In the Waning Light (28 page)

Silence.

“Tom? You there?”

He cleared his throat. “Sorry, I was just trying to think back. I don’t believe so—nothing that stands out immediately.”

She debated whether to tell him. She was sick about Henry, what she’d found. What he was. She was also terrified of rocking the boat until Joy was safely hers. And what then? Maybe a facade of marriage was better than being a disabled single mother living with a spinster sister who was beginning to make her uneasy, too.

She inhaled deeply, conflict tightening her throat. “Henry took his SIG Sauer to work this morning. It’s not in the cabinet.”

They sat around the table in front of the big windows. The fire crackled, and the music had been turned down softly. They ate piping hot, bubbling, cheesy pizza and Irene made them laugh with her tales of the big Crabby Jack crab boils hosted annually by Bull way back when. She even had stories of boils when Blake and Geoff’s mother was still alive. Noah hung on to every word until his eyelids began to droop.

“School day tomorrow, champ, last one before the weekend,” Blake said. “You better go up and get ready for bed.”

As Noah got up from the table, he bumped Geoff’s dirty knife with a clatter to the ground.

“Oh, I’ll get it,” Meg said, reaching under the table.

“Wait, stop, Meggie,” Geoff said. “It’s easier for me from this end.”

Ice shot through her veins. Her hand froze midreach.

Wait. Stop! Don’t run, Meggie, don’t run . . .

Time warped. Sound stretched like an old cassette tape that had been exposed to heat. A moan began to sound in her head. Like a foghorn. Her skin turned cold, her mouth dry. Her eyes locked with Geoff’s as he bent down to reach for the knife under the table, too. A current crackled hot between them.

He got up, plunked the knife on his plate. Slowly, Meg sat upright. She stared, unseeing, at Geoff. In her mind she was running, tripping, screaming. Rain slashed at her face. Darkness all around. Wind tore at her hair, her wet clothes. Fierce. Someone coming after her. The bushes tore at her legs. She hooked her toe on a root, smashed into the ground. Pain exploded in her chest. Scrambling to her feet, stumbling, going down on all fours again, scrabbling back up to her feet, running. For her life. Heart pounding. No, not water running down her face. Blood. Sherry . . . Sherry was . . . Sherry . . . naked. Sprawled in the black mud . . . she could see her body . . .

Wait. Stop! Don’t run, Meggie.

A hand grabbed her. She jerked away, screamed, tried to run harder, faster. But the hand clamped tight on her arm, fingers cutting into skin. The hand spun her around, her shirt ripping. She saw a face. A face she knew. Then he was gone. Blackness. The familiar blackness.

Meg stopped breathing.

Someone she knew had been the monster chasing her into the storm.

“Meg. Meg! Talk to me. What’s wrong?” It was Blake, on his feet, holding her shoulders, trying to pull her back, worry bright in his eyes. Geoff was staring at her, a strange look on his face.

She tried to swallow. Her hands were pressed tight on the table. Couldn’t swallow. Needed water. No, not water, drowning, she was drowning.

“Noah, upstairs, please,” Blake snapped. “Get ready for bed. Geoff, can you take Irene into the kitchen to make some tea?”

Geoff got up quickly. “C’mon, my man, it’s bedtime. Irene, can you help with tea?”

“What’s wrong with Meg?” Noah wailed, refusing to leave his chair. “Is Meg okay?”

Irene, too, remained in her chair, eyes shining with worry.

“I . . . I’m fine,” Meg said, voice hoarse. “Please, everyone relax.” She struggled to take a deep breath, to steady her heart. Her eyes burned. “Just . . . some water.”

“I’ll get it.” Irene burst up from her chair and scurried into the kitchen. Geoff slowly reseated himself, his gaze fixed on Meg, his features tight, eyes dark, energy simmering from him in waves.

Irene returned with ice water. Meg took the glass, sipped, her hand shaking. Blake steadied her arm as she wobbled the glass back to the table.

“Noah,” he said quietly. “Bed. I’ll come up to read in a sec.”

His son got up, stared at Meg for a moment, then made slowly for the door, glancing over his shoulder before exiting.

“Meg—talk to me,” Blake said, taking her hand, feeling her pulse.

