by Amy Stuart
“Was she alone?” Clare asks again.
“Yes. At least, I think so. The sun was bouncing off her windshield. I couldn’t see anyone else in her car. I know she got into the driver’s seat.”
“Listen,” Clare says. “I’m going to send you an email with a photograph. Right now. I’m emailing it to you from my phone.”
Clare minimizes the call and types out Grace’s email address. She presses send, her heart flipping in her chest.
“It’s sent.”
To think it takes only a split second for a message of such weight, for a photo so crisp and clear, to travel the thousands of miles between Clare and Grace. In the pause, Clare hears the ding of the message arriving to whatever device Grace is using. Grace snivels and lets out a small gasp.
“That’s her!” Grace says. “That’s definitely her.”
An imaginary vise tightens around Clare’s neck. Zoe.
“Clare?” Grace says.
For a moment Clare teeters. She places a hand on the hood of the car to steady herself. It always amazed Clare how the earth continued to spin even in the moments of her most acute pain. Death. Departure. Terror. No matter how bad things get, everything else moves forward. The world always seemed so vast to her. It never seemed small. Until now.
“Clare?” Grace says again. “What can I do?”
“Did she say anything else to you?”
“She asked me where your brother was living now. Where Jason was living. I thought, How would she even know Jason? But it seemed like she did.”
“Did you tell her?”
Grace’s silence is again answer enough.
“Clare?” Grace says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’ve done. The baby was crying and I was flustered. What have I done?”
“It’s okay,” Clare says finally. “I have to go.”
Before Grace can protest, Clare has ended the call. Her number is blocked, she knows, the email encrypted. Grace will not be able to call her back.
In rote motions, Clare makes her way through the prison reception’s processing area: her ID, the sign in, all her possessions in a bin. The printed screenshot of the shooter that Somers gave her is folded flat in her back pocket. Clare heaves a sigh of relief when the guard patting her down doesn’t detect it. She is directed to sit in the waiting room’s row of chairs. Clare closes her eyes and tunes out the chatter among the other visitors. She can call up Grace’s voice perfectly, and then the image of Jack Westman slumped against his wife, a small hole in his head.
The guard hollers for the visiting group to gather. They move through the long series of halls and checkpoints. This time, Donovan Hughes is waiting for Clare when the buzzer at the final set of doors signals their arrival to the visitation room. He tracks her with a faint smile as she approaches the table.
“I hoped you would return, Ms. Clare O’Kearney,” he says, frowning. “You look awfully pale.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“It’s barely noon. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“I’m hoping you’ll share more than you did last time I was here.”
“I thought I was rather generous with my storytelling last time,” Donovan says. “And I’m not entirely sure why you’d presume it’s my job to help you.”
There is no time for this, Clare thinks. She has questions to ask. Her toe taps impatiently under the table.
“It must eat away at you to go down for the crimes that you did.”
“You mean the crimes that I didn’t do.”
No. This won’t work. Start over, Clare tells herself. Get a grip. Keep it curt, professional.
“Right,” Clare says. “I’m sorry. I’m a little overwhelmed. I didn’t mean to get off on the wrong foot.”
“Yes. Thank you. We ended on a good note last time, didn’t we? Even if you wouldn’t tell me much about yourself.”
“I was here in a professional capacity.”
Donovan laughs. “Yes you were. Private investigator. And here you are again. Professionally.”
“If I’ve learned anything in the past few days,” Clare says, “it’s that the Westman family has a lot of collateral damage. People who’ve disappeared into thin air, others who’ve gone to jail, maybe for things they didn’t do. Others murdered, even.”
“Only Jack was murdered,” Donovan says. “And I wouldn’t call him collateral damage.”
“That’s unkind.”
He eyes Clare closely. “I put in a few requests around here. Tapped into my lines to the outside, as they say. I found a few people kind enough to ask around about you. Turns out no one knows a Clare O’Kearney, PI. You’re not exactly in the Yellow Pages. You’re quite the ghost, it seems.”
