Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

  Her words didn’t seem to soothe the woman. If anything her grip tightened. “My boy got into trouble in his teens, early twenties, but you know that. Right? Larry said he’d told you.”

  “He did tell me. Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s going to be—”

  “He’s a good boy now. He is.” The woman’s eyes were filling up. “He’s worked so diligently to clean up his act.”

  “I agree. He’s a good man, hardworking, conscientious—now, if you’ll just let me get by. I have to get medicine for a sick friend.” Eve disengaged her arm. “Luke’s going to be home this evening,” she said, slipping past. “And hopefully we’ll have this whole mess cleared up before Monday’s workday. See you later, and please give Larry my regards.” Then she headed to the back of the store to stand in line for the pharmacist.

  * * *

  • • •

  “I’M SORRY.” THE pharmacist did not look sorry at all; he looked like a self-satisfied automaton. “I cannot give you this migraine medicine”—he pushed the crumpled piece of paper Eve had handed him back across the countertop—“without a prescription from his doctor.”

  “But he can’t. Get. To his doctor,” Eve said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. “As I said before, he’s from out of town. He’s incapacitated.” The line behind her had been steadily growing, which didn’t help matters, as now she had an audience. Eve leaned in, lowered her voice. “He is really in a bad way. Perhaps you could give me one pill to help alleviate his pain enough to get him to a walk-in clinic. Then we can come back, prescription in hand . . .” Her voice petered out. The expression on the pharmacist’s face was one of intractability. “Please,” Eve said, hating the begging note that had crept into her voice.

  “No. He’s going to have to make do with over-the-counter.” He looked past her to the next person in line, his fingers drumming impatiently on the counter. “Yes, Mr. Withers, what can I do for you today?”

  Eve wanted to give him the finger, hoist it high. Might have when she was younger, living in the big city, even though she knew it was unfair. He couldn’t help that he was an unbending marionette. The man was just doing his job.

  Maggs would be proud of you for resisting, she told herself as she marched to the first aid aisle and grabbed a couple of varieties of over-the-counter headache pills. You are a business owner. Solace Island is a small community. No telling how many potential customers the Intrepid will lose if you behave impetuously. She pulled out her cell phone to research which over-the-counter medicine had the most positive reviews.

  “Excuse me.”

  Someone tapped her shoulder. Eve turned. Irene Dawson was standing before her, face flushed, slightly winded. Reminder to self, Eve thought. I need to stay active as I get older.

  “I’m sorry for intruding,” Irene said. She seemed tentative, unsure. “But I overheard your conversation with Stanley . . .”

  “Stanley?”

  “The pharmacist.” She shrugged a little self-consciously. “My brother. He always was a pompous rule-adhering prig. I was going to be the pharmacist. He copied me. Always had to do everything I did, but better. Then I fell in love, got married, gave up my career. Fool that I was.” Storm clouds rolled across her face. “So I guess Stanley got the last laugh, because here I am holding a bag of empty promises. But that is neither here nor there,” she said, looking at Eve, her head cocked to the side like an inquisitive Golden Laced Wyandotte hen. “What matters is you need migraine medicine, and I have it.”

  “You do?” Eve felt a lightening of her heart that this woman, whose own life was coming apart at the seams, would be so thoughtful. Would volunteer to do this random act of kindness.

  Irene nodded. “I suffer from migraines myself. Horrible, debilitating things. Stanley can be such a tight-ass sometimes.” She started rummaging through her purse. “I might have a spare migraine tablet in here. If not, for sure I have some at home. I live super close, three or four minutes tops. You might as well put those back.” She gestured to the pill bottles in Eve’s hands. “From what you told my brother, the migraine already has your friend deep in its grips. Those piddly medicines won’t do the trick. Believe me.”

  Fifty-one

  EVE EASED HER car to a stop behind Irene. The woman clearly had no awareness of time. The drive had taken at least twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five. Her home was in a ritzy part of the island. A lot of ta-da homes owned by part-time residents. Five-acre lots was the minimum, a way to ensure privacy for the owners. However, many homes far exceeded the required five.

  Eve got out of her car. The wind had picked up and was whipping her hair around her face. She tugged her jean jacket together and fastened the bottom two buttons, a ripple of unease lifting the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. City girl, she scoffed. You watched too many horror films in your youth, expecting to see some guy in a ski mask wielding a chain saw explode out of the woods.

  Still, she wouldn’t have taken Mrs. Dawson up on her offer if she’d known it was this far out. Hopefully Rhys was still asleep and didn’t need her.

  “Brrr . . .” Irene said, all tentativeness gone. She was back to being the society butterfly. “Fall has definitely descended. Better come inside and keep warm while I get your medicine.”

