The Scars That Bind Us by Dori Patrick

The Scars That Bind Us by Dori Patrick

The day had stretched long and weary, and now the sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky above the Pacific Ocean in hues of amber and crimson. Marcus Lake stood by the window of his modest office, gazing out at the horizon where the water swallowed the light. It was April 29, 2019, and the clock on his desk read 7:43 PM. He worked late most nights—not because the cases demanded it, but because the alternative was stepping into the hollow silence of an empty house. With a sigh, he shrugged on his weathered leather jacket, flicked off the buzzing fluorescent lights, and made for the door.
As he pushed through the exit, his eyes caught on the faded lettering etched into the glass: “Marcus Lake, Private Investigator.” The black vinyl was peeling again, curling at the edges like dead leaves. He muttered a curse under his breath, the salt air from the nearby ocean carrying his words away. “That’s the third time this year I’ve had to order new lettering for that damn door,” he grumbled. Astoria, Oregon, was a charming little coastal town, perched on the edge of the Columbia River where it met the sea, but its relentless wind and dampness ate through everything—signage included. The quaint clapboard buildings and rugged cliffs might have been picturesque, but they were no match for the elements.
Marcus trudged across the gravel lot to his 2010 Chevy Suburban, its dark blue paint chipped from years of battling the coastal weather. He slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar creak of the leather welcoming him, and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, and the stereo kicked on mid-song—Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” blaring through the speakers. He let the gritty chords wash over him as he pulled out of the lot and pointed the SUV toward home. The drive was short, just a few winding miles along the shoreline, past the weathered fishing boats and the neon glow of the Workers Tavern. Soon, he turned into the narrow driveway of his beach cabin—a cozy, cedar-shingled retreat nestled among wind-twisted pines. Before heading inside, he paused at the mailbox, flipping open the rusted lid to retrieve a small stack of envelopes.
Kicking off his scuffed boots just inside the threshold, Marcus padded across the worn hardwood floor to the kitchen. The cabin smelled faintly of salt and cedar, a scent that had seeped into every corner over the years. He yanked open the fridge door, its contents sparse but predictable: a six-pack of Corona, a block of cheddar, and a jar of pickles. Grabbing a beer, he twisted off the cap with a satisfying hiss and shuffled to the living room. He sank into his favorite recliner—a faded green monstrosity that had seen better days—and took a long, cold swig. The chill of the bottle felt good against his palm, grounding him as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
“Another night, another beer, and no one to share it with,” he mused aloud, the words hanging in the quiet air. A pang of self-pity tugged at him. It had been over six months since Nicole walked out—six months since the cabin lost its warmth, its laughter. She’d been a bright spot in his life, with her quick wit and wild curls, but she’d grown tired of his late nights and brooding silences. At 32, Marcus wasn’t old, but he wasn’t getting any younger either. The thought nagged at him: maybe it was time to dust off his charm, to step back into the world of dating. He snorted softly at the idea—Marcus Lake, private eye, fumbling through small talk over coffee. Yeah, right.
Reaching for the remote on the side table, he flicked on the TV, letting the low hum of a late-night talk show fill the void. He turned his attention to the mail, sorting through it with half-hearted interest. “Advertisement, advertisement, political bullshit,” he muttered, tossing each piece into the waste bin beside the recliner with a flick of his wrist. His fingers paused, though, when they brushed against something different—an ivory envelope, heavier than the rest. He held it up to the dim light of the lamp, squinting at the elegant, looping script that spelled out his name: Marcus Lake. A faint floral scent wafted from the paper, delicate and out of place in his rugged world. Turning it over, he noticed the flap was sealed with a gold sticker embossed with a single letter: H.
He leaned forward, curiosity sparking in his tired eyes. This wasn’t junk mail—this was something else entirely. The bottle of Corona sat forgotten on the table as he carefully slid a finger under the flap, breaking the seal. Whatever was inside, it was about to pull him out of his quiet, lonely night—and into something far more intriguing.


WE JOYFULLY INVITE YOU TO THE MARRIAGE OF
KATE
&
THOMAS

SATURDAY THE FIFTEENTH OF JUNE
TWO THOUSAND AND NINETEEN
AT HALF PAST FIVE O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
ZENITH VINYARD
5657 ZENA RD NW, SALEM OREGON

CELEBRATION TO FOLLOW

Marcus sat frozen for a moment, the ivory envelope still clutched in his hand, its floral scent lingering like a ghost from the past. Well, well, he thought, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Kate’s getting married. The name on the invitation—Katherine Elise Holloway—stirred memories he’d long tucked away. Back in high school, he and Kate had been something of an item. She’d been the golden girl: sweet as summer honey, with a laugh that could light up a room and a sophistication that made their small town of Astoria feel too small to hold her. Marcus, on the other hand, had been the rough-around-the-edges kid with a chipped tooth and a penchant for trouble. She’d been out of his league, even then, and when she left for college—bound for bigger things—he hadn’t been surprised. Just disappointed.
He leaned back in the recliner, the TV droning on with some late-night host’s monologue, and traced a finger over the gold-embossed H on the envelope. It was nice to be invited, he supposed—a polite nod to old times. But going? That was another story. Weddings weren’t his scene, especially not ones where the bride was someone he’d once kissed under the bleachers after a football game. He set the invitation on the table next to his half-empty Corona and let out a slow breath. Nah, I’ll pass.
