Homecoming Homicide: Chapter One

Here’s the first chapter of Homecoming Homicide, book five in the Cassandra Sato mysteries.
If you like century-old secrets, lovable hot messes, and a parrot who tells it like it is, this free preview drops you straight into the chaos. When you’re ready, pick up the full book or start the series from the beginning.

Cassandra Sato stepped into the Duke Kahanamoku hotel lobby with a plan, a clipboard, and the naïve belief that everything would go smoothly.

Which, in hindsight, was adorable considering nothing with Morton College had gone smoothly since her first day as Vice President for Student Affairs.

“I can’t believe you grew up here, Dr. Sato,” Logan Dunn said, dropping his backpack with a heavy thud on the expansive travertine floor before sprinting after his classmates.

A chaotic tower of suitcases and carry-ons teetered near the concierge desk, abandoned as the students rushed outside to take in the view.

“I can’t believe she left paradise for Nebraska,” quipped Ethan Miller. “I mean, who in their right mind does that?”

Who indeed?

Cassandra allowed herself a small smile at their wide-eyed enthusiasm. Their participation in the Honolulu PastForward conference would earn them elective credit hours, and for some, this was their first time on a plane, their first glimpse of the ocean. Their excitement was contagious and not even a little bit quiet.

She passed the front desk, where a glossy sign on an easel greeted them in bold vintage lettering:

Welcome to PastForward: Hawai’i Unforgotten

A Field School in Historical Reckoning

Lost records. Silent witnesses. Unanswered questions.

Go beyond textbooks and tackle the stories history left unfinished or deliberately erased. Through primary sources, immersive VR, and oral narratives, you’ll re-investigate cases that shaped communities and challenged the official record.

Bring your curiosity, critical thinking, and caffeine. You’ll need all three.

The past isn’t dead. It’s just waiting for someone to listen.

Cassandra paused, her gaze catching the moody description clearly written by a group of well-meaning grad students. Overdone? Absolutely. But probably not wrong.

Moments later, she stepped onto the lanai facing Waikīkī beach, inhaling the familiar scent of saltwater and sunscreen.

Ivy Olson snapped photos with her phone. “You guys saw the PastForward rumors, right? Everyone’s saying this year’s mystery challenge is deep-dive worthy.” She lowered her voice, “There’s a whole thread online claiming it has WWII wartime spies, encrypted love letters, the works.”

Logan added, “My cousin did New Orleans. She said it was ninety percent ghost stories and ten percent dodging hexes from wizard wannabes.”

Every year PastForward picked a new city, a new unsolved case, and invited students to play historian-slash-detective-slash-time traveler. Ghost-jazz murders in New Orleans, Prohibition bootleggers under a Chicago preschool. This year’s mystery happened to be in her backyard.

Cassandra shifted her tote bag, nodding. “My former professor, Dr. Nakano, runs Hawai’i Unforgotten. If he helped design this year’s challenge, expect drama. He never does anything halfway.”

Ivy grinned. “Honestly, I’m here for it. True crime, high stakes, postcard views. What’s not to love?”

Cassandra stepped farther out, letting the view fill her vision. The air wrapped around her, thick and familiar like a warm hug. Unmistakably home. The ocean breeze brushed her cheek, teasing her with the kind of homecoming that whispered, You could stay. You belong here.

Then her phone buzzed.

Reality. Nebraska.

With a sigh, she pulled it from her pocket. Marcus Fischer. Her boyfriend of several months and lately, a source of emotional whiplash thanks to Fran Morrison, the new college president, and the shared ghosts of their service in Iraq.

She braced for impact.

The din of tourists and excited students faded as she answered.

“You don’t happen to know anything about construction near the student center, do you?” Marcus’s voice was tight.

Cassandra frowned. “Construction? No. Why?”

“There’s a crew out there unloading equipment. Looks like something major. I wasn’t informed.”

Her fingers gripped the phone tighter. Marcus ran Facilities. If dirt was moving, he should’ve signed off first.

“I haven’t heard a thing,” she said. “Maybe it’s something Fran or the board fast-tracked? You know how things have been since she moved in.”

Marcus let out a long exhale. “That’s what I figured. Still annoying not to be looped in.”

Cassandra nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. Fran had barely warmed the seat as college president, and already she was making power plays.

“If you think it’s serious, you should push back,” Cassandra said.

“I will. Just wanted to make sure it didn’t sneak through while you were still interim.”

“Nope. Not on my watch,” she said. “Let me know what you find out.”

“Will do.”

Cassandra slid her phone into her pocket, taking one last glance at the ocean before heading back inside to the students milling near the luggage. No matter how far she traveled, Morton College found ways to pull her back.

