were supposed to be so close.”
“What does that have to do with your name?”
“If you really were friends, you’d know.” And she would not have to say the words. She could keep the pain and hurt locked in the back of her mind as she searched for the truth.
“You’re talking in riddles.”
She searched the guy’s face one last time trying to figure out where she had seen him before. Something about his tone or affect…something kept her from pulling that trigger before and from kneeing him now.
“You gonna say anything anytime soon?” he asked.
The dizzying sense of loss, all that gnawing disbelief, exhausted her until she gave in and provided the answer he wanted.
“Dan’s dead.” Saying the horrible words sliced her to the bone.
Her attacker did not take them any better. He loosened his grip as his tan face blanched chalk white. She’d seen that horrified look before. Every single time she glanced in the mirror.
“That can’t be right.” Distress filled the man’s voice. His words came out choppy and low, almost like a growl.
She nodded, unable to say the truth about Dan a second time.
“Oh shit.” The stranger landed on his backside on the floor beside her with a thump.
Stunned surprise. The flash of pain behind his eyes. The tightening of his skin around his mouth. Cassie recognized the signs. The man was trying to hold back the emotions that had his hands flexing and his shoulders slumping in defeat.
“They tried to tell me at the hangar,” he said in a faraway voice. “But I…it didn’t make any sense.”
None of it made any sense to her, either. No matter how many times she tried to take apart the pieces and make the facts fit, the story fell apart. Most days, her fight for the truth about Dan was the only thing that got her out of bed.
“How?” The mysterious man sat back on his haunches, head hung low, body slack. “I mean, when?”
She knew what he was asking. She swallowed the mountain of tears clogging her throat. Telling the horrible news rubbed her raw. She expected it always would. “Helicopter crash. Close to four weeks ago. We had a private memorial service for him shortly after that.”
“But he contacted me—” A deep frown marred the attacker’s face. “Who the hell are you?”
“Cassie Montgomery.”
“Dan’s half sister?”
“I don’t make the half distinction.” And she hated when other people pointed it out. “But, yes.”
“Damn.”
She sat up straight as he jumped to his feet. “And now it’s your turn to fess up.”
From the small shake of his head to the sad echo in his voice, she knew the surprise news had the guy reeling. Shock, confusion, and anger all raced across his face.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
He paced around at a near stumble. “No.”
“How about you tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“Caleb Wilson. People call me Cal.”
Even though he mumbled it, she heard him. The name triggered the flood of memories she had been searching her mind to find. She had seen a few of Dan’s group photos over the years. Cal always stood near Dan with a stupid grin on his face. That was years ago, in uniform. The cockiness and command still remained, but the clothes differed.
“You were in the Air Force with Dan. Worked together as pararescuemen, right?”
“PJs, yeah,” he said with a hint of pride.
She had heard the horror stories. Not from Dan, but on the news and in her various internet searches for information on her brother’s elusive career.
Search and rescue. Extractions out of hostile territory. Water rescues. She knew the danger Dan and Cal thrived on and what it did to them. Dan had retired but his adrenaline-seeking ways never abated.
Oh yeah. She knew all about one Caleb Wilson.
Dan shared the stories. Cal had years of survivalist training. Controlled his environment with deadly precision and left behind a string of heartbroken sweeties as he moved from one military town to the next across the country.
The guy’s reputation with the ladies bordered on infamous. Dan bragged about his carefree, no-ties, always-looking-for-a-bigger-thrill buddy all the time. Then one day, Dan stopped talking about Cal completely.
“Why are you really here?” she asked.
Cal’s legs carried him back and forth in front of the door. “Tell me about the crash.”
“Dan was on a routine run, scouting out potential places to take tourists for helicopter rides along Waimea Canyon. He crashed.”
Cal wore the same sort of skeptical grimace she imagined she possessed when she first got the news.
“Any reports of trouble with the engine, plane, instruments, or anything like that?” he asked.
“No.”
“Bad weather? Wind shear?”
“No.”
He studied her. “What aren’t you telling me?”
The part that filled her with a killing rage. “The police think Dan got sloppy, wasn’t paying attention. That’s the official line.”
“And you think there’s another line.”
She sat down on the seat Cal abandoned for his football-tackling imitation. “Foul play.”
Cal stared at her for a second before resuming his agitated pacing. He rubbed the stubble on his chin.
“Dan was the type to take care of his plane,” she said, repeating the argument she had used over and over with the crash site investigators.
“He liked to goof off. Made some mistakes in the past. Big ones.”
“Excuse me?”
“But not like this.”
Cal’s muttering set a red light flashing inside her brain. “What mistakes?”
He waved off the question. “Not important. Continue with your story.”
She decided to get it all out, analyze his reaction, then go from there. “Dan flew in and around Kauai ever since he left the service. This is his life. He knows the area. Knows the people. Depends on tourist traffic for his livelihood. He would not have done something stupid.”
Cal