Later that evening, with the TV still murmuring in the background, Marcus decided to shake off the nostalgia and distract himself. He hauled himself out of the recliner, grabbed his beat-up laptop from the kitchen counter, and flopped onto the couch. Time to see what’s out there, he thought, firing up Facebook. He wasn’t above a little late-night scrolling—trolling, really—hoping to spot a dating prospect among the sea of familiar faces. He clicked through his friends’ posts, past the predictable parade of baby photos and vacation selfies, searching for any hint that a mutual acquaintance might be single, bored, or lonely enough to say yes to a movie and a burger at the diner down the road.
Twenty minutes in, his optimism was waning. The pickings were slim—meager, he corrected himself with a snort. A recently divorced cousin was whining about her ex again, and a high school buddy’s sister had posted a cryptic “feeling lost” status, but neither sparked his interest. He was about to slam the laptop shut and call it a night when a sharp ping cut through the quiet. A notification bubble popped up in the corner of the screen. New message. His eyebrows shot up, and a chuckle rumbled in his chest. Maybe it’s a hot new chick looking for a good time, he thought, half-joking. He clicked the message bar, expecting spam or a random “hey” from some old client. Instead, his breath caught as the name appeared: Kate Holloway.
The chat window blinked open, and her first words stared back at him.
Kate: Marcus, is that you?
He grinned, fingers hovering over the keys before tapping out a reply.
Marcus: Who did you think it’d be? You messaged me.
Kate: Don’t be an ass. I only asked because I was nervous to talk to you. Did you get my wedding invite in the mail yet?
He paused, glancing at the envelope on the table. Lying crossed his mind—“Nope, must’ve gotten lost in the mail”—but what was the point? She’d know eventually.
Marcus: Yes, it just came today.
Kate: Are you coming?
His fingers hesitated. He could picture her, even now—those hazel eyes, that way she had of tilting her head when she wanted something. He typed slowly.
Marcus: I’m not sure. It depends, I guess.
A beat passed, the cursor blinking in the silence. Then her next message popped up, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.
Kate: Can you please come? I need you.
He stared at the screen, the words sinking in. Need you. What the hell did that mean? His mind raced—old feelings warring with confusion, curiosity tugging at the edges of his resolve. The TV chattered on, oblivious, as Marcus leaned closer to the laptop, the glow casting shadows across his face. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just a wedding invite anymore.
Marcus: Of course I’ll be there.
He typed the words quickly, hitting send before he could second-guess himself. The moment the message whisked off into the digital ether, a flicker of uncertainty crept in. What exactly was he agreeing to? Kate’s plea—I need you—hung in the air like a riddle he couldn’t quite unravel. He stared at the glowing screen for a beat, the cursor blinking back at him, then shook his head with a low chuckle. “Guess I’ll find out,” he muttered to himself, snapping the laptop shut. The cabin felt quieter now, the TV’s chatter reduced to a dull hum as he hauled himself off the couch and shuffled toward the bedroom. “Guess I’ll find out,” he repeated under his breath, the words trailing him like a promise—or a warning—as he collapsed onto the bed, the faint scent of Kate’s floral envelope still lingering in his mind.


The wedding day arrived on June 15, 2025, a warm, golden afternoon that seemed to stretch endlessly under a cloudless Oregon sky. Marcus guided his Chevy Suburban down the winding roads toward Zenith Vineyard, just outside Salem. The drive from Astoria had taken a little over two hours, the coastal cliffs giving way to rolling hills and sprawling farmland. He pulled into the vineyard’s gravel lot, the tires crunching as he parked beside a row of gleaming cars—far fancier than his weathered SUV. Stepping out, he tugged at the collar of his charcoal suit, the same one he’d worn to that funeral two years back. The summer sun beat down, and a faint breeze carried the sweet scent of ripening grapes from the vines that stretched across the estate. Marcus adjusted his tie—a muted blue he’d picked to match the season—and scanned the scene. The vineyard was postcard-perfect: a rustic barn with weathered red siding stood at one end of the property, while rows of white chairs faced a wooden arbor draped in wildflowers and ivy. Guests mingled in the shade of ancient oak trees, their voices a soft hum over the clink of wine glasses. Women in flowing sundresses and men in linen suits dotted the lawn, their laughter bright against the backdrop of the Willamette Valley. His watch read 3:47 PM; the ceremony was set for 4:00, giving him just enough time to slip in without drawing too much attention. He made his way toward the seating area, boots scuffing against the packed earth path. The invitation had been specific—Zenith Vineyard, Salem, OR—and now he saw why Kate had chosen it. The place oozed elegance, a far cry from the salty grit of Astoria. He slid into a chair near the back row, nodding curtly at a middle-aged man who offered a polite smile. The air buzzed with anticipation, laced with the faint aroma of lavender and oak. Up front, the arbor framed a view of the vineyard stretching toward the horizon, and a trio of bridesmaids in sage-green dresses adjusted their flower crowns, whispering to each other. Marcus’s gaze flicked to the groom—a lanky guy with dark hair swept back in a way that screamed moneyed confidence. He stood by the officiant, tugging at his cuffs and flashing a tight smile to the crowd. Marcus didn’t know him, didn’t care to. Some city type, probably, with a trust fund and a handshake firmer than his spine. A flicker of something—envy, maybe, or just old wounds—stirred in Marcus’s gut, but he pushed it aside. He wasn’t here for the groom. He was here for Kate, though what she needed from him remained a mystery that had gnawed at him for weeks. The soft strum of a guitar signaled the start, and the crowd hushed, turning toward the barn where the bride would emerge. Marcus straightened in his seat, heart kicking up a notch despite his best efforts to play it cool. I need you, she’d said. As the music swelled and the first glimpse of white fabric appeared in the doorway, he braced himself. Whatever Kate had pulled him into, the answer was coming—right now.
