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CHAPTER ONE
THE TRAFFIC LIGHT turned green. Sierra flicked her gaze right, then left, her hands rigid on the steering wheel, her foot hovering over the accelerator. She could go. The light was green, it was all good. Sweat prickled over her scalp. She checked to either side again. The cars lined up obediently behind the white line at the intersection. It was safe. But still, she hesitated.
The loud blare of a horn sounded behind her, and she flinched and closed her eyes. That was a mistake. With her eyes closed, her head filled with the terrifying sound of screeching tires. Of metal crunching, buckling. Of glass smashing into smithereens. Of screams. Horrible screams.
A horn honked again, this time long and insistent. The light was definitely green, wasn’t it? She checked again to make sure. Yes, it was. Green for go. Tightening her fingers around the wheel—and after one final glance to make sure there were no cars speeding toward her—she edged the car forwards.
Clearing the intersection, she released a breath from between pursed lips and increased her speed.
It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. Could a person have a phobia of traffic lights? Not daring to take her eyes from the busy road in front, Sierra fumbled with the door console until she found the button to let the window down. A welcome blast of cool air helped dry the perspiration on her face.
At least this was the last set of lights she’d have to deal with today. The city of Adelaide was behind her, and now she was heading onto the highway that’d take her towards Cape Jervis, and the ferry back to Kangaroo Island. Thank God she lived on an island. Not a single traffic light to be seen anywhere. The idea of spending even one more night on the mainland had her breaking out in a sweat all over again.
Venturing onto the mainland was a necessary evil that had to be endured, although her mother would probably disagree. Aileen Goldstein was always grumbling about how she never saw her middle child, even though she lived closer than either of her other siblings. Her young brother, Logan, was the farthest away, on an island in the Caribbean somewhere, and Kiera was in Hawaii. She did miss her mum, though, and had enjoyed their evening together last night. Mum still lived in their old house in Glenelg. Sierra’s heart squeezed tight every time she drove up the driveway to that house. It was always bittersweet when she visited because it reminded her so much of her father. Five years on, and she still missed Dad like crazy.
But even one night on the mainland had Sierra itching to get back to the island. It was quiet there. The wild coastline and the green hills soothed her like nothing else could. Now she was on the road home, she could literally feel the tension leaving her shoulders. The radio was playing a song from the eighties, one of her favorites from the band, The Police. She turned it up loud, and let the wind and the music calm her mind as she drove.
Less than two hours later, Sierra stood at the railing of the boat, watching the mainland dwindle into the distance. The strip of land mixed into the wake of the ferry in the dark, swirling water. She glanced down. Her car was parked on the deck below. She could see the gray roof of the Subaru huddled next to the others, mostly four-wheel-drives, some camper-vans, and a couple of caravans which would belong to the tourists and gray nomads coming to visit the island. The ferry was barely a third full today. Not many tourists were intrepid enough to brave a Kangaroo Island winter. And they were right to stay away. It got bloody cold, windy, wet and just plain miserable out there.
The icy wind whipped past her face, threatening to tear her long, auburn hair from its ponytail. The ocean was rough; iron-gray clouds hung heavy in the evening sky and the wind howled around the ferry. Pulling her Gortex jacket tighter around herself, she drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Home. She was going home.
A man burst through the door from the inside cabin and took two long strides across the deck to the side of the ferry, only a few feet from where she leaned. White-knuckled, he grabbed the railing and gulped at the sea air.
She crossed her arms and turned her head sideways to take a quick look. His face was pale, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. She held back a smile. Whether it was just pure luck, or a strong constitution that stopped her from getting seasick, she’d never know. No matter how rough the water on the Backstairs Passage, she never felt a twinge of nausea. And she’d done this trip many times. But it was always humorous watching big, strapping men like this one beside her succumbing to the roll and pitch of the waves.
“Keep taking slow, deep breaths,” she encouraged. “The fresh air will help.”
“Really? I’m not so sure about that,” he replied through gritted teeth. His face had a green tinge, even beneath the light-brown color of his skin.
“Well, if you really want to feel better, then there’s nothing like a good old puke over the side. That works wonders. But will you warn me if you’re going to do that, please? I’m downwind.” She took a step away from him, arms still crossed over her chest.
“I’m not going to puke,” he growled, and she wondered if saying the words out loud was a warning to himself or to her.
“That’s good,” she replied, still watching him warily.
“No one told me it’d be like this. How long will it take us to get there?”
“The trip is around forty-five minutes. It might take a little longer in these big seas, though.”
“Oh, great,” the man replied, lifting one dark eyebrow.
She stole another glance at him. Even after ten years on the island, she didn’t know everyone who lived there. It was a tight-knit community on the whole, but it wasn’t as small as people thought, with a population of nearly four-and-a-half-thousand. She was pretty sure she would’ve noticed a guy this good-looking before, however. Perhaps a few inches taller than her, which made him around six foot. A thatch of ebony hair, cut short, but not so short you couldn’t run your fingers through it. Raven-dark eyes, with a high forehead and expressive eyebrows. At least he was dressed correctly for the climate. Blue jeans—which hugged his impressive thighs nicely—hiking boots, and a thick, waterproof coat. If he was a tourist, he’d come well prepared for the island’s infamous weather.
“You sound like you’ve done this before. Do you live on the island?” He glanced at her quickly, before returning his gaze to the water, taking another deep breath.
“Yeah, I’m heading home.”
He nodded. “What’s it like? Living on the island, I mean.”
“Good. Great actually, if you like life a bit slower. It’s beautiful. The coastline is amazing.” Sierra let her gaze drift out over the water to mingle with his. She didn’t add it also had the power to heal. “Why do you ask?” she added, her interest piqued.
“Starting a job in Kingscote. I’m the new cop on the beat.” He glanced up as he spoke, his suddenly shrewd eyes weighing her up.
Well, that answered a few questions about him. The reason for his piercing stare, as if he was trying to delve into her deepest secrets, was now clear. It was a cop stare, intimidating, scrutinizing. And now that he’d said it, she could see his straight-backed stance and athletic, lean body was also a product of his profession. He had to stay fit to catch the bad guys. She had a healthy respect for the cops. The good ones, at least. Was he one of the good guys? You couldn’t tell from looking at them, that much she knew.
“Aha. Sergeant Don Coldwater is a decent man. Fair, but firm. You should get on well with him.” She didn’t add that the Sarge was also a little chauvinistic and old fashioned. Stubborn and single-minded, if he thought he was right. Her dealings with the Sergeant of the island’s small police unit were fragmented, at best.
Cops had an ingrained wariness of investigative journalists. Not that she called herself that anymore. But she did the occasional article for The Islander newspaper, and had butted heads with Don Coldwater more than once over the truth behind a story. They were polite when they met in public, but there was still an aura of tension between them, as if Don was circling her like she might explode at any moment. Which she wouldn’t. Not now. Maybe once she’d been a stick of dynamite, wanting to blow a story sky-high. But now, she was much more circumspect. Life was never black and white. She’d learned that the hard way.