Clare’s hands feel numb. She grips them together and thinks of the photos on Austin’s phone last night, her history so easily traced all the way back to Jason. The sound of Grace’s voice today, distant yet so familiar. She looked like you, Grace said of Zoe. The last time Clare was here, Donovan revealed his acuity at making connections. He very well could have found someone on the outside to trace the same path that Austin did. Clare is not anonymous anymore. Anyone could have her life story tucked up their sleeve.
“I’m new to this job,” Clare says. “I don’t advertise.”
“You told me that you worked with Malcolm.”
“I did.”
“You said”—Donovan leans back in his chair—“that after he left here, he started looking for missing women. That he became an ‘investigator of sorts’—I believe those were your exact words.”
“Yes.”
Behind them a chair squeals against the floor. Clare turns to watch a woman in tears stand and back away from the prisoner she is visiting. Clare’s brain is fogged. In the stretch since she was last here, she knows that Donovan has likely been dissecting every word they’d exchanged. He has nothing but time to ruminate, while Clare, exhausted and overwhelmed, can’t recall the subtle details of their exchange.
“Malcolm was not a selfless person, from what I could glean,” Donovan says. “I told you that. He was rather glacial. So here’s the trouble I’m having. I can’t quite reconcile why he would choose to search for missing women. To put himself at risk in that way. Why not just go into hiding? Abscond to the other side of the world? He certainly had the money. Enough to buy a tropical island and live out his days as a ghost, breaking open coconuts under a tree.”
“He’s not that type,” Clare says.
“You know him well enough to declare his type?”
“Women go missing,” Clare says. “His wife went missing. I assume he meant to help.”
“Then you assume he wasn’t behind his wife’s disappearance.”
Zoe is not dead, Clare wants to scream. Zoe is alive, tracking me. She pulls her chair closer to the table.
“Do you know Kendall Bentley?” she asks. “Or Stacey Norton? Two young women. Both of them worked at Roland’s. Both went missing. Everyone around here presumes they left of their own volition, but Kendall’s father certainly doesn’t think that’s the case. Malcolm was connected to these women, however indirectly. From what I can gather, both of these women knew Zoe and might have been working for her in some capacity.”
“Some capacity?” Donovan laughs. “Why skirt around it, Clare?”
“Okay. Fine. She was using them. Selling them, I guess? Trafficking them. To men. Businesspeople. Maybe even to cops. She was using these women to entrap men.”
“Or to reward them,” Donovan offers.
“Did you know about this?”
“I have two daughters, Clare. I had no interest in Zoe’s business practices.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
For a long moment Donovan studies her.
“Is that why you’re here, Clare? To grill me on this? Because I’m already in jail. They can’t jail me twice, can they? And we might have three minutes left.”
He is right, Clare knows. She must prioritize
. She lays her palms flat on the table.
“I have something I want to show you,” Clare says. “It’s a photograph. I’ll take it out of my pocket now and you can look at it quickly.” She angles her head to the guard. “Before he intervenes.”
“I’m intrigued,” Donovan says.
Clare waits until the guard is focused on a family preparing to leave. She slides the folded paper from her back pocket and sets it down in front of Donovan.
“That’s the shooter,” she says.
“Where did you get this?”
“It’s not important,” she says. “Do you recognize him?”
“I do.” Donovan looks up at Clare. “His name is Grayson Morris. He was an acquaintance of Malcolm’s.”
Clare grips the table to steady herself, an action that Donovan notices.
“You’re sure?” Clare asks.
“Hughes,” the guard calls to them. “Time’s up. Let’s go.”
“Thirty seconds,” Donovan replies. “Pretty please.”
“How do you know him, though?” Clare asks. “If he was Malcolm’s friend.”
The desperation in Clare’s voice is plain. A cry might come. Donovan smiles at her gently and shakes his head, wistful.