The wedding day arrived on June 15, 2025, a warm, golden afternoon that seemed to stretch endlessly under a cloudless Oregon sky. Marcus guided his Chevy Suburban down the winding roads toward Zenith Vineyard, just outside Salem. The drive from Astoria had taken a little over two hours, the rugged coastal cliffs gradually giving way to the gentle swells of rolling hills and sprawling farmland. He pulled into the vineyard’s gravel lot, tires crunching as he parked alongside a row of polished cars—sleek sedans and SUVs that made his weathered blue Suburban look like a relic. Stepping out, he tugged at the collar of his charcoal suit, the same one he’d worn to a client’s funeral two years back, its fabric slightly creased from months in the closet. The summer sun bore down, warming his skin, while a faint breeze carried the sweet, earthy scent of ripening grapes from the sprawling vines that stretched across the estate.
Marcus adjusted his tie—a muted blue he’d chosen to match the season’s vibrancy—and took in the scene. Zenith Vineyard was postcard-perfect: a rustic barn with weathered red siding anchored one end of the property, its charm offset by rows of white chairs facing a wooden arbor draped in wildflowers and cascading ivy. Guests mingled beneath the dappled shade of ancient oak trees, their voices a soft hum mingling with the clink of wine glasses. Women in flowing sundresses and men in crisp linen suits dotted the lawn, their laughter bright against the lush backdrop of the Willamette Valley. His watch read 3:47 PM; the ceremony was set for 4:00, leaving him just enough time to slip in unnoticed—or so he hoped.
He ambled toward the seating area, boots scuffing against the packed earth path. The invitation had been precise—Zenith Vineyard, Salem, OR—and now he understood Kate’s choice. The place radiated an effortless elegance, a world apart from the salty, wind-whipped grit of Astoria. He slid into a chair near the back row, offering a curt nod to a middle-aged man who flashed a polite smile from beneath a straw fedora. The air thrummed with anticipation, laced with the faint perfume of lavender and the warm undertone of oak. Up front, the arbor framed a sweeping view of the vineyard rolling toward the horizon, and a trio of bridesmaids in sage-green dresses fussed with their flower crowns, their whispers barely audible over the rustling leaves.
Marcus’s eyes drifted to the groom—a lanky figure with dark hair swept back in a polished, almost-too-perfect style that screamed wealth and confidence. He stood beside the officiant, tugging nervously at his cuffs while flashing a tight, practiced smile to the crowd. Marcus didn’t recognize him, didn’t care to. Probably some city slicker with a trust fund and a handshake that promised more than his spine could deliver. A flicker of something—envy, maybe, or the sting of old wounds—twisted in Marcus’s gut, but he shoved it down. He wasn’t here for the groom. He was here for Kate, though the mystery of her I need you had been gnawing at him for weeks, a quiet itch he couldn’t scratch.
The soft strum of a guitar broke the murmur of the crowd, signaling the start. The guests hushed, heads turning toward the barn where the bride would emerge. Marcus straightened in his seat, heart kicking up a notch despite his best efforts to stay detached. I need you, she’d said. As the music swelled and the first glimpse of white fabric appeared in the doorway, he braced himself. Whatever Kate had dragged him into, the answer was moments away.

The ceremony was short and actually quite sweet, Marcus thought as the guests got up to wander over to the reception hall. "Good" Marcus thought to himself, "Now's my chance". He approached the couple with a smile and stretched his hand out for a handshake with the groom. Kate, looking as gorgeous as he'd expected, offered "Thomas, this is my old high school friend Marcus."
The ceremony had been short and, to Marcus’s surprise, genuinely sweet, unfolding beneath the flower-draped arbor with a simplicity that cut through the vineyard’s grandeur. As the final vows were spoken and the crowd erupted in applause, guests rose from their white chairs, stretching and murmuring as they began drifting toward the reception pavilion near the barn. Marcus lingered for a moment, watching the scene unfold—the golden June light spilling across the lawn, the faint hum of guitar chords fading into the breeze. Good, he thought, seizing the opportunity. Now’s my chance. He straightened his tie, smoothed a hand over his charcoal suit, and made his way toward the newlyweds, a casual smile tugging at his lips.
Kate stood radiant in her white gown, the soft fabric catching the late afternoon sun as she laughed at something the groom said. Thomas, the lanky city type Marcus had clocked earlier, looked relaxed now, his dark hair still impeccably swept back. As Marcus approached, Kate’s hazel eyes landed on him, and her face lit up with a grin that stirred a decade’s worth of memories. He extended a hand to the groom first, keeping it easy. Thomas met the gesture with a firm shake, his grip confident but not overdone.
“Thomas, this is my old high school friend Marcus,” Kate said, her voice warm and lilting as she made the introduction.
“Pleasure to meet you,” Marcus said, nodding. “Congrats, man. Nice ceremony.”
“Thanks,” Thomas replied, flashing a quick, genuine smile. “Appreciate you coming out. Kate’s told me a bit about you—Astoria, right?”
“Yeah, still holding down the fort up there,” Marcus said with a half-shrug. “Long drive, but worth it. This place is something else.”
“Isn’t it?” Kate chimed in, gesturing toward the vineyard with a sweep of her hand. “We fell in love with it the second we saw it. The vines, the barn—perfect for a summer day like this.”
“Couldn’t ask for better weather,” Marcus agreed, squinting up at the cloudless sky. “Beats the usual coastal fog I’m stuck with. You picked a hell of a spot.”