She scanned the lobby, nudging her focus back to the plan.

“We’ve got the opening dinner in an hour,” Cassandra said, holding out a stack of room keys. “Go ahead and drop your bags, get settled if you need to, and meet back here in 45.”

Ethan took his key with a grin. “Did you see the swimming pool has three levels?”

Diego, who’d probably try to surf a tsunami if given the chance, was already plotting his escape. “I don’t need to eat. Let’s hop in quick on our way to the room.”

Of course. Nothing said higher education like multilevel chlorinated bliss.

Cassandra felt her pulse throb in her temple. She opened her mouth to rein them in—

“Last one upstairs sleeps on the couch. And it won’t be me!” Brandon Nguyen darted into the elevator, barely glancing back.

The odds of everyone making it to dinner on time without getting lost, sidetracked, or accidentally joining a ukulele jam session? Slim to zilch.

While the students clattered upstairs, Cassandra turned back toward the beach.

The familiar shape of Diamond Head crater anchored the far end of Waikīkī, steady as ever. Between the hotel’s meticulously landscaped property and the shoreline, people of every shape, size, and SPF level soaked up the late-afternoon sun.

Well, except for the lobster-colored man wrestling with a rogue beach umbrella. Cassandra smirked. Tourists.

“Auntie Cassandra, did you see the ocean?” Tony O’Brien bounced on his toes like the Pacific might vanish if he blinked.

“Seen it a few times, buddy,” Cassandra said, ruffling his curly red hair.

He was eleven, relentlessly curious, and currently winning his long-running campaign for Favorite Non-Blood Relative.

His mom, Meg, the trip’s co-chaperone, stood nearby reviewing the itinerary like a logistics ninja. Technically, she was here to interpret for their Deaf student. Realistically, this was a full-circle trip.

They hadn’t planned on coming. Meg had been very pregnant when Cassandra organized the conference visit, and traveling with a newborn ranked somewhere above wrestling an octopus on her personal challenge scale.

Then Cassandra’s mom had deployed her full grandma powers and offered their family home in Waipahu.

“The O’Briens lived at Schofield for five years,” Michiko had said, “that makes them ʻohana. And ʻohana doesn’t sleep in a hotel.“ She was hand to chest like the idea physically pained her. “What would the neighbors say? I open my home to strangers, but not my daughter’s best friend? Might as well hang a sign outside that says Michiko Sato has no aloha spirit.”

Meg had wisely surrendered. Resistance was futile.

Connor O’Brien stood near the lobby doors, baby Olivia snugly velcroed to his chest in a wrap, rocking gently in full Vacation Dad mode. He still carried himself like the Army man he was—rigid posture, calm intensity—but today his mission appeared to be “don’t drop the pacifier.”

Cassandra smiled. This family. This island. These people reminded her who she was underneath the spreadsheets and crisis emails.

She exhaled, letting Nebraska slide off her shoulders.

By some miracle, most of the students assembled in the lobby alcove on time.

Lexi Wagner, social butterfly and pre-law hopeful, was mid-rant about sunscreen conspiracies. “I’m just saying, if the FDA can’t agree on reef-safe formulas, how are we supposed to trust anything?”

Maria Gonzales, whose energy registered at a much more sustainable wattage, quietly studied the conference app like there would be a pop quiz later. “I wonder what the most bizarre virtual reality booth will have.”

“I heard one shows drones flying over secret jungle communes,” Lexi said, eyes bright. “If it turns out to be shirtless hermits doing CrossFit, I’m deleting the app.”

Cassandra suppressed a laugh. So much for an academic mindset.

Lance Erickson leaned against a column, arms crossed, taking in the scene. When Diego and Ethan strolled in with wet hair and guilty grins, Lance arched a brow and signed something quick and dry.

Meg glanced up from her phone just in time to catch it. “He says we’ve officially entered the ‘questionable decisions’ portion of the field trip.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and signed, And we’ve been here less than three hours.

Lance grinned and gave her a mock salute.

Ethan and Diego flopped into leather chairs with no shame, just as Cassandra began the group welcome and formal intros.

She gestured to her left. “This is Meg O’Brien, our team’s ASL interpreter and my right hand this week.”

Meg gave a warm wave, already scanning the group like someone who’d run logistics in a war zone. Which, at a community college, she basically had.

“She and I have worked together for years,” Cassandra continued. “She knows how to keep me organized and how to keep you out of trouble. Or at least document it clearly.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the students, but Meg barely smirked—already mid-interpretation for Lance.

“And in case you were wondering,” Cassandra added, “yes, she brought her family along. No, her baby will not be attending the keynote lecture. Unless we need a better guest speaker.”

