The Hidden Son

By Dianna T. Benson

When U.S. DEA Special Agent Lelisa Desmond refuses to follow an order to bury evidence in a high profile case, her superior hires a hit man to forever silence her deep in the ocean off Grand Cayman Island. Lelisa survives the first attempt on her life, but someone close to her is mistakenly murdered in her place.

With no one to trust, Lelisa enlists Inspector Alec Dyer for assistance but soon learns she's his number one suspect in the homicide. She sets off on a daring mission to bring down the man who ordered her execution - a man in a high position, with powerful friends; a man who will stop at nothing to keep his son hidden.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dianna T. Benson
• Release date: Sep 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370838608

Dianna T. Benson

Dianna Torscher Benson is an award-winning and international bestselling author. An EMT and a Haz-Mat and FEMA Operative since 2005, and recently a victim advocate, Dianna authentically implements her medical and rescue experience and knowledge into all her suspense novels. She lives in North Carolina with her husband and their three children.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

TROPICAL SEAWATER SOOTHED Lelisa Desmond’s skin as she glided through the brilliant clear water of Grand Cayman. Arms along her sides, Lelisa waved her legs in alternate ups and downs as she eased forward. Less than two feet above the ocean floor her scuba fins jostled the chalky white sand. Various leafy plants swayed in the salty currents, the vegetation home to countless tiny sea life. A crab lay tucked at the edge of a vivid red and yellow coral reef. She swiveled around to point it out to her dive partner.

Rick wasn’t behind her.

Lelisa rotated in a circle and scanned. Nothing. She didn’t spot Rick anywhere. Cold panic flooded her. Not even for a brief moment would he ditch her; he always followed scuba diving protocol and stayed with his dive buddy. Always.

Rick? Where are you?

In the near distance, the dive boat’s iron anchor lay lopsided in the sand on the seabed. The attached rope drifted toward the surface, roughly ninety feet up. As her heart pounded and lungs burned, she zipped over to the triple braided rope. Clutched it.

A school of yellow fin tuna fluttered off to her right. A lone steel blue bonito reeled to her left. No Rick.

Dryness coated her mouth. Fear squeezed her chest. Her lungs blasted air out, sucked air in at a dangerous rate for this depth. If she didn’t relax, she could fall unconscious down here.

Eyes closed inside of her mask, she drew in a deep breath. Slowly. Released it. Slowly.

Okay. Her depth gauge registered ninety-one feet, air gauge 1600 psi, pounds per square inch. She glanced at her dive watch, noted twenty-three minutes downtime. In her head she calculated her max remaining time to stay within the range of safe dive tables. Plenty of air. Plenty of time.

Legs and arms pumping, she cut through the water; she whipped her head left to right and searched the fluid depths. No Rick. Where was he?

She streamed over the top of a massive bubble-shaped coral ridge. On the other side a human figure floated like a deflated raft. Limbs dangled out to the side. Head flopped forward. A purple scuba tank.

Rick.

Gulping, she neared his spooky form. She cradled his chin in her palm. Lifted his face. Inside his mask, his dilated pupils fixed on nothing. Suffocating dread crushed Lelisa’s ribcage.

What happened to him?

Rick? she cried out, her voice muffled by her regulator.

He was unresponsive. No exhaled air bubbled out of his mask or mouthpiece. His chest failed to rise and fall.

He wasn’t breathing.

She yanked his regulator from his mouth. Cyanosis circled his lips. The blueness a sign he was hypoxic, oxygen starved.

As she spit out her mouthpiece, she plugged his rubber-covered nose with a pinch of her fingers. She pressed her mouth over his, and blew in one rescue breath. Then another.

No response.

She slid her fingers to his neck in search of a carotid artery.

Pulseless.

Adrenaline pumped her bloodstream as she clawed Rick’s buoyancy control device vest, dragged his limp body to the boat’s anchor line. Designed to control buoyancy at a slow rate, a BCD vest inflated and deflated air with a press of a diver’s finger. To evade serious health risks, a slow ascent at this depth was vital.

Forget slow.

With Rick’s lifeless body clutched in her right arm, Lelisa unsnapped his weight belt with her left hand. It dropped from his waist to the seabed with an up-spray of sand. The press of her finger to his BCD air intake valve, and his vest expanded halfway. She filled her own vest with the same amount.

A dark flutter to the right caught her attention.