Thomas chuckled. “That was all Kate. She’s got an eye for these things. I just said yes to whatever she wanted.”
“Smart man,” Marcus said, smirking. “Happy wife, happy life, right?”
“Exactly,” Thomas said, slipping an arm around Kate’s waist. “Though I think I got the easy part—showing up and looking good.”
Kate swatted his arm playfully. “Oh, please. You spent twenty minutes on your hair this morning.”
“Guilty,” Thomas admitted, laughing. “Had to keep up with you.”
Marcus took a sip from the pinot noir he’d snagged earlier, letting the small talk roll. “Wine’s not bad either. Local, I assume?”
“Straight from the vineyard,” Kate said proudly. “They’ve got a killer pinot noir here. You a wine guy, Marcus?”
“Not really,” he admitted, swirling the glass. “More of a beer man, but this’ll do. Beats the cheap stuff I keep in the fridge.”
“Still living that bachelor life, huh?” Kate teased, her tone light but her eyes searching his for a moment.
“Something like that,” Marcus replied, keeping it vague. “Keeps things simple.”
The three of them stood there, the chatter of the reception crowd swelling in the background as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the grass. They traded a few more pleasantries—Thomas asking about the drive from Astoria, Marcus complimenting the guitarist’s set, Kate mentioning how the wildflowers had been a last-minute addition. Then, mid-sentence, Kate’s expression shifted, a subtle seriousness flickering across her face. She touched Thomas’s arm gently, her voice softening.
“Hey, hon, why don’t you head into the reception hall? Maybe check on the cake or see if the band’s ready. I just want to catch up with Marcus for a quick sec.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow, but his smile didn’t falter. “Sure, babe. Don’t keep him too long—I’ve got a first dance to claim.” He gave Marcus a friendly nod—“Good meeting you, man”—before turning and strolling toward the pavilion, leaving Marcus and Kate alone in the fading light.

Kate turned to Marcus, her radiant glow dimming as a nervous pallor crept over her face. She clasped her hands together, fingers twisting anxiously, and took a shallow breath before speaking. “Marcus, I didn’t just want you here for the wedding. I mean, I’m glad you came for that, but… I need your help. By help, I mean I need to hire you. It’s my mom. There’s something seriously wrong, and I feel like I’m the only one who’s worried.”
Marcus tilted his head, his easy demeanor sharpening into focus. He set his wine glass down on a nearby table, giving her his full attention. “Tell me all about it,” he said, his voice steady and low. “I’m all yours.”
Kate nodded, her gaze flickering toward the pavilion where Thomas had disappeared, then back to Marcus. She swallowed hard, her words coming out shaky at first, like she was testing the weight of them. “A few months back, I started noticing something off with Mom. She’s been getting bumps and bruises—a lot of them. Not the normal kind, you know, like tripping over a rug or bumping into a counter. These are… different. They look like the kind you’d get from fighting, or—or something worse. She’s been trying to brush it off, saying she’s just clumsy, but I don’t buy it.”
Marcus frowned, his mind already ticking through possibilities. “Go on,” he prompted gently.
She took another breath, steadying herself. “It started after she got back into dating. Dad passed a few years ago—heart attack, out of nowhere—and she was alone for a while. I was glad when she said she was ready to meet someone new; she deserves to be happy. But then she met this guy, Nelson, and that’s when I started seeing the marks. He’s… I don’t know, he’s charming enough when I’ve met him, but there’s something about him that doesn’t sit right. Mom’s been vague about him—where they go, what they do—and I’m worried, Marcus. Really worried. I think he might be hurting her.”
Her voice cracked on the last sentence, and she pressed her lips together, eyes glistening as she looked at him, waiting for his response. The hum of the reception faded into the background, the clinking glasses and distant laughter swallowed by the gravity of her words. “Well, Kate, I think it’s time you reintroduce me to your mother.” I suggested.





Kate and I stepped into the reception pavilion together, the warm glow of candlelit tables and dim overhead lights casting a soft, romantic haze over the room. The faint strains of violin music drifted from hidden speakers, filling the air with a gentle melody as guests mingled and the live band set up in the corner. I glanced at the bass drum as we passed, catching the logo emblazoned across it: “Jump The Shark.” A grin tugged at my lips—pleasant surprise kicking in. They were a popular local act, a staple up and down the coastal beach towns, known for their gritty covers and laid-back vibe. I’d caught them a few times at the Workers Tavern back in Astoria. But tonight, their set would have to wait—I had more pressing business.
Kate steered me through the crowd, her white gown brushing the hardwood floor as she made a beeline for her mother. “I want you to talk to her before things get too loud,” she murmured, her voice tight with purpose. We stopped in front of a petite woman with silver-streaked hair, dressed in a pale lavender dress that shimmered faintly under the lights. Ellen Holloway turned toward us, her face lighting up with recognition as Kate spoke. “Mom, you remember Marcus? My old high school boyfriend.”
“Marcus!” Ellen exclaimed, her voice bright with delight as she clasped her hands together. “Oh, it’s so nice of you to come to the wedding. Look at you—all grown up and handsome as ever!”
I flashed a small smile, dipping my head. “Good to see you too, Ellen. Been a while. How’ve you been?” As I spoke, my eyes subtly scanned her, taking stock of the exposed parts of her body—her wrists, her neck, the curve of her shoulders. Her skin showed the gentle wear of age, fine lines etched around her eyes and mouth, but she still carried a warm, youthful glow. Then I spotted it: a small, purplish mark on her left wrist, faint but unmistakable. A dab of makeup had been smeared over it, though not quite enough to hide the bruise entirely. My jaw tightened slightly, but I kept my tone easy, casual.