Tony grinned and gave a thumbs-up from the sidelines.

Cassandra folded her hands and slipping into syllabus mode. “You all earned your spot on this trip by proposing solid poster topics that linked Nebraska and Hawai’i. You’ll present them this week, attend sessions, and take notes like your GPA depends on it. Because it kind of does.”

She caught the side-eye from Diego and returned it with a raised eyebrow. No one warned them field trips came with homework.

“And yes, there will be a reflection paper when we’re back in Carson,” she added. “But you’ll be fine. Just pay attention and try staying semi-conscious during the panel discussions.”

“Wait, this is graded?” Ethan stage-whispered to Diego.

Ignoring the hecklers, Cassandra adopted her best museum field trip voice: firm but not hovering. “Alright, team. Let’s walk over together. Dinner’s at the conference center, and I’d like us seated before the welcome remarks start.”

She paused, letting her voice carry above the shuffle of backpacks and sneakers. “This is a real conference, not a beach vacation. You’re presenting. You’re learning. And you’re solving a historical murder in your free time. So, you know… welcome to the liberal arts dream.”

They fell into step behind her, amped on post-travel energy and the promise of free buffet shrimp.

Students in matching aloha shirts stood at every doorway, directing attendees toward exhibition areas, meeting rooms, and the buffet dinner. The cheerful “Aloha! Welcome to Honolulu” in their lilting local voices were balm to Cassandra’s jet-lagged senses.

Dignitaries in elegant lei chatted in small groups and the air buzzed with a mix of academia, tourism, and something indefinably Hawaiian.

As Cassandra walked past the booths, familiar accents caught her ear.

“Hey braddah, been long time, eh,” one man said, clasping another’s hand in a handshake-half-hug.

As they neared a brightly lit display, Lexi grabbed Maria’s arm. “Check out the ‘Lava Surfing Extravaganza!’ You can surf molten lava down an erupting volcano.”

Then Diego pointed toward a darker booth with moody lighting and vintage signage. “Is that the VR murder mystery?” he asked, squinting. “The one with the cash prize?”

“Sign me up,” Ethan said, scanning the QR code. “It says if you wipe out, you don’t just get wet, you get pixelated into digital smoke!”

Cassandra followed his gaze. A towering banner loomed over the booth, its red letters stylized like dripping blood:

Who was the Mānoa Marauder?

She nodded. “Every PastForward Conference builds the mystery around a real unsolved case. This one’s from right here in Honolulu.”

Maria and Ivy posed for a selfie in front of the backdrop: a blown-up photo of early 1900s Honolulu, all wooden storefronts and horse-drawn carriages.

Ivy read the placard. “They added more VR this year, and the prize money’s doubled.”

A slow, electric thrill ran through Cassandra. A cold case. In a historic mansion. Solved through archives, analysis, and a little bit of storytelling. She could already picture the immersive VR, the clunky digitized photo scans, the familiar musty scent of microfilm rooms. Her students were going to love this.

Then Maria pointed to the display. “Did they base that map on something real, or just create it for the virtual reality game?”

“They pulled it from a 1909 fire insurance survey,” Ivy said, not missing a beat. “I saw the digitized version on the PastForward site last week. It’s pretty detailed.”

Cassandra’s smile faltered. The other cities had moonshine and haunted diaries. Honolulu had scars. A cold case, real victims, and a silence that hadn’t faded. This was her island, her history.

“Dude,” Diego Ramirez whispered, snapping a photo. “This is sick.”

Was it right to turn tragedy into a scavenger hunt? She’d agreed to lead this trip to connect students with real history. Not gamify cultural trauma.

No pressure, she thought grimly. Just solve a century-old mystery without offending an entire state.

Before she could spiral further, she glanced at her watch. Duty first.

“Alright, team,” she said, corralling the group with a half-turn, “keynote starts in ten. Let’s be on time and look like we belong here.”

As they moved past the exhibits, Cassandra felt the tug.

The aloha shirts, the slack key guitar playing over the speakers, even the faint, smoky smell of teriyaki BBQ all hit her like a wave. The ocean was just steps away. She could hear it beneath the noise, feel its pulse in the humidity, in her skin. In her blood.

Surfing had always been more than a hobby. It was the drop, the pull, the pure freedom of sliding across a wall of water. She’d told herself she didn’t need it anymore.

And yet… standing here now, she ached for it.

For a split second, she let herself wonder: What if she stayed? What if she never went back?

Then her gaze snagged once more on the blood-red banner.

Who was the Mānoa Marauder?

A shiver traced her spine.

She had a feeling she was about to find out.

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