Dark Beach by Lauren Ash Page B

last.”
    “Jesus.”
    Ron’s thoughts flew to the great gash the explosion had rent in the hull of the gunmetal grey destroyer.
    “Ah’m sorry for what Ah said yesterday. I was pissed off, hot under the collar.”
    “Enough said. Forget about it.” Ron wasn’t the type to hold a grudge.
    Carl rubbed a hand over his eyes. “One’ve my best was lost down there. He was young, smart—picked everythin’ up quickly—a bright future ahead of him.”
    “Yeah, I heard he was an ace. Heard he’d just gotten married, too.”
    “Yip.”
    “I didn’t call the Admiral.”
    “Thanks,” said Carl.
     
    * * *
     
    When the cramping eased off, Jenny returned to the kitchen. She was starving again. I suppose I better eat before I go out. “I’ll take this as a good sign,” she told no one in particular.
    The lantern sat on the kitchen bench, where she left it.
    Curiosity always got the better of her. Curiosity killed Jenny—might be prophetic.
    Inside the glass casing, a half-burned white candle dribbled a trail of wax in the center . She noticed a piece of paper folded underneath the base of the candle. Opening the lantern door, she tried to inch the stump of candle out, but managed only to knock it over. The paper below it was still covered by wax.
    “Come on, come on,” she moaned, working at it. “Piece of—” The paper was jammed in there at a strange angle, between the base and the glass pane. She picked up the  lantern and shook it. “Come on. Come on ! Come free.”
    It did not.
    “This isn’t rocket science,” she scolded herself, knowing Ron would be laughing at her if he were here witness to it. “Hmmm.” Glancing around, she selected her favorite knife from the counter. The knife stabbed deep into the lump of wax and, with a twist, it popped loose.
    “There!”
    The note sat on the bottom. White paper perfectly folded in a neat little square. With trembling hands, Jenny reached in and grabbed it.
     
    What are you looking for?
     
    That was it. That was all it said. She flicked the note across the kitchen. Kurt’s words came back to her: Because you’re looking for something .
    “What an idiot,” she muttered. “I can’t believe this guy. Who does he think he is?”
    “My dear?” Mrs. Coggington’s words were followed by a soft tap on the door. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m a little late.”
     
     

 
    FIVE
     
     
    The black-handed clock on t he tackle shop wall read twelve-thirty. She was late, and she knew it. She didn’t care. She was alone in that cramped fisherman’s heaven; not a single customer was in sight. How does Kurt make any money in this sleepy town?
    Jenny snooped about. Fishing lures in all shapes and sizes hung from the walls. He doesn’t seem like the stalker type . She examined the barbed hooks, the sharp stainless steel gaffs. Well, maybe.
    The longer she waited the more her anger dissipated. Maybe it was a coincidence? Kurt appeared nice, friendly—perhaps overly so—but Jenny wasn’t sure about him. Usually she had good gut instincts about people, but this fisherman was a mystery to her.
    “Where is he?” She looked at the clock again and examined a fish size chart on the wall.
    A chime rang out as the front door behind her opened. A tall man, dirty in tired blue flannel, blue suspenders, and big heavy boots took off his faded red ball cap and scratched one hand through his hair. Jenny couldn’t tell if his face was filthy too, or if he was just unshaven.
    “I need five hundred yards of thirty-pound test, multi-strand or multi-fiber. Oh … Where’s Kurt?” He looked her up and down, his eyes skipping over red loafers and denim to pause, chest height, at her white tank and grey zipped hoodie. He made absolutely no eye contact. “Never mind … I’ll get it.”
    The fisherman went behind the counter and took what he needed, scrawled a note on the notepad on the counter, and left with a disinterested, “Excuse me.”
    Jenny craned her neck