Ellen waved a hand, brushing off the years. “Oh, you know, getting by. It’s so sweet of you to come all this way for Kate. She’s been glowing all day.”
“She deserves it,” I said, glancing at Kate as she hovered nearby. “Ceremony was beautiful.” Just then, Thomas appeared at Kate’s side, extending a hand to lead her toward the dance floor for their first dance. Kate shot me a quick, meaningful look—keep going—before letting herself be whisked away, leaving me alone with Ellen.
I turned back to her, easing into the conversation. “I was sorry to hear about Kate’s dad,” I offered, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Must’ve been tough.”
Ellen’s smile softened, a flicker of sadness passing through her eyes. “Thank you, Marcus. That’s sweet of you to say. It was a shock, losing Jim like that, but time helps. And, well—” she chuckled, a little spark returning to her voice—“you should know I’m back on the dating scene now.”
I raised an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah? Well, I’m available,” I teased, leaning in just enough to coax a laugh out of her.
She swatted the air playfully. “Oh, stop it, you. Always the charmer, weren’t you?” Her laughter faded into a comfortable pause, and I seized the opening, shifting my tone to something a touch more serious.
“Anyone special catch your eye out there?” I asked, keeping it light but watching her closely. Now was the moment to feel her out, to see what she’d let slip about Nelson—or anything else.
Ellen didn’t miss a beat, launching into her story about Nelson with an ease that caught me off guard. “He’s a dump truck driver for one of the local road companies around here,” she said, her voice steady and warm, as if she were recounting a pleasant Sunday outing. “We actually met on one of those online dating apps—you know, the kind for people looking for a second chance at love.” She smiled softly, a flicker of nostalgia in her eyes. “His wife passed away too, a few years back. Cancer, I think he said. So we’ve got that in common, I suppose.”
She paused, sipping from a glass of wine she’d been cradling, then brightened again. “Oh, and he has a daughter—Lindsey. Beautiful girl, single, too. She’s an absolute joy. Always smiling, full of life.” Ellen’s gaze slid toward me, a suggestive glint sparking in her expression. “You know, I should introduce the two of you. She’s around your age, an elementary school teacher Marcus—might be a nice match.”
I studied her as she spoke, searching for any crack in her tone, any twitch of unease that might betray something darker beneath the surface. Nothing. Her demeanor was smooth, relaxed, her words flowing without a hint of hesitation or strain. If Nelson was trouble, she wasn’t letting it slip—not yet. I leaned into the opening she’d given me, keeping my response light but deliberate. “That’d be great,” I said, flashing a grin. “I’m sticking around town for a few days before I head back to Astoria. I’d love to meet her.”
It was the perfect in—a chance to dig deeper without raising suspicion. Meeting Lindsey could lead me to Nelson, and maybe even shed light on those bruises Kate was so worried about. Ellen beamed, clearly pleased with the idea. “Wonderful! I’ll set something up. You’ll like her, Marcus—she’s got a good head on her shoulders.” Her enthusiasm felt genuine, but I couldn’t shake the image of that faint mark on her wrist, the makeup smudged just enough to hint at something she wasn’t saying. For now, I’d play along, let her think this was just a friendly catch-up.
As the evening wore on, the wedding reception at Zenith Vineyard began to wind down. The fairy lights strung across the pavilion twinkled against the deepening dusk, and the lively chatter of guests softened into a contented hum. “Jump The Shark” had finished their set, the last notes of a coastal rock ballad fading into the night, leaving the violin music to reclaim the air. I weaved through the thinning crowd, my boots scuffing the hardwood floor, and found Kate and Thomas near the dessert table, laughing as they fed each other bites of cake.
I approached with a casual smile, hands tucked into my pockets. “Hey, you two. Just wanted to say my goodbyes before I head out. Great night—congrats again.”
Thomas grinned, wiping a smear of frosting from his chin. “Thanks, Marcus. Glad you could make it. Safe drive back to Astoria.”
Kate turned to me, her expression softening but her eyes sharp with intent. “Actually, we’re taking off for the honeymoon on Monday—heading to the coast for a week. But…” She paused, glancing at Thomas before leaning in slightly, her voice dropping. “Let’s meet up for coffee Monday morning before we leave.” She punctuated the offer with a quick wink, a subtle signal that told me everything I needed to know. We were on the same page—the real investigation was just getting started.
“Sounds good,” I replied, matching her tone. “Text me the spot. Enjoy the honeymoon, you two.” I gave Thomas a nod and Kate a knowing look before turning to slip out into the cool June night, the weight of her trust—and her mother’s mystery—settling firmly on my shoulders.



The soft glow of Sunday morning light filtered through the thin curtains of my hotel room, nudging me awake with its gentle insistence. I groaned, rolling over in the tangle of sheets to squint at the clock on the nightstand: 10:06 AM. Late by some standards, but I wasn’t on a deadline—not yet. Time for a coffee, I thought, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. A little fuel before I started poking around Salem for clues about Nelson sounded just right.
After a quick shower, I threw on a faded flannel shirt and jeans, grabbed my keys, and headed downstairs to the hotel’s cramped breakfast nook. A stale muffin and a strong cup of black coffee later, I was feeling human enough to get moving. I climbed into my Chevy Suburban, the engine rumbling to life as I pulled out of the parking lot and eased onto the quiet streets of Salem. The town unfolded around me, a charming patchwork of brick-front shops with painted signs and Victorian homes tucked among sprawling oaks, their gingerbread trim catching the morning sun. It was one of those quaint little places that felt frozen in time—peaceful, but hiding its secrets just beneath the surface.
