SECRETS ON THE SHORE

  THE ISLAND BOOK 4

  DECLAN RHODES

  Copyright © 2023 by Declan Rhodes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Declan Rhodes also previously published under the pen name Grant C. Holland.

  CONTENTS

  1. Connor

  2. Seth

  3. Connor

  4. Seth

  5. Connor

  6. Seth

  7. Connor

  8. Seth

  9. Connor

  10. Seth

  11. Connor

  12. Seth

  13. Connor

  14. Seth

  15. Connor

  16. Seth

  17. Connor

  18. Seth

  19. Connor

  20. Seth

  21. Connor

  22. Seth

  23. Connor

  24. Seth

  25. Connor

  Epilogue - Connor

  Also by Declan Rhodes

  About the Author

  ONE

  CONNOR

  Leaning back in my swivel chair, I looked around the newsroom. It buzzed with the clatter of keyboards and chatter of reporters on phones.

  LED screens flickered with headlines, and I spotted a junior reporter frantically scribbling notes on a whiteboard. A printer coughed out documents like it was gasping for air, the sound blending with the low murmur of TVs showing 24-hour news channels.

  “Yikes, Connor, you look tense,” my colleague, Tamara, shared her appraisal, her heels clicking as she approached my desk. Dressed in a sharp blazer and a skirt that meant business, she had a voice that carried—confident, bordering on sassy.

  She held a coffee mug reading “Good Vibes Only,” a smirky contrast to the caffeine-fueled anxiety surrounding us.

  "Cutbacks are happening, Tam. Good vibes won’t save us."

  "True, but doom and gloom won’t either. Hey, any hits on that expose of yours?"

  I lowered my head. “Don’t ask.”

  Just a few weeks earlier, I'd thought I'd cracked the story of the year: it was an exclusive expose on a fraudulent online prescription service. Unfortunately, it never caught on. I found myself staring at the declining view count next to my article’s headline online—a pitiful number compared to the sleepless nights I'd spent digging for the truth.

  "Ouch," Tam winced. "Better luck next time?"

  My eyes returned to the computer screen. "There needs to be a better next time, or else."

  A window popped up on my monitor—an anonymous email blinking urgently: "Investigate Love's Lighthouse on Garfield Island. There's more than couples' therapy happening."

  "Whoa, what's this?" Tam leaned in closer to read. "Secret admirer or potential whistleblower?"

  "Could be either with my luck." I let my sandy-blonde hair fall back into place as I flicked it up off my forehead. "Love's Lighthouse? Ever heard of it?"

  "No, sounds like a scam,” she scoffed.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s what I wanna find?” My notepad and camera bag, my near-constant companions, sat waiting for action on the desk beside me. Garfield Island? Couples therapy?

  I sat up, cracking my knuckles before furiously typing into a new search tab.

  The first results were no big surprise. I saw a beautifully designed website with a polished graphic design and color scheme that whispered tranquil love.

  You know those colors—soft pinks, seafoam blue, and forest greens. The page featured a slideshow of happy couples—either stock images or real-life Stepford duos. They walked along beaches under a full moon and sipped champagne at sunset.

  Next came the rave reviews.

  “Love’s Lighthouse saved our marriage,” read one.

  “We rediscovered why we fell in love in the first place,” said the next.

  Generic passion all around.

  As I read a little further, a specific word grabbed my attention. It was in the banner “A Transformational Experience.” Transformational, eh?

  Ambitious, to say the least.

  I clicked the link and read more about the menu of workshops offered during the retreat. They included titles like “The Heart’s Whisper,” “Mapping Emotional Landscapes,” and “The Alchemy of Love.” The more ordinary listings included one-on-one counseling, guided group discussions, and physical activities designed to increase intimacy.

  On the surface, it was benign, but what about a word like alchemy? What was next? Love potions?

  And what did “Mapping Emotional Landscapes” mean?

  As I clicked through the pages, some phrases stuck out as unusual. "Surrender your inhibitions," read one bolded header. Another mentioned "liberating your true passions."

  For a couples therapy retreat, it seemed oddly focused on the inner self. I clicked over to the credentials of the leader, Dr. Isabel Hartman. The page was strangely vague about her qualifications and background. Red flag number one.

  “So, I’ve got a choice here, Tam. One, conduct interviews like any other story, or two, actually go there. Get the inside scoop."

  She looked intrigued. "I must say, the second option sounds impulsive, risky, and potentially embarrassing. Very you, Connor.”

  I scrolled back up on the website. Only one more retreat remained before the end of the season. It was late September, and skipping that would mean waiting until next May for another chance to go.

  My career couldn’t wait that long.

  I stared at the mysterious email tip again and hesitated. A story about a couples' therapy retreat wasn’t Pulitzer territory, but it was a lead.

  It was time to call Bea, my editor.

  “Connor,” she answered in a weary voice. “If you’re not calling with breaking news, hang up.”