She sucked in a huge breath of air, blew it out slowly. “I . . . I had some sort of flashback.” She cleared her throat. “It’s happened before, but it always stops just before I could see who was chasing me. It always starts the same way. Me running. Someone chasing. A male voice, yelling for me to ‘wait, stop, Meggie, don’t run.’ This time, he grabbed me, ripping my shirt as he yanked me around, and—” She reached for the water glass, took a deep gulp. “I saw a face. It was white, luminous, wet with rain. Hair plastered to his head. I
knew
who it was.”

“Who?” Geoff demanded. “
Who
did you see?”

Blake shot his brother a hot look.

“I don’t know,” Meg said. “I just felt a bolt of recognition. That terrible shock that someone you know is trying to hurt you. But his face blurred away before I could make out his features.”

Silence swelled thick and electrical around the table. The candle flickered, and the fire cracked.

“Did you see anything else?” Blake asked quietly.

“I had a flash of Sherry. Her naked body. Like a black-and-white freeze-frame, as if illuminated by a bolt of lightning—the kind of stark image that burns into your retinas. She was lying on her back, spread-eagled in mud. I . . . had the sense I was fleeing from that image. And that there were several shapes around her wanting to come get me.” Meg looked up from the glass of water that she’d been staring at.

“It must have been triggered by Geoff calling me Meggie. No one has called me that in years, not since I was twelve, really, when I asked everyone to stop. Sherry never listened, she always called me Meggie-Peg.” She cleared her throat. “And that image of Sherry’s body, it
had
to have come from the crime scene photos I’ve been looking at. I’m transposing things after going through all those files.” She took another clumsy sip of water, coughed again, eyes watering. She dug in her pocket for a tissue, blew her nose.

“I know how these things work—you can insert your own images, create your own false memories.” She tried to laugh, but it came out a cough. “I don’t even know whether to trust my own mind, now.”

CHAPTER 20

Blake felt as though a cold stone had dropped right through his stomach into his bowels. A dark thought, one he didn’t want to—
couldn’t
—even begin to entertain, prowled nevertheless along the edges of his brain. Geoff had always called Meg “Meggie.” He’d left Shelter Bay still referring to her as Meggie.

The image of his brother in the boathouse that night twenty-two years ago shimmered into his mind. His skin turned cold. He tried to push it away as he read Noah his bedtime story, but it lurked like a hungry wolf in the shadows of his mind.

Geoff had offered to drive Irene back to Chestnut Place and Meg was resting in the big wingback in front of the fire. Blake tucked his son in, and clicked off the light. He went downstairs and reentered the living room. Meg looked up and smiled. Relief punched through his stomach.

Color had returned to her cheeks. She looked golden in front of his hearth, the flames giving her hair a coppery light. Lucy lay at her feet and the music was soft. The vignette stalled him for a moment. And a coal of need burned deep. He wanted her. All of her. Here in his home, in front of his hearth, until death do us part. He came slowly forward, his attention going involuntarily to the diamond cluster catching firelight on her hand. The reminder she still wanted someone else.

He drew up a chair and sat facing her across the low coffee table. There was a notepad and pen on the table. The top page of the pad was covered in writing and lines connecting names.

Before he could ask what she’d been writing, she sat up and leaned forward. “I’ve been waiting for a moment to tell you that Kovacs called earlier. Just before supper. He’s reopened Sherry’s case, on the quiet.”

His heart kicked. With it came a small spark of irritation. “Why didn’t you tell me at once?”

“I didn’t want to involve Irene or Geoff, or Noah.” She smiled. “I didn’t want to break the spell,” she said softly. “It was such a warm evening. It . . . I felt like we’d all come home somehow. Until my little flashback ruined everything. I’m sorry about that—this case is just messing with my mind.”

Blake swallowed, his pulse quickening, that coal in his gut burning bigger and deeper. And suddenly everything felt fragile. It was here, the whispering of a dream between them, but if he reached out to grasp it too firmly, or early, it would vanish like
gossamer in his hand.

“Tell me,” he said quietly, “word for word. What did Kovacs say?”

She told him about Sally Braden’s arrest, and how Kovacs asked i
f she could think of a motive for Sally to shoot out the house. “He said he wanted to work
with
me. That he wanted this solved as much as I did now. It makes sense, I suppose, him wanting to clear this up before the election. But I got a feeling that something was off. It was just such a turnabout.” She watched the flames for a moment, absently fiddling with her engagement ring. “I don’t know whether to trust him. Perhaps he was fishing.”

“Sally?” Blake said. He gave a soft whistle. “Whoda thunk.”