I steered the SUV lazily through the grid of downtown, eyes scanning for a glimpse of a patrol car. A cop could be my shortcut—someone who might know Nelson, or at least point me toward the kind of guy he was. Dump truck driver, widower, maybe a charmer, maybe something worse. Salem wasn’t big; if he had a reputation, it wouldn’t take much to dig it up. The streets were sleepy this early on a Sunday, just a few folks strolling with dogs or sipping from to-go cups outside a café. I kept my pace slow, windows cracked to let in the cool air, ready to pivot the moment I spotted a black-and-white cruiser—or anything else that might lead me closer to the truth.

The Sunday morning light spilled through the windshield as I cruised through Salem’s quiet streets, the quaint brick-front shops and Victorian homes rolling by in a sleepy blur. I’d barely finished my coffee, the bitter taste still lingering on my tongue, when a flash of red and blue erupted in my rearview mirror. I almost laughed—almost. The sight of a cop car lighting up behind my Suburban was absurd enough to tickle my funny bone, but a quick glance at the speedometer wiped the smirk off my face. Thirty-two in a thirty zone. Hardly a crime. This wasn’t about speed, I realized. Small towns like Salem had a habit of flexing their muscle on out-of-towners, pulling them over just to sniff out who they were and what they were up to. Fine by me—I’d been hoping to chat with a cop anyway.
I eased the SUV to the curb, tires crunching against the gravel shoulder, and killed the engine. The patrol car—a dented black-and-white with “Salem PD” stenciled on the side—rolled up behind me, lights still flashing like it was some big damn deal. I watched in the side mirror as the officer stepped out, all swagger and stiff posture, his boots thudding against the pavement. He was a stocky guy, maybe early-fifties, with a buzz cut and a jaw that looked like it chewed nails for breakfast. His uniform was crisp, badge glinting in the sun, but there was something sour in the way he carried himself—like he was itching for a fight.
He sauntered up to my window, tapping the glass with a knuckle like he owned the damn town. I rolled it down, keeping my expression neutral. “Morning, officer,” I said, voice steady.
“License and registration,” he barked, skipping the pleasantries. His name tag read Sgt. Billy Johnson, and his tone told me he wasn’t here to make friends. I fished my wallet out of my pocket and handed over the documents, along with the Suburban’s paperwork from the glove box. He snatched them like I’d insulted his mother, squinting at my license like it was written in code.
“Marcus Lake,” he read aloud, dragging out the syllables. “Astoria, huh? What’s a coast boy doing sniffing around Salem?”
“Just visiting for a wedding,” I said, keeping it simple. “Friend of mine got hitched yesterday at Zenith Vineyard.”
He grunted, unimpressed, and handed my stuff back with a flick of his wrist. “You were going thirty-two in a thirty. That’s speeding.”
I raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to call bullshit. “Didn’t realize two miles over was a capital offense around here.”
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in closer, resting a meaty forearm on my doorframe. “You got a smart mouth, Lake. I don’t like smart mouths. You think you can roll into my town and do whatever the hell you want?”
“Just driving, Sergeant,” I said, holding his gaze. “Not looking for trouble.”
“Well, you found it,” he snapped, stepping back and crossing his arms. “This is a warning—next time, it’s a ticket. Or maybe I’ll just haul you in for wasting my time. We keep things orderly here, and I don’t need some outsider stirring up shit. You got that?”
“Crystal,” I replied, voice flat. What an ass—this guy was a walking stereotype, a small-town cop with a power trip and a chip on his shoulder. But as much as I wanted to push back, I needed him more than he needed me. “Say, while I’ve got you here, you know a guy named Nelson? Drives a dump truck for a road crew around town?”
Johnson’s face hardened, suspicion flickering in his piggy eyes. “What’s it to you?”
“Friend of a friend,” I said casually, shrugging. “Heard he’s been seeing someone I know. Just curious what kind of guy he is.”
He snorted, a nasty edge to it. “Nelson’s a working stiff. Works at Lakeside Construction. Keeps his nose clean, far as I know. But I ain’t your damn gossip line. You wanna play detective, get a badge—or stay the hell outta my jurisdiction.” He jabbed a finger at me, then turned on his heel and stalked back to his cruiser, muttering something I couldn’t catch.
I watched him peel out, lights still flashing for no damn reason, and let out a slow breath. Sergeant Billy Johnson was a grade-A prick in a police uniform, but he’d given me something—confirmation Nelson was known, and at least outwardly, not a blatant troublemaker. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. I fired up the engine and pulled back onto the road, the quaint charm of Salem feeling a little less quaint now. Time to dig deeper, with or without Johnson’s blessing.

I cruised through Salem’s quiet streets a while longer, the quaint brick shops and Victorian homes blurring past as the sun dipped lower in the sky. My next stop was the gravel-strewn yard on the edge of town where Nelson’s dump truck supposedly lived—a hulking yellow beast parked among a fleet of heavy machinery, its cab streaked with dust and road grime. I idled nearby, scanning the lot from my Suburban, but it was Sunday-quiet, no workers or clues to be found. Sergeant Billy Johnson’s sour attitude still lingered in my mind, but he hadn’t given me much beyond a vague nod to Nelson’s existence. With nothing else shaking loose, I decided to call it an evening—until my phone buzzed in the cupholder, lighting up with a text from Kate.