Not far in the distance, another diver, air bubbles rippling up toward the surface. She signaled for help.

The diver swam away, and disappeared.

Who would do that?

What diver would ignore a desperate plea for help?

Refocused on the task at hand, Lelisa scissor-kicked. With a grip that ached her knuckles, Rick dangled in her grasp as she streamed toward the surface above.

Too fast. I’m ascending too fast.

If she risked her health any further, she’d be unable to help Rick.

She stilled her legs, released some air from her BCD. At twenty-eight feet, she exhaled trapped nitrogen for five seconds. Six seconds. Seven.

Enough. The chance of reviving him dwindled as every second ticked past.

She unsnapped her weight belt and dropped it, filled both their BCD vests to full capacity. Together they bucked upward in rapid force, her focus on breathing out. Exhaling nitrogen.

They popped up on the surface with a chaotic splash. The sun’s morning rays flashed in her eyes. A shiny gleam of metal whipped her head toward the flash, and she spotted the dive boat. She spit out her regulator, filled her lungs with air.

Help, she screamed. We need help. Cradling Rick’s lifeless body, she floated on her back, pounded her legs on the surface as she propelled them to the boat’s metal ladder.

Blast it, a British-accented voice yelled from the deck. What happened? The boat captain’s tanned arms reached over the ledge, yanked Rick’s limp body out of the water, and dragged it onto the boat with a thud. Did he have an attack? Something go wrong with the equipment?

I have no idea. Water dripping off her, Lelisa sprang over onto the boat deck. She slipped, landed smack on her right shoulder. Scrambled to her feet.

He’s not breathing. Panic edged in the captain’s yell. No pulse.

I know, she yelled, chest heaving. We can revive him. Images fast-forwarded in her mind of all those she’d revived in her career as a DEA special agent, the first responder care she’d administered until an EMS crew arrived on scene. He’s gonna make it. Gonna make it.

She shook off her BCD and attached air cylinder, as the young boat captain stripped Rick of his equipment, then initiated CPR. The kid couldn’t be older than twenty, maybe twenty-one-years old, and his bent arms shook with each pathetic attempt at an efficient chest compression.

Lelisa flung her drenched long hair out of the way, and shoved the boat captain aside. Let me. Kneeled at Rick’s side, she locked her fingers, placed her stacked palms over his lower sternum, and pumped her rigid arms two inches down into his chest cavity. Norepinephrine—the body’s natural epinephrine—pulsed through her blood vessels. The intense adrenaline rush captivated her focus to perform effective compressions. Is there an AED onboard?

A…a what?

Automated External Defibrillator.

Right. No. Even if there were, this guy looks—

EMS can resuscitate him, she shouted. A wave of exploded emotion slapped her, a reminder this was personal. I’m not giving up on him. No way. Rick was too young, too vibrant to die. Too good a crime scene investigator. A good man. Her best friend. I’ll do chest compressions. You get us to shore. Fast. Radio in for help on the way.

The captain backed away. What about rescue breaths?

There’s only two of us. You need to drive the boat.

The boat captain stood there, frozen in his stance.

Forcing oxygen in him won’t do a thing if his heart never restarts, she shot over her shoulder at him. Dude, get the boat moving. Now.

Right. He dashed off as she continued performing non-stop chest compressions.

What happened to you, Rick? she mumbled out loud, as she stared down at his blue face.

An engine roared to life. The boat jolted to the right, jerked forward with a burst of speed. It zoomed across the ocean’s surface toward the shoreline as Lelisa pumped Rick’s lifeless chest.

Lower lip quivering, tears welled in her eyes. Sorrow consumed her system like ice.

What happened? What happened down there?

CHAPTER TWO

HOT SAND SEEPED between Lelisa’s toes, but it did nothing to ease the chills peppering her skin. Ninety degrees and the summer sun beating down on the beach, but she stood shivering over Rick’s lifeless body as paramedics filled his bloodstream with meds and shocked his heart in a final attempt at the impossible. The inevitable crowd gathered to gawk. She didn’t see individual faces, just sensed their presence amidst the colored blur, heard their murmured voices and muffled horror as she inhaled the stink of sunscreen mixed with sweat in the humid heat of the noonday sun.

