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Yet, she appeared so fragile. He could well imagine what she was thinking and didn’t want her envisioning the worst. If nothing else, perhaps he could lay her nightmares to rest.
    “I don’t have the forensics yet. However, it appears she drowned in her hot tub.”
    “That can’t be right. Not another drowning…”
    “Breeana? Stay with me.” She swayed in her chair and slid toward the floor. Sully flew to his feet and caught her before she hit the ground. He lowered her head between her knees and took a quick glance around the living room. “Do you have any liquor in the house?”
    “I…in the sunroom, but I don’t need anything.”
    Jesus , he’d seen better color than she had right now on week-old corpses. “I’ll be right back.”
    He found the bar and poured a generous shot of brandy. Returning to her side, he leaned her head back against his arm to press the rim of the glass to her lips. Her gaze struggled to remain focused. “Easy, I’ve got you. You’ll feel better after you drink some of this.”
    She coughed as the liquid slid down her throat, her eyes tearing. It was another few minutes before her color returned and he was satisfied she wouldn’t keel over in a dead faint. He released her, reluctantly, and settled on the ottoman in front of her. She had felt incredible in his arms, smelled like honeysuckle after a soft summer rain; the thought blindsided him. Her lower lip still trembled. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came out.
    “Don’t talk. Just breathe for a few minutes. I don’t want you hyperventilating.”
    He continued to watch her until she regained a bit more color in her cheeks. Hell, would it be so bad to postpone his questions until tomorrow? Maybe she didn’t have anything useful to tell him. Then again, there was only one way to find out. He gave her another few minutes to compose herself before he continued.
    “What did you mean when you said ‘not another drowning’?”
    Breeana’s limbs still shook, but her voice seemed steady enough when she answered. “Another friend of mine, Miranda Greene, died almost a month ago. She was canoeing on Lac St-Louis, practicing for an upcoming race.”
    “Miranda was a professional athlete?”
    Breeana wrung her hands in her lap. “A social worker, not a professional athlete, but she was competitive in just about everything. She intended to win the Ultimate Paddler’s Award at the Dragon Boat races coming up in July, so she practiced in the canoe alone. The police insisted she was out too far on the lake that night, in the shipping lane of the Seaway passing along the far shore. They claimed her canoe was hit by a tanker. Her death was classified as an accident.”
    Sully bit back a sigh. He knew what was coming next. “You don’t believe their theory?”
    “No, they’ve got it all wrong.” She dug in her pocket for a tissue and dabbed her eyes.
    “You don’t think the Mallard Bay Police did a proper investigation.” It was a statement, not a question. He already knew the MBPD had mishandled valuable evidence at Rainey Dubé’s crime scene.
    “Not thorough enough,” Breeana insisted. “Or they wouldn’t have drawn the wrong conclusions.”
    She blew out a breath, her throat working several times before she added, “I know Miranda never went near the shipping channel. She told me her coach had warned her about the danger. There was also a storm on the lake that night. She would have headed for shore when the storm hit, not in the opposite direction.”
    If what Breeana said was true, Sully figured the Mallard Bay Police had screwed up royally on Greene’s case, as well as Dubé’s. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
    “Yes.” Her tears flowed freely now, and he nudged a box of tissues in her direction. He was powerless when it came to a woman’s grief. “M-Miranda’s father came to see me shortly after he identified her remains. He had to identify her by a tattoo on her shoulder because