Kate: Marcus, here’s mom’s number. She’s been bugging me on my first day of marriage LOL. I told her I’d give you her number. Please call her before she interrupts my evening of marital bliss again.
I smirked, thumbs tapping out a quick reply.
Marcus: No problem Kate. I’ll call her now. Go enjoy your evening.
I pulled Ellen’s number from the text and dialed, the phone barely finishing its first ring before her voice burst through the line, eager and bright. “Marcus! Oh, I’m so glad you called,” she exclaimed, like she’d been hovering over her phone, waiting for it to light up.
“Hey, Ellen,” I said, leaning back in the driver’s seat. “Kate said you’ve been keeping her busy.”
She laughed, a little sheepish. “Guilty as charged. I just couldn’t help myself—she’s my baby, you know. But I’m thrilled you’re still in town. Listen, Nelson and Lindsey are stopping by for dinner tonight at 6:00. I’d love for you to meet them—say you’ll come?”
I glanced at the dashboard clock: 4:47 PM. Plenty of time to swing by the hotel, ditch the flannel for something less rumpled, and head over. This was the break I’d been fishing for—a chance to size up Nelson in person and see if Lindsey’s “joyful” vibe held any hints about her dad. “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said, keeping my tone light. “What’s the address?”
She rattled off a street name and number—a cozy-sounding spot near the edge of Salem, not far from the vineyard. “Perfect,” I told her. “I’ll see you at six.” As I hung up, the faint hum of anticipation kicked in. Ellen sounded genuinely excited, not a trace of the unease Kate had flagged. Either she was a damn good actress, or whatever was bruising her wrist hadn’t rattled her enough to show it. Dinner with Nelson and Lindsey would tell me more than any cop or truck yard could. I turned the key in the ignition and pointed the Suburban back toward the hotel, ready to trade recon for a seat at the table.
I pulled up to Ellen’s place just before 6:00 PM, the Suburban’s tires crunching against the gravel driveway of a tidy Victorian house on the outskirts of Salem. The exterior was painted a soft sage green, with white trim framing the wraparound porch and a riot of late-June flowers spilling from window boxes. The sun was dipping low, casting a warm golden hue over the scene, and the faint scent of grilled meat wafted from the backyard. I’d swapped my flannel for a clean button-down shirt—dark blue, sleeves rolled to the elbows—and ran a hand through my hair before stepping out. Time to meet the man behind Kate’s worries and see if Ellen’s matchmaking held any water.
Ellen greeted me at the door with a wide smile, her lavender dress from the wedding traded for a casual blouse and slacks. “Marcus, right on time! Come in, come in,” she said, ushering me through the foyer. The house smelled of rosemary and garlic, and the sound of laughter drifted from the kitchen. She led me past a cozy living room—complete with overstuffed furniture and framed photos of Kate through the years—and into a bright, open dining area where two people stood by the counter, chatting over a platter of grilled chicken and veggies.
“Marcus, this is Nelson,” Ellen said, gesturing to a broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a friendly grin. He looked every bit the dump truck driver—sturdy build, weathered hands, and a flannel shirt that matched the laid-back vibe of a Sunday night. He stepped forward, wiping his palm on a napkin before offering a firm handshake.
“Good to meet you, Marcus,” Nelson said, his voice deep and easy. “Ellen’s been singing your praises all day.”
“Likewise,” I replied, sizing him up. His grip was solid, his smile genuine—no red flags jumping out yet. “Heard you keep the roads around here in shape.”
He chuckled, nodding. “Try to, at least. Keeps me busy and out of trouble.”
“And this,” Ellen cut in, her tone taking on a playful lilt, “is Lindsey.” She nodded toward a woman leaning against the counter, a glass of iced tea in hand. Lindsey was striking—tall and tan, with dark blonde hair pulled into a loose braid and a smile that lit up the room. She wore a simple sundress, yellow with little white flowers, and her green eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and warmth as she stepped forward.
“Hey, Marcus,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of a laugh. “Dad’s been warning me you’re some kind of coastal detective. Should I be on my guard?”
I grinned, instantly at ease. “Only if you’ve got something to hide. Otherwise, I’m harmless.”
She raised an eyebrow, teasing. “I’ll take my chances.”
Ellen clapped her hands together, delighted. “Well, let’s not stand around—dinner’s ready. Grab a plate and dig in.” We filled our plates from the spread—grilled chicken, roasted potatoes, a fresh green salad—and settled around a wooden dining table set with mismatched chairs and a vase of daisies. The conversation flowed as easily as the iced tea, Nelson kicking things off with a story about a muddy haul gone wrong on a backroad job, his booming laugh filling the room. He was a natural storyteller, animated but unpretentious, and Ellen hung on his every word, her face glowing with affection.
Lindsey slid into the seat next to me, her elbow brushing mine as she reached for the salt. “So, Astoria,” she said, turning those green eyes on me. “What’s it like living by the ocean all the time? I’ve only been up there once—foggy as hell.”
“Pretty much sums it up,” I said, chuckling. “Fog, salt, and a lot of fish. Keeps things quiet, though. You ever get out of Salem much?”
“When I can,” she replied, spearing a potato with her fork. “I teach third grade, so summers are my escape window. Been thinking about a coast trip, actually—maybe you can recommend a spot.”
“Depends on what you’re after,” I said, leaning in a little. “Cannon Beach is touristy but gorgeous. Or there’s this little hole-in-the-wall bar in Astoria—Workers Tavern. Best clam chowder you’ll ever have.”
“Sold,” she said, grinning. “I’m a sucker for chowder. You’ll have to show me sometime.”