Arms wrapped around her waist, she dug her fingernails into her skin through her dried swimsuit for a grasping hold on something. The world seemed to spin out of control in a swarm, swallowing her up. Tears burned behind her eyes; she fought their yearn for release. Not here, not in front of a mass of strangers intent to feed their morbid curiosities. She’d never cried in front of someone else, at least not as an adult. As a United States DEA special agent, she encountered death on a regular basis, but this wasn’t a case. Rick was dead. Once a survival tactic, controlling her emotions became a battle she doubted she could win for much longer.

Oh…Rick. She squeezed her eyes shut and trembled in a quick shiver. Her closest friend was dead. The more she repeated the truth, maybe it would soak in and fuse.

If she had a faith of some sort to turn to, maybe she wouldn’t be drowning deep in grief and despair. Over the years, countless others had drummed their belief in God in her face, and it only turned her away from Him. Now she wondered if the world’s ninety some percent population had life figured out. Maybe their message was so right, but their presentation so wrong?

A large sweaty hand brushed her shoulder for a brief moment. Agent Desmond?

She flashed her eyes open, found the gray haired paramedic in front of her.

We worked him for thirty minutes, he spoke in a British accent, his broad face sympathetic. We injected multiple doses of epinephrine, vasopressin and atropine. We flushed cold fluids in the line to induce hypothermia. He shook his head. I’m so sorry, he’s in asystole, no—

No electrical heart activity.

Right. No return of spontaneous circulation. Rigor mortis is starting to set in. The hot conditions and the strenuous physical activity of the dive sped up the process. He’s gone.

I get it. She swallowed the grapefruit-sized lump choking her throat. Rick wasn’t gone. He was dead. A lighter word didn’t make it any easier. Nothing did. You did everything you could. Thank you for all your efforts. To keep the abated tears from blurring her vision, she curled her bare toes in the sand, and blinked several times.

A few yards from her feet, waves crashed along the shore of Seven Mile Beach where the dive boat’s nose anchored its position in the sand, the rest of it rocking with each roll of an incoming wave. As she stared at the sky blue boat she’d never forget, she stood there with a boiling urge to strike out at something, anything. Better yet, sleep for the next week or two. Escape, however, would only delay the inevitable grief process awaiting her. Haunting her. Clutching her insides.

It all seemed so surreal, especially the events that led to his death.

Do you have any idea why he died? she asked to focus on the facts, a tactic instilled at training and mastered on the job in order to maintain inner strength and composure.

Ultimately lack of oxygen. From what, though? The paramedic shrugged. Possibly a faulty air gauge. He tossed out a scenario. Maybe a bad tank valve. The O-ring could be damaged. Beyond equipment failure? Possibly some cardiac or respiratory condition. A seizure, perhaps. Maybe he had trouble equalizing and he panicked, or nitrogen narcosis struck him and he got disorientated, then panicked. How was he during the descent?

Fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The radio at his waist buzzed. After a glance at it, he flicked a knob, silencing it. Excuse me. I need to respond to this.

I understand.

Turning away from her, the paramedic spoke into his radio as his partner unfolded a cadaver bag from its packaging.

Ugh. A wave of fresh sadness bubbled up to the surface, and Lelisa struggled to hold it at bay. She’d seen countless body bags, sure, but that one would encase Rick.

The scuba equipment they’d used on that fateful dive lay heaped on the sand. Dive equipment malfunction, huh? Hmm.

She snagged a pair of latex medical exam gloves hanging out of the EMS bag, and headed to the scuba gear. As she snapped on the green latex, she crouched in front of the cylinder with a dark purple cover—the scuba tank Rick wore on the last dive of his life.

After she grabbed the air gauge dangling at the end of one of the four hose lines, she cupped it in her palm. More than 1900 psi of air registered on the circular gauge. She lifted the regulator dangling off another line, placed it in front of her face and depressed the purge button. Air hissed out. She sniffed it. Odorless.

Ma’am, what’re you doing? a male voice behind her asked in a reprimanding tone.

As she peeled off the gloves, she eased up to her feet and turned around. She faced a blond man towering over her by nearly a head. At her height of five seven, that proved he stood well over six feet.

With the crumpled gloves in her fist, she pointed her index finger to the ocean. Trying to understand what went wrong out there.

Studying her face, he badged her. Inspector Dyer, ma’am. Royal Cayman Islands Police Service. Sneakers, blue jeans, a tie and a buzz cut, he seemed more like an American detective than a Caymanian inspector. Thin lines of stress angled around his mouth and eyes, eyes as brilliant blue as the Caribbean Sea behind him. I’ve heard you’re Rick Eaton’s dive buddy.