Meg jerked her chin toward her notepad. “I’ve been trying to come up with possible links between everyone. Sally was in Sherry’s graduation class. Along with Tommy, Emma, Ryan Millar, Geoff, and Henry, who is now her brother-in-law. Henry is married to Lori-Beth, who was in my class.” She glanced at Blake. “Lori-Beth was friendly with Allison.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“It’s probably not. I’m just laying out the links.” She gave a soft snort. “Goes to show how interconnected everyone can be in a small town, how things now could relate way back to childhood—grudges, first loves and allegiances, bullying, jealousies, perceived slights.”

First loves
.

He thought of himself, and Meg. His thoughts turned to Geoff, and he felt a sharp stab of guilt for not mentioning his brother’s secret relationship from the past. This was the first occasion where the need to bring it up had fully presented itself. From here, it edged closer toward a lie by omission, and not a lie from the past. But one hanging silent between them right now.

One more day . . . it will destroy a man’s marriage. It . . . it’ll kill him. Trust me. I . . . I need one more day to talk to him, allow him to prepare . . .

His skin grew hot. Blake rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “Sally dotes on her sister,” he said quietly. “Everything she does is for Lori-Beth. The scuttlebutt in town is that Sally never got over the fact she put Lori-Beth in that chair, and she’s devoted her life to atone. Her way of surviving the guilt.”

“You’re suggesting she vandalized my house for Lori-Beth?”

“Makes no sense, I know. But if you’re looking at what drives people, Lori-Beth drives Sally.”

A slow smile curved over her mouth. “You sound like Jonah.”

Cold instantly washed over his skin. He got up, went to fetch a bottle of whiskey and two gasses from the cabinet. He set the glasses on the table, poured a finger into each, and handed one to her. Their fingers brushed. Her diamonds winked. Something inscrutable entered her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shrugged, reseating himself. He cupped his glass in his
hands, warming and slowly swirling his drink as he stared at the
fire.
“It’s not like I don’t know that you’re going back,” he said quietly.

She didn’t reply. He glanced up. And hope kicked gently at his heart again. He quickly changed the topic. “And there’s the fact Sally works at Braden Cattle, where Mason and Keevan Mack work, and live. Where she likely got the blood.”

“Blood is extreme,” Meg said. “The use of blood makes me question her mental stability, if it
is
proved it was her. And shooting all the windows—there’s real aggression there. Passion. Rage. Over something.” She pushed hair back off her face, and the firelight caught the scar on her brow. He thought back to when she’d gotten the injury—the black gash against alabaster skin when he’d found her near dead in the waves. Geoff’s sack. His brother’s face at the dining table tonight when Meg had her flashback. That dark, unarticulated thing prowling at the fringes of his mind edged a little closer. He took a quick swig of his drink.

“I also went to see Tommy today.”

His gaze shot to Meg. “What?”

“He had a cancelled appointment. Could squeeze me in.”

He stared. “Meg, we had a deal. We do this together. That’s why you’re here, in my house.”

Her gaze flickered. A spark of anger? Irritation? He slugged back his drink, poured another. He held the bottle up to her. She shook her head.

He plunked it down hard. “What did he say?”

“Blake, I wasn’t in danger. And he would have been far less candid if you were hunkering there watching him.”

“Hunkering. Is that what you think I’ve been doing?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She got up, and went to the window. Folding her arms tightly over her stomach, she stared beyond the black, beyond her own reflection. In the distance, the beam from the Shelter Head lighthouse washed the sky. Her red hair hung in a mad, curly tangle down her slender back, and all Blake wanted to do was sink his hands into that hair, fist it, pull her toward him, crush her sweet mouth under his, push her naked body down into his bed . . . He took a deep pull on his second scotch and cursed himself.

“What did Tommy say, Meg?”

She remained silent.

“Meg?”

She inhaled deeply, turned, and Blake’s chest torqued. Her face was sad. Her eyes confused. She was fingering her ring.

“He told me that Emma was a passive-aggressive. A pathological liar. That she’d lied to the police in saying Sherry had gone to the spit to make out with Tyson Mack. Tommy claims Sherry was going to buy drugs with Ty, that Ty had contacts. That both Sherry and Emma were into Ecstasy.”

Blake slowly lowered his glass.