I caught the flirtatious edge in her tone and matched it with a smirk. “Deal. Just don’t blame me if the fog strands you there.”
Across the table, Nelson was pouring Ellen another glass of wine, his movements gentle and attentive. “You holding up okay over there, El?” he asked, his voice soft. She nodded, patting his hand, and he turned to me. “So, Marcus, Ellen says you’re a private investigator. That as exciting as it sounds?”
“Sometimes,” I said, keeping it vague. “Mostly it’s paperwork and waiting around. Every now and then, you get a good story out of it.”
“Like what?” Lindsey piped up, resting her chin on her hand, genuinely curious.
I thought for a second, then shrugged. “Tracked down a missing fishing boat once—turned out the guy just wanted a week off from his wife. Found him drunk on a sandbar with a cooler of beer.”
They all laughed, Nelson’s deep chuckle blending with Lindsey’s lighter one. “Sounds like my kind of case,” he said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To the simple life.”
As the meal wound down, Ellen brought out a tray of homemade lemon bars, and the talk shifted to lighter things—Lindsey’s students, Nelson’s latest road project, the quirks of Salem’s small-town gossip mill. I watched Nelson closely, looking for any hint of the trouble Kate feared—a sharp word, a tense glance, anything. Nothing. He was warm, steady, quick with a joke, and clearly smitten with Ellen. If he was hiding something, he was damn good at it. Lindsey, meanwhile, kept me on my toes, her wit sharp and her laugh infectious. By the time I pushed my chair back, full and relaxed, I was half-convinced I’d misjudged the whole situation.
“Marcus, you’re welcome back anytime,” Nelson said as I stood to leave, clapping me on the shoulder. “Good to have a new face around.”
“Appreciate it,” I said, meaning it. “Dinner was great.”
Lindsey walked me to the door, lingering as I stepped onto the porch. “So, about that chowder tour,” she said, smirking. “I’m serious—let’s make it happen.”
“Count on it,” I replied, holding her gaze a beat longer than necessary. “I’ll be in touch.”
I climbed into the Suburban, the night air cool against my skin, and started the engine. Nelson seemed like a stand-up guy—no cracks in the facade, no whiff of menace. Lindsey was a bonus I hadn’t expected, and Ellen looked happier than I’d seen her in years. But Kate’s worry still gnawed at me, a quiet itch I couldn’t shake. I’d need more than a good dinner to call this case closed.




Kate jolted me awake at 8 AM with a text on Monday morning.
Kate: 9AM, Issac’s Downtown, 201 Commercial St. NE
Marcus: Good morning, lol. I’ll see you there.
I strolled into Issac’s Downtown Coffee Bar just past 9 AM, the faint aroma of roasted beans greeting me as I spotted Kate in the corner, cradling two steaming mugs. I figured one was mine. Sliding into the seat across from her, I leaned in for a quick hug. “Coffee, black,” she said, nudging a mug my way. “You remembered,” I replied with a grin. “So, how was dinner at Mom’s last night?” she asked, her tone brimming with curiosity. “Surprisingly nice. Nelson’s a decent guy, Lindsey was a pleasant surprise, and your Mom seems genuinely happy with him. I’m starting to wonder if we’re chasing shadows here, Kate,” I admitted. She frowned, her brow creasing. “That actually worries me more. Thomas and I are leaving for our honeymoon tomorrow, and we won’t be back for over a week. Marcus, can I trust you to keep an eye on things while I’m gone? I don’t want to tip Mom off, but something feels… off.” Her voice wavered slightly. I reached across the table, resting my hand over hers. “Don’t worry. I’ve got to head back to Astoria tonight to tie up some loose ends at the office and grab more clothes, but I’ll be back in Salem by Wednesday evening. I’ll use Lindsey as my cover—maybe get to know her better while I’m at it.”
After finishing our coffee, I said goodbye to Kate and pulled out my phone as I stepped outside. I shot a quick text to Lindsey:
Marcus: Hey, Lindsey. Heading back to Astoria tonight for work, but I’ll be back in Salem later this week. Enjoyed meeting you last night—would love to chat more and get to know you. You free sometime soon?
She replied almost instantly:
Lindsey: Hey! Glad you had a good time. I’m around later this week—let me know when you’re back!
Smiling to myself, I pocketed the phone and headed to my car. The drive to Astoria was a quiet three hours, the coastal highway stretching out under a graying sky. By early afternoon, I was at my office, a small space cluttered with blueprints and permits. I spent the next few hours sorting through paperwork—finalizing a client invoice, signing off on an investigation for the courthouse, and clearing my desk of stray coffee cups and Post-its. A couple of days later, I tidied up my apartment, tossing a load of laundry into the washer and packing a suitcase with enough clothes for at least a week. I watered the lone cactus on my windowsill, locked up, and grabbed a burger from a drive-thru on my way out of town.
Tuesday had blurred into Wednesday as I wrapped up the last of my Astoria errands—a quick stop at the post office to forward my mail and a call to my neighbor to keep an eye on the place. By late afternoon, I hit the road again, the suitcase rattling in the trunk as I pointed the car back toward Salem. I rolled into town just as the sun dipped below the horizon on Wednesday evening, the streets glowing faintly under street lights. I checked into a motel near downtown, tossing my suitcase onto the bed with a thud. I wasn’t just here to crash—I’d promised Kate I’d stick around at least until she and Thomas got back from their honeymoon, and I meant to keep that promise. Tomorrow, I’d reach out to Lindsey and start digging a little deeper, all while keeping things casual. For now, I kicked off my shoes and let the hum of the motel’s heater lull me into a plan.