“There was always rumor of a video. So it was Grayson. What a strange turn of events.” He cranes to check the guard again, then leans in to a mock whisper. “Charlotte was in love with him. With Grayson. They were an item. The other day you suggested that Zoe and I were close, but we weren’t. Those young women you mentioned? Well. Zoe could be quite vile in how she conducted herself. She had no scruples to speak of. But Charlotte was such a sweetheart. I loved her daughter, Shelley, like she was my own grandchild. But Charlotte had terrible taste in men.”
Clare taps the photo, incredulous. “So Charlotte and this guy were a thing?”
“It was brief, I’m pretty sure. He was not right for her. Got her mixed up in all the wrong things. He insisted they keep it a secret, like she embarrassed him or something. I only know because I came across them once while walking my dog on the beach. I introduced myself and he gave me his name. I never forget a name. After that, Charlotte confided in me a bit about their relationship. Their troubles. I think it helped her to have someone to talk to. Anyway, I believe he left Lune Bay around the time of the murder. I suppose now we know why.”
The room is empty but for them. Clare folds the photograph and returns it to her pocket. The guard approaches.
“Thank you,” Clare says. “You’ve been helpful. I appreciate it.”
Donovan stands and opens his arms to Clare.
“I can’t hug you,” he says.
“No, you can’t.”
“I certainly wish I could. Forgive me for saying this, but you’re gorgeous. I’ve enjoyed looking across at you.”
Clare says nothing. The guard hovers almost shyly, an indication of Donovan’s status here.
“Thank you, Clare. There’s been something cathartic about this. I feel almost at peace.”
“Hughes,” the guard says. “I’ve been generous. Now let’s go.”
“Okay, fine,” Donovan says, retreating. “Let’s go.”
With a heavy clink the door swings closed. Donovan Hughes disappears.
Before she is even outside the prison’s doors Clare has unlocked her phone to search the name: Grayson Morris. When the results are not specific enough, she adds a place name. Lune Bay. Nothing of note. Clare opens her text messages and types one to Somers. She gives her Grayson’s name and tells her that Donovan Hughes identified him as the shooter.
At her car, Clare collects a water bottle from the trunk and gulps it down. The sun is high in the sky, the air too warm in the absence of the ocean. Clare leans against the car door and unlocks her phone again, this time noting the red circle on the call icon. Five missed calls. Unknown number.
Clare feels it. Someone is watching her. She spins in a full circle to search the parking lot. No one else is here other than a guard stationed adjacent to the prison entrance. She shields her eyes from the sun and circles slowly again, looking to the prison yard, to the woods beyond it, her pulse in her ears. Missed calls? Clare gets in the car and grips the steering wheel until her knuckles are white. When her phone rings she jumps, fumbling it into the passenger footwell. She bends to collect it and swipes to accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Clare.”
She will not say his name. She cannot afford to be wrong.
“Clare?” he says again into the silence. “It’s Malcolm.”
Yes. She knows it. The depth and tone of his voice. Tears of relief spring to her eyes.
“What the hell, Malcolm. Where are you?”
“I’m in Lune Bay,” he says. “If I email you directions, will you meet me?”
Clare closes her eyes and wills herself to breathe.
“Yes,” she says.
She can’t be sure who hangs up first. Clare grips her phone until the email with the map link comes through. It directs her to a picnic area on the ocean five miles north of downtown Lune Bay. Clare starts the car. She cannot decipher what courses through her, whether it is rage, relief. Anticipation.
Beyond the prison gate, she takes a left and drives on autopilot, cued by the pings of her phone. She comes over a rise and the ocean appears in front of her, and then a signal to turn right. SEASTONE CONSERVATION AREA a sign reads in faded paint. A single car is parked in the lot. Clare collects her gun from the glove compartment and then steps out of the car, both hands gripping her weapon. She kicks the driver door closed.
“Malcolm?” she calls.
