Page 61 of Death of a Grill Master

“Jack and Coke on the house?”

“Rain check.”

Hayley exited the bar quickly, just in time to see Zane slam his Jeep door and take off down the street again. Hayley followed as he drove along the coastal road into Acadia National Park and swung into the public lot near Thunder Hole. He hoisted a dive bag over his shoulder and disappeared down the path that curved toward the cliffs.

Hayley parked at the far end and lifted Bruce’s kayak off the roof rack. It was clumsy, heavy, and probably not built for stealth, but it was all she had. She locked the car, grabbed her paddle, and made her way down to the shoreline.

The sky was already shifting to late-afternoon gold, the waves churning in slow, foamy slaps against the jagged rocks. Zane had vanished from view, but she noticed damp footprints on the granite—then caught the unmistakable glint of a mask just before a figure slipped beneath the water.

She counted thirty seconds.

Then a minute.

Then five.

He wasn’t coming back up.

Hayley dragged the kayak to the edge of the surf. She wobbled as she climbed in, nearly tipping it on the first try.

“Get a grip,” she muttered, bracing with the paddle. She pushed off, dipping the oar in and paddling along the shoreline.

She fought the current as the kayak spun left and then veered right. One wave slapped the front hard, and she shrieked as water splashed over the bow.

“This was a terrible idea,” she grunted, adjusting her grip. “You’re not an action hero, Hayley.”

Eagle Lake had been a breeze compared to this. The wind pushed hard, the current tugged, and her paddle technique was—generously speaking—haphazard. She spun in a wide circle, nearly capsized, and at one point smacked her own forehead with the paddle.

“Yes, this was definitely a big mistake,” she hissed, salt spray hitting her face.

But then she saw it—a narrow break in the rocks ahead. A sliver of black between jagged granite walls.

She angled toward it, muscles burning, fingers aching.

The kayak scraped through the tight passage and emerged into a hidden cave.

Inside, it was eerily quiet. The cave ceiling loomed above her, slick with condensation. She spotted a ledge and paddled closer.

Pulling herself out of the kayak, she saw evidence of recent use: two air tanks, one standing upright, the other still damp. A crumpled blanket. Protein bar wrappers. A phone in a waterproof case. Someone had been using this spot as a base—possibly for weeks.

She picked up the phone case.

Aqua-blue cover.

Initials TW.

Tina Whitmore.

Could this phone belong to Tina Whitmore?

Then she heard it.

Splash.

Footsteps.

Hayley froze.

A figure emerged from the far end of the cave. Fully suited in black neoprene, dive mask still on, fins dragging as he stepped onto the stone.