Chapter 6 – The Retired Captain

The drive out to Captain Thomas’s property took them past the edge of town, where the manicured lawns and pastel houses gave way to rugged, wind-scoured cliffs and dense stands of pine. The air here smelled sharper, heavy with salt and wet earth, and the ocean roared below like an invisible beast thrashing in chains.

Thomas’s house was a weathered saltbox cabin tucked behind a windbreak of gnarled cypress trees. A rusted pickup truck sat in the gravel driveway, its hood cold.

Clara cut the engine, and the sudden silence of the ridge rushed in to fill the car.

“Remember,” Holden murmured, opening his door, “Thomas has been out of the loop for years. He’s prickly. Let me handle the introductions so he doesn’t grab his shotgun before we even reach the porch.”

Clara nodded, stepping out onto the gravel. The damp wind caught her hair, pulling strands across her face as she surveyed the isolated property. It was the kind of place where someone could keep a mountain of secrets without ever worrying about a nosy neighbor.

Holden led the way up the wooden steps, rapping a heavy, rhythmic knock against the front door.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, footsteps scraped heavily against the floorboards inside. The deadbolt clicked with a loud, mechanical snap, and the door swung open.

Former Captain Thomas looked every bit like a man who had spent decades wrestling the dark side of a small town. His hair was stark white and cropped close, his shoulders still broad beneath a faded flannel shirt, though age had bowed him slightly. His eyes—pale blue and sharp as broken glass—shot past Holden and locked instantly onto Clara.

“Holden,” Thomas rasped, his voice like gravel grinding under a boot. “You’re off your beat. And you brought stray company.”

“Captain,” Holden said smoothly, stepping half an inch to the side to bridge the gap. “Sorry to drop in unannounced. We need a minute of your time.”

Thomas didn’t move an inch from the threshold. He crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on Clara. “Detective Reyes. Heard about you moving into town. Heard you found the Hartman girl down at the pier, too. Thought you opened up a private shop, not a homicide consulting desk.”

“Word travels fast in Seabreeze,” Clara said, her voice calm, matching his unyielding stare. “Especially the kind of news people prefer to keep buried.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened. A flicker of something—caution, annoyance, or maybe old dread—flashed in his pale eyes. He looked back at Holden. “Is this about the kid on the pier?”

“Partly,” Holden said, pulling the folded police report from his jacket and holding it out. “This is about Case 98-441. Sarah Vance.”

The old captain’s eyes dropped to the paper. He didn’t take it. In fact, his posture grew stiffer, the lines around his mouth deepening into hard grooves.

“That case is closed,” Thomas said flatly. “Twenty years old. Dust and cobwebs.”

“It’s not closed in the margin,” Clara countered, taking a step forward. She didn’t wait for an invitation; she stepped past the threshold into the dim entryway, forcing Thomas to either block her physically or let her in. “Someone drew a very specific symbol on that report, Captain. The exact same symbol that was carved into Emily Hartman’s wrist yesterday morning.”

Thomas turned his head slowly, his glare shifting back to Clara with a sudden, icy intensity. The heavy scent of pipe tobacco and old cedar hung in the hallway.

“You shouldn’t be digging into that file,” Thomas said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its gruffness and turning dangerously low. “Some doors are locked for a reason, Detective. You think you’re being clever, coming out here with your city instincts, but you don’t understand the kind of rot sitting underneath the soil of this town.”

“Then enlighten us,” Clara said, refusing to back down. “Was Sarah Vance the first? How many others are hidden in the quiet corners of Seabreeze while everyone pretends this place is a postcard?”

Thomas stared at her for a long, agonizing beat. The wind howled against the side of the cabin, rattling the windowpanes as if demanding entrance, too.

Finally, the old man let out a long, heavy breath that seemed to deflate years of stubborn defiance. He stepped back, gesturing gruffly into the shadows of the house.

“God help you both,” Thomas muttered, turning his back on them. “Come inside before you freeze. I’ll show you what we were ordered to forget.”