Dead.
Drowned.
No sign of foul play.
Kassandra Ashbaugh stared at the back of her father’s Cabo 40 Express sportfisher bobbing in its slip, Ashbaugh Charters painted across its transom. Of everyone who’d ever been claimed by the deep, her father was the least likely to be taken that way. He’d been around boats all his life, the past fifteen years as a professional charter captain. He’d been a strong swimmer, too—had even won several medals during his time on his high school swim team.
But two days ago, his boat had been found drifting forty miles offshore, the dinghy still secured and not a soul on board. The throttle was set on low, the gas tanks empty. Fortunately, he hadn’t taken any charter customers with him.
Kassie looked past the Cabo at the boat in the next slip. It was also an Ashbaugh vessel, one she’d spent more time on. In recent months, her impossible-to-please father had come to a grudging acceptance of her, but if they’d had to spend the day cooped up on a boat together, one of them might not have come back.
Instead, Kassie got her boating fix twice a week by leaving one of her hairdressers in charge of Kassie’s Kuts for a few hours and acting as first mate to their other captain, Buck. He was more of a father figure for her than her own father.
Of course, Buck was usually sober.
She stepped onto the boat and inhaled deeply, drawing in the scent of salt, fish and fresh air. The sun was trying to make an appearance, its top edge barely visible on the horizon. Streaks of orange, pink and lavender stretched outward in both directions, the upper edge fading into semidarkness.
Yesterday, her twin, Kristina, had met the Coast Guard people and completed the necessary paperwork to claim the boat. Kassie’s task today was to ready it for Thursday’s charter. Between now and then, John, their mechanic, would perform a check of all the systems.
A breeze swept the ends of her ponytail into her face and pressed her lightweight jacket against her back. A shiver shook her shoulders. The April morning air held a little nip, not unusual for the Florida Panhandle.
She raised a hand to greet a boater returning from the Gulf. Seagulls circled him, competing for the bait fish and scraps he tossed overboard. He lifted his arm in a return greeting. So far, they were the only two out and about.
She stepped up into the pilothouse and frowned. Ahead of her, the door going into the cabin area was open. Her father had always kept it closed and locked. Kris apparently hadn’t bothered. Or she’d forgotten. Probably the latter.
When their father hadn’t returned from his solo outing, Kris had taken it hard. Three days later, the Coast Guard had called off the search, and since then, Kris had alternated between anger and inconsolable grief. All her life, she’d been his favorite, and they’d shared a special bond. Considering Kris’s state of mind, Kassie would have met with the Coast Guard folks herself if she hadn’t had back-to-back appointments at her salon.
Not that his death had been easy on her. It hadn’t, for different reasons.
She descended the four steps and stopped in the galley, arms crossed. It looked like the scene of a small frat party. Besides numerous beer cans, three empty bottles were scattered across the floor. They’d held Jim Beam bourbon.
But there’d been no party. Her father’s drinking was never a celebration. It was an escape from whatever disappointments life held.
She heaved a sigh. His drowning wasn’t the mystery she had thought it was. Kris hadn’t mentioned the empty liquor bottles. Kassie wasn’t surprised. Listening to Kris, one would think their father did no wrong. Kassie knew better. Kris did, too. She just chose to live in denial.
The Coast Guard people were right—there were no signs of foul play. What had happened was spelled out in glaring detail right there on the galley floor.
She removed a garbage bag from one of the drawers and tossed in the cans first. A bottle followed, rattling the aluminum. A clunk seemed to echo beyond the galley.
She paused, listening. The early morning was silent except for the call of seagulls and the gentle lap of water against the hull. Soon there was another sound—approaching then fading footsteps. The fisherman had secured his boat and was making his way down the dock.
No one was on the boat with her. The tall, metal gate securing the marina stayed locked. She’d used her key to enter, as would anyone else who wanted to access the area.
She resumed her cleanup. As she added the last two liquor bottles to the trash bag, annoyance surged through her. No, stronger than annoyance—resentment. And a solid dose of anger. Her father’s drinking and accompanying fits of rage had cast their shadow over her entire childhood.
Worse, though, was the guilt—regret that she’d never fully made things right with him, and now he was gone. Her lack of grief only made the guilt worse. What kind of daughter was she, anyway? What kind of Christian?
After finishing the items on the floor, she disposed of a crumb-covered paper plate and plastic knife he’d left in the sink, remnants of making a sandwich. Likely his final meal. A sense of gloom descended over her.
She shook it off and rounded the corner to the head. The face staring back at her from the mirror over the sink bore lines of fatigue. In the coming weeks, it would only get worse. Mounds of paperwork awaited her—starting the process of having her father declared dead in absentia, getting Ashbaugh Charters’ records in order, handling the sale of the company. None of it would be easy.
The brief creak of a door hinge sent goosebumps cascading over her. For several seconds, she stood frozen, listening. Again, only the usual seaside sounds surrounded her. But she’d gotten herself spooked enough to consider going topside to see if someone had arrived and would check the boat for her, especially since Kris hadn’t locked it. They would find nothing and she’d feel like a wimp, but she didn’t have anything to prove.
She stepped from the head and glanced both directions—aft, then fore. A face hidden behind a ski mask peered around the doorway to the front berth.
Her heart jumped to double time, and she leaped toward the steps. As she gripped the handrail, ready to scramble up, heavy footsteps pounded behind her, closing in.
She’d just reached the second step when thick arms wrapped around her waist, holding her in a viselike grip. Her captor jerked her backward, and the railing slipped through her fingers. As he held her aloft, she screamed, long and piercing, kicking at his shins and knees and trying to pry latex-covered hands from her sides.
A second later, he spun in a tight arc and released her. She flailed her arms, eyes wide, as her face moved toward the granite countertop at lightning speed. With a gasp, she turned her head at the last possible second. Her temple slammed into the hard edge, cutting off her final scream midway up her throat.
She landed on the floor in a crumpled heap. The boat tilted. Her assailant had apparently stepped off. Or maybe it was her world that had just tilted.
Shadows hovered at the edges of her vision, then deepened and spread. A ring started somewhere inside her head, competing with the lapping of water and the calls of seagulls. As the ring grew louder, the other sounds faded and disappeared.
The world went dark.