  “Breaking tip,” I suggested, holding a printout of the email message in my hand. “Got an anonymous message that might be worth exploring. It’s a little unusual, but isn’t that true of all the best stories?”

  She sighed. “Okay, out with it. What’s got you all excited?”

  I did my best to roll out the summary of the email and what I’d found so far in one breath.

  “Couples therapy? I'm not funding your date night, Connor.”

  “No, seriously. We might have a scandal on our hands. I could go undercover."

  "Undercover? I'll need more than 'might be a scandal' for something like that." I heard the disdain in her voice.

  “Think big, Bea. Passion, fraud, love potions, sham doctors, and couples ripped apart at the seams. Hell, I’d click on it. C’mon, tell me you would, too.”

  Bea was silent, and I thought I could hear the gears turning in her head. The newsroom was on thin ice; we all were. A big story could be the life raft we all desperately needed.

  "Fine," she finally said. "But you get one week. If it turns into nothing, it’s your vacation time. And you better be back here ASAP on Monday, working wall to wall to submit the story.”

  “That’s all I need,” I assured her.

  Bea sighed again. “You young reporters are all the same, like surfers hunting the next big wave. Just remember, it’s not always a ride to glory. Sometimes, it’s just a wipeout.”

  "Guess we'll know soon,” I said. I was already thinking about looking under stones on the beaches of Garfield Island.

  “Okay, I need to get back to work. And Connor—"

  "Yeah?"

  "This better be good."

  “It will be,” I insisted. “You can bet on it."

  Tam nodded and strolled off to her desk after hearing my side of the conversation.

  I leaned back in my chair, hands behind my head, and closed my eyes. I envisioned the waves of Lake Michigan rolling in on the shore. I heard seagulls in my mind. There I was, ready to do a trust fall with my…. My eyes snapped open.

  For this investigation, a one-person show wouldn't cut it. Especially not when the gig was a couples' retreat. I shot out of my chair, narrowly avoiding a wall collision, and headed straight to Seth's desk.

  Seth was the guy with the neat and tidy workspace, like a miniature zen garden, an oasis in the newsroom desert.

  I took in his appearance as he glanced up from his computer screen through a pair of stylish, black-rimmed reading glasses. He wore his short brown hair neatly combed back, not a strand out of place.

  Though we were the same age, Seth's green eyes had a maturity and thoughtfulness that balanced my impulsiveness. A carefully trimmed, mustached, and stubbled jawline completed the picture. I realized I was staring and quickly glanced away.

  I dropped the printed email in front of him like a dare.

  “Up for a little Garfield Island romance, bud? I’ve got a hot lead on a juicy story.”

  Seth and I hit it off the second we started at the paper, right out of college, a sol
id six years ago. We'd been in the trenches together more times than I could count. Late nights poring over documents had led to inside jokes and lingering looks.

  Take that pharmaceutical exposé: I was inches from being caught rifling through confidential docs when Seth pulled off a "casual" chemical spill. As he distracted the supervisor, I slipped out unnoticed, exhilarated by our wordless teamwork.

  We’d rocked disguises as reality TV contestants to bust exploitative producers, posed as servers in a high-end auction house to unmask art frauds, and even went undercover as wildlife photographers in an endangered animal smuggling ring. Our bond? It was ironclad and would someday be the stuff of legends.

  Picture a buddy cop movie but in the newsroom. Seth was the rule-abiding detective to my maverick. Two sides of the same coin, and that's how we got the damn job done.

  He looked up from his screen, a half-eaten strawberry cheese danish in his hand. "Love's Lighthouse? On Garfield Island? Seriously?"

  I leaned against his desk, flashing a playful grin. "Why not? I mean, look at us. Who could resist our charm? We're practically a poster couple for relationship success."

  He chuckled and shook his head. "Ah yes, the ultimate gay bromance takes on couples therapy. What could go wrong? Have you thought this through?”

  "I get it," I said, hopping up to sit on the edge of his desk. "It's not our usual thing, but give it some thought. We need it. With all the layoffs and my last story flopping, the tension here is thicker than quicksand. We need something big to make ourselves indispensable.”

  I leaned in closer, practically sprawling across the desk. “I’m telling you, something seems off about this place. The website uses all this vague, new age language about 'spiritual awakening' and 'energies.' And get this—I couldn't find any legitimate credentials for the so-called doctor running it." I lowered my voice. "I think we could be looking at a dangerous scam here."

  He glanced down at his danish and back up again. "And you're sure this is the hill you want to die on? You’re sure Love’s Lighthouse is worth a trip north?” I watched as he cringed when he said the words “Love’s Lighthouse.”

  "Look, if it’s a dead-end, we'll know soon enough. We can skip out after the opening weekend and be back here by Monday. All we’ve lost is a weekend.”

  “There goes my social life,” sighed Seth.

