One It was a warm, sunny afternoon in early April, a rarity on the Oregon coast at this time of year. The frequent spring rainstorms meant that the beautiful wildflowers—the best in the country—were on their way. Hank Cooper sat out on the deck of Ben & Cooper’s Bar in his white T-shirt and jeans, his feet propped up on the deck rail. Hamlet, Sarah’s harlequin Great Dane, sat beside him, watching the sea, his ears perking up when a person, a boat or bird caught his eye. Cooper was enjoying a heavily creamed coffee and watching his lovely Sarah Dupre paddleboarding out on the bay. She wore the wet suit—short sleeves, knee-length—he’d given her for Christmas. It kept her warm even though the water hadn’t warmed up yet; it was icy cold. The Pacific was always cold, except maybe down San Diego way. But Sarah was an expert; she rarely got her feet wet. The way that wet suit hugged her body—it was like art. She had incredibly strong legs, a perfect round tush, breasts about the size of his palms. She’d been born in a coastal town and was probably as comfortable on the water as she was on the land or in the sky—diver, swimmer, surfer, helicopter pilot. Cooper and Ham had been watching Sarah for an hour; she’d gone all the way out to the mouth of the bay and back. She was finally coming