“Tommy said Emma also lied to him in order to turn him against his own girlfriend. He claims Emma was trying to steal him from Sherry.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Thing is, I
saw
Sherry get on that bike with Ty. I spoke with them. And whatever cues I was picking up from those two, I was one hundred percent convinced there was a sexual attraction between them, and that they were going to do ‘it’ at the grove on the spit.” She paused, holding his eyes. “One of them—Tommy or Emma—is lying.”

Blake unlocked the old shed near the water. Clouds slid fast and silent across the sky, giving glimpses of a pregnant moon. Everywhere, water dripped,
trickled, plopped. The sound of the nearby creek was loud.

Unable to sleep, Blake had come down here. Geoff had not returned after taking Irene home. It was now almost 3:00 a.m., and he’d not answered his cell. Blake told himself Irene must have gotten home safely, or the people from Chestnut Place would have called—they had Meg’s contact details, and the marina number. Geoff must have taken off somewhere afterward.

Fuck you, Geoff, why don’t you come the hell home so I can have this out with you
. . .

Dark thoughts snaked through his mind as he edged open the old, waterlogged door, holding his kerosene lantern high. Cobwebs shimmered, and shadows jumped and ducked. He stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The interior was dank. He could smell mold.

Maybe Meg
was
transposing. Maybe his brother being on the spit, and his sack being found on the same beach,
was
a coincidence. Stranger things happened. Maybe Geoff’s calling her Meggie had simply triggered an old flashback that meant nothing sinister around the dining table. Because no matter Geoff’s movements on the spit that day, Blake could
not
believe that his brother had anything to do with killing Sherry.

He set the lantern on a wooden table, and opened an old mariner’s chest. He found what he was looking for. It was bagged in plastic, faded, but still in one piece—it had been mothballed and the chest was lined with cedar, which was a natural repellent to insects. Emotion tugged at him and memories swirled as he removed his dad’s old crab hat from the plastic. He gave a sad smile, thinking about Bull, about the stories Irene had regaled them with around the table. The big, annual crab boils, festive events that brought Shelter Bay locals together, fostered an old-fashioned sense of community. At night they’d all gather round the fire pit to tell war tales about the season just passed, each raconteur trying to outdo the other with stories of the most ridiculous tourist moments that year.

The months that ended in “er,” Bull always used to say. Those
were the good crabbing months: September, October, November. And
December. When the waters turned cold and the crab grew fattest.

Blake dusted off the fading red crab hat. The googly eyes wobbled. He positioned it on his head, and went over to the rust-pocked mirror. In the quavering lantern light, past shimmered into present, and for a strange moment he saw his dad looking back at him from behind the rust stains. Shock rippled through him. The likeness, DNA, it lies in wait. Time comes full circle, but not quite. He grinned ruefully at himself, and he almost saw his dad smile. Almost heard Bull’s gruff voice among the cobwebs of the shed, here among his mother’s dusty, boxed paintings. And he wondered, could he re-create that sense of life, that vitality around the marina that had made him so happy as a boy.

Could he take the good parts of the past, of his parents, and move with those into the future? Leaving the bad bits behind. Not
wasted, though, for he’d perhaps learned from the bad parts what he
did
not
want for his own son. He’d perhaps learned how to be a better
father than his own had been. Bull had terrible faults, a dark streak.
He’d broken under the grief of loss. But he’d not been without love.

The googly crab eyes wiggled and the crab feet jiggled as he moved his head. Blake almost laughed at his image. His most fervent wish, suddenly, was that Geoff
was
telling him the truth. That he
could
trust him. And even if Meg did return to her life in Seattle, that he and Noah and Geoff could be a solid family. Geoff could bring Nate to visit. Noah could bring friends home. He’d build up this marina. And he resolved right there: Come November, when the Dungeness crabs were pink and fat and plentiful, Crabby Jack’s would once again host a Shelter Bay community crab boil. He’d haul out this stupid hat to make people laugh, and they’d all talk about Bull and the boils of the good old days. And the marina and Crabby Jack’s would once again rock with soul.

Blake started to close the mariner’s chest, but he stopped as a cardboard box of photos in envelopes caught his eye. He reached for the top envelope, opened it, and extracted one of the photos. It was of Geoff and his friends around an old VW van, taken maybe twenty-three years ago—guys posed ridiculously in front of the vehicle. Blake recognized several from school days. Geoff stood atop the roof of the van, like a king—legs astride, arms crossed, chin tilted as if in pride. Henry Thibodeau crouched in front of the wheel. The words of Lee Albies curled through his mind.