  Eve followed her up the steps and into the living room. The home surprised her. It was super sleek and modern, floor-to-ceiling windows, the furniture low-slung, in steel gray and slate blue. A solitary white potted orchid sat in the center of a glossy black coffee table. Not at all what she would have imagined Irene Dawson’s home would look like. The place was beautiful, cold though.

  Eve shivered. She was glad for her jacket and found herself reaching up to skim her fingers across her grandmother’s brooches. Her good-luck charms, which made her feel as if her grandmother was watching over her.

  She hadn’t realized when standing in the driveway at the front of the house that Mrs. Dawson’s home had been built right along the cliff’s edge, or how far up Mount Morden they had driven. The residence felt precariously situated, as if the smallest nudge might send it plunging over the cliff to smash on the jagged rocks far below. Just looking toward the enormous windows made her feel slightly anxious. However, she told herself, the engineers must have known what they were doing and the views are drop-dead gorgeous just as long as a person isn’t prone to vertigo. She could see down the mountain, past the inner harbor to a multitude of small islands scattered like fairy dust, and the Olympic Peninsula beyond. “What a stunning house you have,” Eve said as she followed Irene through the living room to the large kitchen beyond.

  “Take a seat.” Irene patted one of the kitchen chairs as she passed. “I’ll get you a nice refreshing glass of iced tea.”

  “Sorry. I can’t stay,” Eve said, not wanting to be rude but unwilling to get suckered into a tea party either. “I have to get back. Attend the patient.”

  “Sit, sit.” Irene wafted a hand at Eve as she opened the fridge. “A sip of iced tea won’t kill you.” She laughed merrily as she removed a crystal pitcher from the fridge. “It might take me a minute to sort through my meds. I’ll need to dig up my reading glasses from wherever I left them last. The print on the damn bottles is so small nowadays.”

  “I can come with you, read the labels if that would help?”

  Irene’s eyebrows shot up to greet her hairline. “Good gracious, no! Our bathroom is a mess! Absolutely not. Sit down. Have a drink. You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

  Reluctantly, Eve lowered herself into a chair. “Okay, but I can’t stay long.”

  “That’s a good girl.” Mrs. Dawson smiled approvingly at her. “Do you like sugar? A wedge of lemon?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re slender. You can take it. Live a little.”

  Eve heaved a sigh, snuck a look at her cell phone under the table. Rhys hadn�
�t texted. He was probably still sleeping. “Sure,” she said, because Irene wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “Give me the works.”

  “The works it is,” Irene sang gaily.

  At least someone is happy, Eve thought, feeling a bit like Eeyore in Winnie-the-Pooh. She could hear the clinking of ice cubes, the sugar bowl opening, the tinkling of the teaspoon hitting the side of the glass as Irene stirred the sugar in.

  Irene set the glass of iced tea in front of Eve, the sugar bowl in her other hand. “Take a taste. Let me know if you need a touch more sugar.”

  “Thanks,” she said. The tea looked very refreshing, condensation beading and trickling down the side of the glass, the wedge of lemon among the ice. She took a sip. “No, it’s perfect,” she said, drinking some more.

  “I grate a bit of fresh ginger into my iced tea, the juice from two lemons, drop some whole cloves in the pitcher as well,” Irene said, looking pleased. “It gives it a little bite.”

  “Ah . . . It’s quite tasty.” She hadn’t realized she was thirsty. Had been so busy worrying about Rhys.

  Irene beamed. “I’ll drop the recipe off at the Intrepid next time I’m in town.” She placed the sugar bowl back on the counter. “Once Maggie tastes it, she’ll love it so much she’ll want to add it to the menu, and in gratitude, she’ll name the tea after me!”

  “Mm . . .” Eve said, lifting her glass and drinking heartily to avoid making any promises.

  “Irene’s Solace Sensation!” Irene said, her hands spreading in an arc before her as if creating a banner. She smiled, all teeth. “Be right back with the migraine medicine. And not to worry, the pills are individually packaged in hermetically sealed blister packs,” she tossed over her shoulder as she left the room. “The company’s information is printed on it, so your friend can read about it online.” She was still talking even though she had disappeared from sight.

  I’m glad Irene’s feeling better.

  * * *

  • • •

  EVE STIFLED A yawn. The sleep deprivation of the last few days must’ve caught up with her. She patted her hands against her cheeks in an attempt to keep alert. Her hands felt a little floppy.

  I am tired, she thought. Maybe I’ll rest my eyes for a second. Her elbows slid outward on the table, and her body pitched forward until her head was resting on her hands. That’s better. She shifted in her chair, felt her cell phone slide off her thigh and clatter on the floor. I’ll pick it up in a minute, she thought, another yawn overtaking her. I need to take a little nap first, or I won’t be able to drive down the mountain. Tired. So tired.

