Blood in Windermere Bay

Most mornings, Windemere Bay feels like a truce.

The ocean pounds the cliffs outside my cottage, gulls scream overhead, and I drink coffee strong enough to keep the ghosts in the cage. It isn’t peace exactly, peace is for people who don’t wake up every day remembering who they failed, but it’s quiet. And quiet is enough for me.

I came here two years ago with nothing but a box of books, a dented truck, and a barely sober self. The cottage was falling apart but still manageable, the cracked porch boards, peeling paint, plumbing that groaned like an old man but it was cheap and more than enough for someone who was jobless.Also perfect for someone trying to disappear.

These days, I keep my hands busy with furniture I drag from yard sales and thrift shops. Sand it down, repaint, breathe new life into something unwanted. It’s cheaper than therapy and keeps me from thinking too much about the bottle I could drown to take away my thoughts just for a moment.

The town itself pretends not to notice me. Windemere Bay isn’t unfriendly, just private. People nod at you in the grocery store, smile at the dock, and then carry on with their business. They don’t ask where you came from or why you’re here, which is exactly why I chose it. Nobody wants to be the woman who torched her own life in Los Angeles. Nobody wants to talk about the boy whose face still wakes me up at night.

I thought I’d gotten good at this routine. The cottage, the coffee, the sanding block in my hands. Day after day, the tide is rising and falling like clockwork.

Until this morning.

It started the way it always does. I stepped outside with my chipped mug, toes curling against the damp porch wood, hair pulled into a half-hearted ponytail. The ocean spreads out endless, the kind of view that makes you feel both happy and lucky.

Then something caught my eye.

At first, I thought it was seaweed snagged in the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Nothing unusual, this stretch of shore is full of kelp and driftwood. But then the current shifted, and the shape rolled. Pale. Human.

The mug slipped from my hand. It shattered against the steps, hot coffee spattering across the wood, but I didn’t stop to clean it. My body was already moving, already sprinting down the narrow trail carved into the cliffside.

The salt wind burned my throat as I stumbled onto the sand. My lungs worked too hard, like they knew what my brain wasn’t ready to admit. A dead young lady.

Face turned sideways, dark hair tangled in seaweed, lips blue. A girl. Sixteen, maybe. The surf pulled at her ankles like the tide couldn’t decide if it wanted her back.

I dropped to my knees. My pulse roared.

I told myself not to touch her. Not my job anymore. Not my life.

But I couldn’t stop. My fingers brushed her arm. Cold. Stiff. Gone.

The rest came back like muscle memory. Rope burns on her wrists. Bruises across her forearms where someone had grabbed her. Sand jammed under her nails. She’d fought.

This wasn’t an accident.

For a long second, I just knelt there in the surf, staring at her. The last time I’d been this close to a body, it had cost me everything. My badge. My marriage. The career I once thought would save me.

And worse, the boy. Ten years old, eyes full of trust I didn’t deserve. Tommy Reyes.

My throat closed. I dug my hands into the wet sand until my nails hurt. Two years sober, but right then I tasted whiskey so sharp I almost gagged.

Sirens came faint in the distance. Windemere Bay doesn’t get sirens often. I should’ve left before they arrived. Should’ve walked away and let this place do what it always does, swallow its secrets.

Instead, I stayed.

Sheriff Walt Kinney climbed down the path in a hurry. Early sixties, thick around the middle, sweat darkening his khaki shirt. His eyes skimmed the scene and landed on me. A flicker of recognition there, my name still travels farther than I want it to.

“Well,” he muttered, squatting beside the girl. “Hell of a thing.”

His breath smelled like stale coffee and cigarettes. His tone sounded bored.

“Drunk teen,” he said. “Went swimming, the tide pulled her under. Happens every year.”

“No,” I said before I could stop myself. “Look at her wrists.”

He gave me a long, slow look. “And you are?”

“Elise Grant.”

That pause again, just a beat too long. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he almost smiled. “Right. The detective.”

“Used to be.”

“Then you should know the tide does nasty things to a body. Scrapes, bruises. Don’t mean nothing.”

“She fought with someone, probably the killer,” I said, sharper this time.

His eyes hardened. “Doesn’t matter what you think, you see what matters is what I put in my report. And my report says there was an accident.”

Behind him, deputies moved quickly, ignoring our conversation and not taking a picture of her at the crime scene, just sliding the girl into a body bag.

“What was her name?” I asked.

“Sadie Cooper,” he said. “Sixteen. Parents’ll be notified.” Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough that the deputies couldn’t hear. “Piece of advice, Ms. Grant. You keep your head down out here. This town doesn't enjoy when outsiders poking around.”

And just like that, it was over.

They carried Sadie away. The sheriff climbed back up the trail. The sirens faded into silence.

I stayed behind, staring at the mark her body had left in the sand until the tide washed it smooth.

When I finally forced myself back up the cliff, my legs trembled so badly I had to grip the railing of my porch. The cottage looked the same as always, but nothing about it felt safe anymore.

I scrubbed my hands raw at the sink. I cleaned the counter. I swept up the shattered mug. But I couldn’t wash away the image of Sadie’s face, her terror frozen forever, or the way Sheriff Kinney had dismissed her like she was nothing.

By nightfall, I’d convinced myself to breathe again. To pretend it was just another ghost I couldn’t save.

I looked out the window with a plate of fruit in my hand and saw a pair of eyes staring at me.

The hairs on the back of my neck rose. I turned toward the door.

A figure stood just past the tree line. Still. Watching.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

And then it was gone.

But the fear stayed.