_marker-8" class="Chapter">MAY 1
According to the GPS, Cassidy was about halfway to the viewpoint for the offshore Tatoosh Island lighthouse. It was such a beautiful day she was practically dancing along the three-quarter-mile long trail. Spring was finally here; the winter rains had eased off and the sun shimmered down from a crystalline sky. These were the moments she was glad she’d returned to the Pacific Northwest. The buds were opening in the vineyards she’d driven past, the flowers edging forth and filling the air with their sweet scent—battling the cherry trees for her nose’s attention.
The trail was a bit rough, but just fine in her hiking boots. Actually, according to the GPS, they were overkill, but she wanted to get some use from them. They made her feel solid, standing squ