  I leaned forward, looking into his green eyes. “What social life?”

  “Ouch, but yeah, you’ve got a point. My love life is as exciting as a PBS pledge drive.”

  “So, if something is there, and we crack this open, it's gonna be a lifeline for us."

  “Let me see if I understand this. I’m pretending to be in a couple with…you?” Seth asked.

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “It'll be like one of those team-building exercises, but way more interesting. And instead of climbing ropes and solving puzzles, we'll be, I don't know, learning how to communicate better or whatever they do there. How bad can it be?"

  Seth sighed, looking up at me like he was looking for a way out. Finding none, he picked up his danish and took another bite, chewing slowly as he pondered the situation.

  "Alright, I'm in," he finally said, holding my gaze for a moment longer than usual. "But if I end up brainwashed into a love cult, you're writing the apology note to my mom."

  “Deal,” I laughed. “So, we're doing this?"

  "We're doing this," he affirmed. “Let's book our tickets to relationship paradise, or whatever it is. And we’re heading there…when?”

  “This weekend…three days.”

  Seth coughed. “Impulsive much?”

  “Have you ever been to Garfield Island?” I asked.

  "Can't say I have, but I've heard it's scenic."

  "Well, between the romance workshops and sappy couples, we'll take in the scenery. It could be fun. Worst-case scenario, we expose some fraudulent love guru or something. In the best-case scenario, we stumble onto something even juicier."

  Seth chuckled. “Okay, fraudulent love guru for the win.”

  Late in the day, Seth called me back to his desk.

  "Okay, so we need a backstory," he said, pulling up a document.

  "How about we met in salsa dancing class?" I suggested. "You were impressed by my enthusiasm, and I liked your analytical approach."

  Seth nodded, typing it in. "Let's say we've been together two years—serious but with some kinks."

  "Perfect," I said. "Now we sound like an actual couple. What's next? First date?"

  He nodded and tapped his temple while he thought. "Let's say we went to the Museum of Contemporary Art and bonded over a video installation. It was a naked man who kept saying ‘Love’ over and over—49 times, according to the exhibit description.”

  I laughed. “That is rather specific.”

  “Makes it more real.”

  "Genius," I replied.

  “What's our big relationship issue we're tackling at the retreat?"

  I paused. "How about we say communication? Isn’t that what everyone would say? It's believable and vague enough to cover almost anything. Plus, it gives us a good reason to be seen talking privately. You know, working on our 'communication.'"

  "Communication it is," he said, wrapping up our fictional love tale with a few last keystrokes.

  I looked at Seth. "You realize this is either going to be one hell of a story or an epic disaster, right?"

  "Isn't that what we always say before diving into something we know nothing about?”

  We exchanged another glance, sealing our mutual commitment to the new adventure. “I’ll make the reservation with Love’s Lighthouse. Our fake partnership awaits."

  Returning to my desk, I fired off a couple of emails to secure our spots. The site told me we got the last ones available.

  Three days can feel like forever when you can’t wait to get started on your next big story. Fortunately, the day finally arrived.

  I stood in my apartment, staring at my open suitcase as if it would magically fill itself with the essentials for a couples therapy retreat. What even were the basics needed for something like that? Yoga pants? Matching outfits?

  "Might want to throw in a notepad," Seth's voice came from my phone's speaker, pulled up via video call to offer his input on my packing dilemma.

  "Jeans or swim trunks?" I asked, holding them up.

  "Bring both, just in case," he suggested.

  An image of the two of us strolling shirtless in swim trunks along the beach flashed through my mind, and I stumbled over a stray pair of shoes on my bedroom floor.

  “Don't forget a charger," he added. "And maybe a separate camera, just in case we need to document something discreetly."

  I nodded, grabbing a small digital camera from my desk drawer and a spare charger. "Got it."

  I looked at my packed suitcase and then at my fake romantic partner on the screen. “All set, and let’s not forget the most important thing,” he added.

  I raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

  "That we're supposed to be a couple. So, maybe you should actually remember my name this time instead of calling me dude or bro in the middle of a couples therapy session."

  I laughed. "Right, got it. No dudes or bros while trying to fix our fake relationship issues. Should I also refer to you as my darling or honey to make it more convincing?"

  Seth cringed. "Let's not go overboard. We want to be believable, not sound like a cartoon.”

  I held my hands to my heart. “We are diving into the unknown here. We’ll find the story, or we’ll become the story. Either way, it will be one hell of a ride."

  "Then what are we waiting for?” asked Seth. Let's hit the road."

  My thumb hovered over the red end call button as I studied his handsome face, kind eyes, and easy smile that always reassured me. Could this mission unravel the friendship we'd built and reveal something...more?

  I shook off the thought as quickly as it had appeared. "Right, let's hit the road," I finally said, tapping the end-call button. The undercover trip was about the investigative story, a lifeline for our careers.