He clicked to confirm the address on his phone, then carefully turned his head to scan the row of small, quaint houses scattered along this side of the lane. White picket fences, flowers in every yard. Audible from beyond the houses was the cry of gulls and the steady lapping of waves against the rocky shoreline.
Several of the cottages, including the blue-and-white one, had little signs hanging from gateposts or vine-covered arbors. From his parking place he could read some of them: Hawthorne Cottage, Escape on the Water, Bailey’s Hideaway.
Trey squinted at the sign that hung from the vine-covered arbor in front of his destination, and read Healing Heroes.
His hands clenched on the steering wheel. He sure didn’t feel like a hero.
He wanted to just drive away.
Except he couldn’t. Financially, he didn’t have any other options, and for whatever reason, his chief really wanted him to participate in this new program for disabled police officers. Insisted, basically. “You need it mentally as well as physically,” he’d said, and had implied that it was the only way Trey had a chance of getting his old job back.
It was Trey’s own fault. Even if he hadn’t gotten injured, his impulsive behavior at work had been about to land him in a desk job.
He got out of the truck, let King out and walked up to the door. Bending down, he attempted to fit the old-fashioned key they’d sent him into the lock, wincing as pain radiated out from his lower back.
The key didn’t want to work; it was rusty, a little bent. Didn’t fit, just like he didn’t. Just like King didn’t.
They were supposed to be hunting down missing persons, sniffing out drugs, chasing bad guys. Or, at a minimum, doing their monthly training exercises to keep skills sharp.
Instead, they were in forced rehabilitation in a tiny, tidewater town.
He wiped sweat from his face. April in Maryland shouldn’t be this hot. Weren’t there supposed to be waterfront breezes?
“Just three months, buddy,” he said to King. “Maybe less.”
King panted up at him, his face a doggy smile, and Trey stood up straighter. He needed to stop feeling sorry for himself. He had to do his wretched physical therapy, which so far seemed to hurt more than it helped. Hide his bad attitude. That was the only way to get back to the thing that never let him down: work.
The whine of a vacuum cleaner from inside the cottage startled Trey. He knocked, then pounded on the door. When there was no answer, he pounded again, too hard, making King woof.
Get control of yourself. He had to get—and keep—control.
The vacuum cleaner stopped and then the door opened. The woman who answered looked to be in her fifties with curves worthy of an old-time movie star. He liked curvy women, or had, back when he’d been interested in romance.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“Um, yeah. Trey Harrison. I’m supposed to be staying here.”
“Right.” The woman forked her fingers through reddish hair streaked with gray and gave him a rueful smile. “I’m Julie White. I manage the place. But we’re not quite ready for you.”
“We will be, by check-in time.” The voice, practical and friendly, came from behind the older woman. “That’s 3:00 p.m. Just take a walk along the shore, or get lunch at Goody’s just a block over. You can leave your stuff.”
“Sure.” He caught a glimpse of a younger version of the woman who’d answered the door. A knockout, he noted with an alarming lack of interest.
As he turned away, wincing at the twisting movement, he heard the younger woman speaking. “You can’t break down now, Mom. We’re almost done.”
“Why do you always think I’m breaking down? I’m fine!”
The conversation got harder to hear as he reached the sidewalk and looked up the street, wondering whether to go for a beach walk, get lunch or retreat to where he’d come from.
Not an option, remember? The house he and his ex-wife had bought five years ago, when Trey had dreamed of a Norman Rockwell family, had just sold. He had to go back there at some point, probably tomorrow, to clean it out for the new owners. Not to stay.
He should do as the woman had suggested, hit the beach. Light walking was recommended for his injury, and it might clear some of the gray cloud that kept sinking over him. And King could use the exercise. He turned toward the access path he’d seen earlier and nearly ran into a short, barrel-chested cop, another fiftysomething. “Excuse me,” Trey said, and started to pass.
The man held out a hand. “You must be our visitor for the new program. Welcome. I’m Earl Greene.”
Was his identity as a so-called healing hero that obvious, or was this just a really small town? Trey forced his lips into a polite smile. “Pleased to meet you,” he lied. This guy would write the report that might convince his chief to give him his old job back. Depressing to be at the mercy of an over-the-hill, small-town cop. He glared at the guy’s badge.
Officer Greene looked past him toward the blue-and-white cottage and lifted a hand in a wave. “Hey, there, Julie. Hey, Ria.”
The guy’s expression was exactly what kids looked like when they saw a toy they really, really wanted, and that made Trey look back toward the cottage, too. There was nothing to see, just the door to his new home-away-from-home closing.
Officer Greene lifted his chin and looked at Trey. “Got your volunteer gig all lined up,” he said. “Once you’re settled, come on down to the station and we’ll talk it over.”
“Volunteer gig? Oh, right.” Trey remembered reading something about that in the material explaining the Healing Heroes program, but he hadn’t paid much attention. He’d been most interested in the rent-free opportunity to get out of town and heal. He flicked imaginary dirt from King’s head to conceal his ignorance. “I’ll look forward to hearing about it, sir.”