She tossed the ball of gloves in a trashcan under a nearby palm tree. Yes, that’s right.

To ignore her grief, she raised her chin and folded her arms over her sun-warmed swimsuit. She’d fought too hard to achieve her position in a male-dominated field to have some inspector write her off as a blubbering female. Women flourished in law enforcement, but not without a price. To be on equal ground with all the guys, she pushed herself hard, forced herself way beyond her limits. Buried emotional reaction in order not to highlight the fact she was a girl.

I don’t have my badge on me, but I’m United States DEA Special Agent in Charge Lelisa Desmond. Raleigh, North Carolina.

Shock flashed across his face and widened his eyes. Oh?

Inspector, EMS told me Rick ultimately died from hypoxia. Lack of—

Oxygen. I know what it means.

Okay. She pointed at the hose lines. But the air gauge is at 1900 psi, and the airflow from the regulator is operating efficiently.

I noticed, Agent Desmond.

She nodded. Yeah, he’d probably examined the equipment, then moved it off the boat while she’d rattled off pertinent information to the EMS crew as they worked Rick’s cardiac arrest.

Did Mr. Eaton have any medical problems?

No. No pre-existing conditions. Nothing that would lead to hypoxia on a dive.

Something undiagnosed, possibly?

Sounded logical. Possibly, yeah.

But that’s not what you’re thinking.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. Sighing, she rubbed her sweaty forehead. A fresh wave of suffocating grief choked her. I’m…in shock. Trying to make sense of what happened to him. She stiffened her spine. Fought back tears from pooling in the corner of her eyes.

Dyer’s face creased in a closed-mouth smile, a show of compassion. Regardless of all cops witnessed in their careers, in spite of all that desensitized them over the years, many still cared, this cop obviously included. You were more than dive partners?

"We are…were dating." True, but in that instant it smacked her out of nowhere—the only loss she felt was that of a friend, nothing more.

It took his death to realize her true feelings.

How pathetic.

I’m sorry for your loss. Another compassionate smile. Grief is rough. Dyer nodded as if he knew all too well at an extreme personal level. It cuts deep. He cleared his throat, withdrew a notepad and a pen. Agent Desmond, I know this is difficult, but I need you to tell me the details of what happened. He drummed on, all cop now, and echoed the tape recorder in her head.

How often had she said the same meaningless words in her career?

How ‘bout we sit down over there? He pointed to the beachside pool deck where a crowd of curious onlookers gawked at the scene with morbid fascination.

Were people’s lives really that dull? Obviously.

She lifted an exhausted shoulder. Sure.

As they crossed the soft sand in silence, she watched a parasailer take off from the beach. Tanned long legs dangled in the air above the speedboat as it raced out toward the horizon.

Once on the cement pool deck, Lelisa eased down on a white lounge chair stuffed in an isolated corner, her back to the beach-parked ambulance. If she watched Rick’s bagged body lifted in on a stretcher, she wouldn’t be able to restrain the emotion ripping at her stomach. Even though she hadn’t been in love with him, and their dating had only been recent, he’d been her closest friend for years.

Other than Rick, she hadn’t allowed herself to grow close to anyone. At age eleven, she’d learned to depend solely on herself. People close to you abandoned you, so why bother? It hurt too much. Then Rick came along. Over the years of working countless cases together, they’d developed mutual trust and respect. A solid and close friendship.

Now that was gone. Poof.

As she squirmed on the lounge chair, she gnawed on her inner cheek. Dyer stood a few feet in front of her, hands on his hips. Chin raised a notch. A thousand times over she’d been there, done that—kept an emotional distance and an air of authority while questioning a grieving survivor.

He jotted notes as she related the simple facts from the moment she’d noticed Rick was no longer behind her on their dive, until the boat’s arrival on the shore with his lifeless body.

"Do you feel okay? Ascending in a rush—"

I feel fine, Inspector.

Did you make a safety stop?

A true decompression stop lasted minutes, not seconds. With a dead body in my arms? No. I told you I didn’t dawdle on ascent. I was focused on reviving Rick.

Nitrogen build-up—

It wasn’t a deep dive. She sorta just lied. Ninety-one feet wasn’t shallow, but she wanted to finish this conversation and leave. She wanted to be alone.

He just stared at her as if he suspected she’d lied to him. A rush of alarm shot through her. It was as if he’d asked the question in attempt to discover any holes in her statement.