No one. No answer. A path marked by a faded map stems off the parking lot. BEACH UNSUPERVISED the sign reads. USE AT YOUR OWN RISK. Clare follows the path until it widens to a pebbled beach. The sky is low and cloudy here, the sun gone, the waves kicked up. Clare scans left to right.
“I’m here,” a voice behind her says.
Clare spins. There he is, sitting on a wooden bench where the beach meets the trees, watching her with sad eyes. Clare is surprised at the look of him, his hair longer by a touch, his skin tanned. Malcolm stands. She’d forgotten his shape, his height, the scar on his forearm in full view with the white T-shirt he wears.
When Malcolm steps forward, Clare tightens her grip on her gun. She thinks of the scene weeks ago, months now even, when Malcolm first burst through the door of her motel room, knocking the gun from her hands and tying her to the chair. He’d come for her, and in that moment Clare had felt so certain that she would die. Now, she walks backwards until she edges close to the incoming waves, out of his reach. He matches his steps to hers, holding the distance between them.
“What is this, Malcolm? What are you doing here?”
“Clare—”
“Have you been here all along?” she hollers at him. “In Lune Bay? Watching me? Stalking me?”
“No,” Malcolm says.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Clare,” Malcolm says. “Please. I just got here. I can’t—”
“Shut up!” Clare yells.
Clare casts a quick glance up and down the empty beach. She lifts the gun and points it to Malcolm’s chest. She stares down the barrel, perfecting her aim, right at his heart. Malcolm lifts his hands in the air, but nonetheless, he steps forward. Clare hates the way she feels as she watches him. She hates the magnitude of the relief, how badly she wants to step forward too, to move closer to him.
“Please, Clare. I just want to talk to you. Please put the gun down.”
“Talk to me?” she says. “You left!”
“I know I did. I can explain. It’s not safe for you here, do you understand that? I need you to leave Lune Bay. Now. I want you to leave with me.”
“With you?” Clare laughs bitterly. “Oh my God. Fuck you.”
All Clare can do is hold the gun in place, grip it to force a steadiness to her hand. In her life she’s so rarely been graced with certainty about anythi
ng, but Clare knows if she fires, she will not miss. The bullet will pierce his heart.
“Shoot, then,” Malcolm says, louder. “Why don’t you shoot me, Clare? If that’s how this ends.”
“How what ends?” Clare yells.
He takes a small step closer. Clare holds her stance.
“If you give me the chance, Clare, I will tell you everything.”
“Fuck you,” Clare says again. “You had your chance. You had weeks’ worth of chances. You told me nothing.”
“I was trying to keep you safe.”
“You abandoned me!” Clare shouts, at once ashamed for saying it.
“Abandoned?” Malcolm scoffs. “I was trying to protect you. I told you that.”
“But you’re here now? What’s changed? Is it any safer? No.”
“I told you to stop looking for me!” Malcolm yells too. “I told you to back down. Christ, Clare. Put the goddamn gun down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
A long moment passes, Clare considering. Finally she lowers her gun, her gaze locked on Malcolm’s.
“I want to get you out of here,” he says. “Get you to safety. Once I know you’re safe, I can come back to Lune Bay and turn myself in. Speak to Germain. But only once I know you’re safe.”
“Turn yourself in for what?” Clare asks.
“Give me the chance to explain,” Malcolm says. “We can sit. Talk. Let’s go somewhere.”
“Zoe’s alive, you know.”
“I know,” Malcolm says, edging even closer. “I told you that. This is all a game to her, Clare. That’s what you don’t get. There isn’t some big reveal. This is all just a game.”
“It’s not a game,” Clare says. “There’s so much that you don’t get. Everything’s changed, Malcolm. This isn’t about you.”
Malcolm rubs at his forehead. He looks right at Clare, then strides to close the space between them. Clare allows it. It startles her to see him up close, the circles under his eyes, the worry on his face. He lifts his hand, as if to reach out and touch Clare, but thinks better of it and retracts.
“You want to hear something completely nuts?” Clare says. “Zoe and Jason might be together.”
