The Killing Beach - E-ARC


 
 
 The Killing Beach
 A Waverly Jones Mystery
 
 ADVANCED REVIEW COPY
 EXCLUSIVE TO PATRONS
 
 Skyla Dawn Cameron
 
 The Killing Beach
 Copyright © 2023 by Skyla Dawn Cameron
 
 Cover Art © 2023 by Skyla Dawn Cameron
 
 eBook ISBN: 978-1-927966-33-4
 Paperback ISBN: 978-1-927966-32-7
 Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-927966-62-4
 
 Published by Skyla Dawn Cameron
 P.O. Box 1833 / Campbellford ON / K0L 1L0
 
 [1—FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Private Investigators. 
 2—FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths]
 
 All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
 
 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
 
 First Edition: May 2023
 
 Electronic Advanced Review Copy
 
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 The Killing Beach
 Waverly Jones Mysteries—1
 
 Waverly Jones has been called misanthropic. Distant. Obsessive. Manipulative. And that’s without people knowing she talks to the hallucination of her dead sister. 
 She’s also a private investigator. 
 After a lengthy absence, she’s returned to Port Milton amidst the biggest homicide investigation her hometown has seen in over a decade. Bodies of middle-aged men have been washing ashore and the police have confirmed foul play but not much else—making it the perfect case for someone like her.
 Particularly when she’s the one to find the latest body.
 It’s not a coincidence Waverly happened across the newest victim. She’s been combing the beach because these men match the age and appearance of Detective-Sergeant Sebastian Kyle, missing these past eleven years after investigating the now-dormant serial killer who made Waverly’s sister his last victim. 
 Her familiarity with the murders has left her well-prepared when hired by the wife of one of the dead men, giving her a professional reason to dig deeper into these crimes. Have the police unintentionally fumbled this case in the wrong direction, or does the widow not know as much about her husband as she thought?
 Port Milton has always had its secrets, and Waverly will drag every single one into the light to get to the bottom of this mystery. And maybe somewhere along the way, she’ll get another step closer to who killed her sister and what happened to Sebastian Kyle.
 
 
 
 
 
 Our torments also may in length of time
 Become our Elements, these piercing Fires
 As soft as now severe, our temper chang’d
 Into their temper
 —John Milton, Paradise Lost
 
 
 
 
 
 
 For Audrey, who deserved better.
 
 Found
 
 I don’t recognize the dead man on the shore of Miskwa Bay.
 And I can’t tell if I’m relieved or not.
 He’s naked. Bleached and bloated, fish-belly-white skin with a faintly blue hue, eyes plucked at long before I arrive to shoo the birds away. Hair is nearly black, plastered against his skull from the water. 
 Still, though, even without the eyes, even with the hair so similar, even accounting for the years that have passed, I know it’s not him.
 “I don’t know what you expected,” my dead sister says from beside me.
 She’s not really there. She’s not even a full-blown hallucination I believe is there. I think my imagination is just vivid enough that, combined with how alone I’ve always been in my head, I’ve conjured up Meadow as if it’s her ghost following me around offering helpful commentary.
 If she is a ghost, somewhere, she’s not here with me now. I know that.
 I still respond anyway, “I didn’t actually expect a body, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
 I also only talk to her aloud when literally no one else is around. I try not to advertise my crazy more than I already have.
 “It’s never going to be him,” she supplies unhelpfully.
 I know that, Meadow. I’m crazy, not stupid.
 A chilly spring wind tasting of the bay rustles my streaked brown hair, pulling strands from the messy bun I’ve tied it in. It doesn’t touch Meadow’s shoulder-length bottle-blonde mane, though; in my peripheral vision she remains still and separate from this world, this figment of my imagination. Though her wardrobe changes—today it’s cropped white pants and a pink tank top—she’s still sixteen, frozen in time while I age, and I don’t know anymore if the voice I hear really sounds like she did or if my faulty memory has the details wrong. Still, this pseudo presence—though painful—is a comfort I can’t give up either.
 Instead of looking at her, I stare down at the body and take in what I can before this scene is swarmed with police and media.
 No human footprints other than mine, the sand dark and smooth from either the tide or last night’s rain. He’s been dead a day or two by my guess, but I’m not the coroner. The water and predation make it hard for me to tell.
 I snap my fair share of photos from a few