What was your bottom depth, Agent Desmond?

Ninety-one feet.

Some divers consider that a deep dive.

Yes, and others think of anything shallower than a hundred as not deep. Regardless of the discrepancy in opinion with depth, a safety stop at ninety-one feet is highly recommended, not critical. And like I said, I’m fine. Lucky me. Thanks for your concern, she heard the sarcasm in her voice. This interview turned her defensive mode on and jerked it to high speed.

Uh-huh. Alright, let’s back up. So one minute he was there behind you, the next he wasn’t?

Yeah. Creepy.

Dyer blinked. Huh.

Every word she added, her story sounded more and more fictional. Suspicious.

Stop talking.

Agent Desmond, a few minutes before that, did he panic for some reason? Panicking overloads a diver’s respiratory system.

As far as I noticed, Inspector, everything seemed normal.

Until you found him dead.

What exactly did he mean by that? She decided it was best not to ask.

Dyer tapped his pen against the side of his notepad. Tapped and tapped. Something was sure on his mind. Agent Desmond, the captain told me you dove with the dark blue covered scuba cylinder, Mr. Eaton the dark purple. Yet, I noticed the nameplates on them are the opposite.

Where is he going with this?

She nodded. Yep, that’s right. And a detail she forgot to explain to him. Oh, not good.

So you dove with each other’s tank? He shrugged. Why?

Did she hear accusation in his tone? Spot it in his body language?

Inspector Dyer, the two colors are a subtle difference. When Rick and I grabbed our scuba cylinders on the boat deck to hook up our regulators, we were swapping jokes. Laughing. A lump caught in her throat at the vivid memory. She gulped to clear it. Blinked away the sting of fresh tears threatening to spill. You know, not paying attention. After we leaped into the ocean, we noticed we were wearing each other’s cylinder. We laughed off the mix-up and descended to the ocean floor for our dive.

As his thin brows slid together, he studied her face with a scrutinizing look in his eyes. His silence unnerved her. Uh-huh, he finally spoke and with more than a hint of skepticism.

Was he questioning her story’s validity? Considering the possibility Rick’s death was no accident and she was to blame? In all honesty, she could see how the tank mix-up sounded hokey. Hey, it bothered her; after-all, Rick had died scuba diving with her tank.

Wait a second…he died using my tank.

A sudden revelation spun in her mind—was it possible Rick had died in her place? Should she be the one zipped up in a body bag, not poor Rick?

Agent Desmond? Are you okay? You look a little pale.

I’m fine, Inspector. Her mind raced. The chaos failed to form organization.

Seems like something is on your mind, Agent. Want to share? Is there more to add to your interesting story?

She didn’t like Dyer’s tone at all.

Unease crept into her. She didn’t know what else to say to him, so she kept her mouth shut and climbed to her feet. Time for her to disappear in her hotel room and grieve in peace.

No. To appear trustworthy, she shrugged with forced nonchalance. I can’t think of anything. Before she shared one more thing with this sharp inspector, she needed time to think.

The slam of the ambulance back doors caught her attention, and her heart sank. After both EMTs climbed into the cab, the ambulance crept forward, no lights, no sirens.

A breeze tossed her drying hair, filled her mind with the haunting image of hurricane madness, and a painful twenty-two year memory socked her—another bagged body rolling away in another ambulance on this same island destroyed from a category five hurricane, her mom’s lifeless pregnant body as Lelisa stood by watching, her small hand held by a kind Cayman female police officer.

If you do— Dyer stuck out his business card, interrupting the dark memory —please give me a call. When do you plan to leave the island and return to the States?

Um… She slipped his card from his finger tips and brought her mind back to the present, away from the terrified eleven-year-old girl she’d once been. "We arrived here yesterday. Our…my return flight is next Tuesday."

You plan on changing that now?

Don’t know. Her heart twisted. I need some time. She couldn’t think straight.

Of course. He nodded. If you decide to leave early, please give me a call before you fly out. Where are you staying?

Yep, he’d keep tabs on her; he’d be stupid not to. As a fellow law enforcer, she more than understood. Understood he was an inspector working a case, and it was his job to close it accurately.

She pointed to the island’s popular high-rise hotel three buildings down the beach. Cayman Breeze Inn.

*~*~*~*

Slouched on her hotel bed, pillows cushioning the headboard behind her, Lelisa held Rick’s cell phone in her palm. The mid afternoon sun streamed in through the window. It should be raining and dreary out. But life went on. Without Rick.

Crumpled tissues dotted the tousled comforter, forming a jagged pattern of despair. Evidence she’d spent an hour or so crying.

Time to stop stalling and call Rick’s parents.

She touched the Asheville, North Carolina residence phone number programmed in Rick’s iphone as her stomach rolled with unease. She drew in a deep breath, eased air out to settle her gut, one hand held to her abdomen as if it would help.

Hello? a female voice on the other end answered.

Um, hello. More stalling as Lelisa switched the phone to her other ear. Mrs. Eaton? This is Lelisa Desmond. Rick’s friend.

Hi, dear, Rick’s mom greeted in a sweet southern accent.

Lelisa stared at her DEA badge on the dresser in order to keep her voice steady. To give her strength. Ma’am, did Rick tell you he flew down to Cayman?

No. How nice. You two have traveled there before to dive, haven’t you? How was this trip?

Lelisa raked her stubbed nails through her scalp, dragged her long hair out of her face.

God, if you are listening up there somewhere, please help me here. For the sake of these kind people, give me comforting words to say.

Actually, we’re still here. Blinking a half dozen times, she fought a new round of tears welling behind her eyes. Is…Mr. Eaton home?

In the family room watching some silly talk show. The woman giggled. Can you imagine? A man his age watching stuff like that?

Could you please get him on the phone with us?

Lelisa, is something wrong? The woman’s tone sharpened, the drawl more pronounced.

Unable to find the words, Lelisa didn’t answer.

Harold? Rick’s mother yelled away from the telephone. Harold, pick up the phone out there. Panic dripped from her every word.

Several seconds of thick silence dragged on.

Hello? Harold Eaton spoke in a southern twang; his voice reminded Lelisa of Rick’s deep tone, and she almost unbridled the tears threatening to overwhelm her.

Rick’s friend Lelisa Desmond is on the line, Mrs. Eaton jumped in, voice choked. They’re in Cayman. Something’s wrong.

Lelisa pushed aside her opened laptop and scooted to the edge of the bed. Mr. and Mrs. Eaton— she stared at her badge and duty weapon, digging up the courage to deliver the blow, the horrible news about their only child —I’m sorry we’ve never met. With her fingernail edge, she scraped dried chocolate off the B key on her laptop. Rick and I were scuba diving this morning… Unable to go on, she gnawed on her stubbed nails, and tasted bitter chocolate.

What happened? Mr. Eaton prodded in a heated tone.

I’m so sorry, he…he died on a dive, she blurted out. She knew no way to soften the blow and she’d heard nothing from God.

Hey, God, are you around somewhere? Do you exist?

Mrs. Eaton stifled a scream over the phone, yet Lelisa heard the hysterical crying wail through the connection as if Rick’s mother stood right next to her in the same room.

Died on a dive? Mr. Eaton yelled in a high octave. No, no way, he scoffed his denial and disbelief. Rick is an experienced diver.

As her chest heaved, Lelisa swiped the trickling tears off her cheeks. You’re a Fed. Come on, stand strong like one.

But…I’m only human.

She swallowed. Mr. and Mrs. Eaton, I’m so sorry for your loss.

Don’t give me that, Mr. Eaton snapped, anger now rolling through his voice. He’d bypassed the shock stage and barreled right into anger. Not uncommon. Tell us what happened to our son. You’re a cop, aren’t ya? Some kind of federal agent?

Lelisa’s chest tightened as she fought to maintain a calm composure. Yes. I’m trying to find out exactly what went so terribly wrong.

Oh, my sweet goodness, Mrs. Eaton wailed. Harold, Har…old. The phone slammed into a hard surface of some sort.

The memory of that sound would no doubt haunt Lelisa’s nightmares for a long time.

I want answers, Mr. Eaton shouted out. Rick was a crime scene man. He deserves respect and a proper burial. At home.

Lelisa pinched the bridge of her nose. Rick’s…body can’t be released until the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service has—

Work on getting those answers, miss. I’ll take care of my son’s remains. I have to go. Good-bye. Harold Eaton called out his wife’s name.

The line quieted from disconnection.

Lelisa touched End on Rick’s cell phone.

A watery film blanketed her eyes. Blurred her vision.

There would be no more early morning jogs with Rick. No more late night calls to discuss