  * * *

  • • •

  FOOTSTEPS APPROACHED. SHE must have drifted off. Mrs. Dawson was returning. Eve knew she should remove herself from the kitchen table, but she felt as if she’d been filled with wet sand. Her body, her head, too heavy to lift. “Sorry,” she tried to say, but her mouth was uncooperative.

  “Ta-da!” Mrs. Dawson’s voice sounded like it was coming through an incredibly long vacuum hose.

  Eve could hear someone else entering the kitchen. From the sound of the footsteps, it was someone large and male. She felt vulnerable splayed across the table and tried to rise, but there seemed to be a disconnect between her muscles and her brain. The tea. Must be—

  “What is it?” He sounded brusque, impatient. “You’d better have a damned good reason for interrupting me.”

  “A present.” Irene’s voice, high-pitched and filled with an anxious excitement. “I brought you a present. See?”

  “Please . . . help,” Eve tried to say. “She’s . . . drugged me. She’s crazy.” But her lips weren’t cooperating either.

  “It’s her,” Irene said, reaching out, shoving Eve’s hair back to reveal her face. “The slut. I brought her home for you. You happy? Say something, Timmy. Tell me you like my prezzie.”

  Eve heard his sharp inhalation. He must be horrified, too. “Please,” she tried again, but only a faint moan came out.

  There was silence, only the sound of him jiggling spare change in his pocket and Irene hyperventilating.

  Then he chuckled, a sound of pure evil that raised the hair on the back of Eve’s neck and arms. “Irene, dear one,” he said, his voice almost a breath, rough with emotion. “You spoil me so.”

  She knew that voice. Had heard it before. Where? Her mind was scrambling, trying to make sense of things, but everything was jumbled, panic rising to a crescendo. Get up! She could feel tears sliding down her face. Run! But her body refused to yield to her commands.

  She felt herself detach from her physical body and drift toward the ceiling, looking down as if observing a crime scene. She could see her slumped body in the chair, the top half of her sprawled across the kitchen table, convulsions rippling through her torso. She could see Irene Dawson fluttering about her husband, wringing her hands, a grotesque smile frozen on her face. She could see him moving toward her limp body, reaching out and stroking her head, softly, gently, as if she were a sleeping dog.

  Fifty-two

  RELUCTANTLY, RHYS’S MIND tugged him back to the land of the living. He hesitated for a second, waiting for the waves of crippling pain to crash over him. When they didn’t materialize, he cautiously opened his eyes. The bedroom was dark, the shades drawn. Razor-thin lines of gray light were sneaking past the blackout blinds, so either there was dark cloud cover overhead, or it was dusk.

  The pain had receded to a dull ache. Thank God. Still, he felt like he’d been run over by a Mack truck. He’d sweated through his shirt. Needed a shower.

  He pushed the covers back. Swung his legs so he was sitting on the side of the bed. Knew from experience not to rise instantly. Waited for the wave of dizziness to abate.

  As he waited, he became aware of a repetitive chime. He glanced over at the smart panel on the wall. Someone was at the gate.

  The panel chimed again.

  Whoever was there was not going away.

  “I’ll get it,” he called, his voice rusty. He pushed to his feet. So far so good. Four steps to the smart panel. Didn’t barf. Progress.

  He tapped front gate, which activated the camera and intercom.

  Shit. His stomach dropped. It was rarely good news when the men in blue dropped by. Although maybe they had news about Eve’s break-in. “Yes? Can I help you?” The cop was backlit by the car’s headlights, and it was hard to make out his face.

  “Luke? It’s Detective Joe Mackelwayne from Solace Island Police. We were told we could find Eve Harris at this residence. We’d like to speak with her.”

  “I’m a houseguest of Luke’s. Hold on. I’ll be right out.” Rhys disconnected and ran into the hall. “Eve,” he called.

  Nothing.

  “Eve!”

  The house was silent and dark.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. He had a very bad feeling in his gut. “EVE!” he bellowed, yanking open the door to her bedroom, sprinting to the living room, then the kitchen.

  The smart panel chimed again. The damned cops at the gate.

  He activated it. “Sorry,” he said. “Be right there.”

  He ran outside. Her car was gone. The house alarm started chiming. Shit.

  He backtracked, turned off the alarm, shoved on some shoes, because that gravel drive was hell on the feet. Sprinted to the gate, punched in the code, and stepped out of the way as it slowly swung inward.

  He could tell by the way the two cops were standing this was not a casual call. He’d mimicked that body language during the Stung years. “She’s not here,” Rhys said. He wasn’t sure what this visit was about, or why they were looking so grim-faced. Until he did, he’d keep his answers succinct.

  “Do you know where she is?” Detective Joe Mackelwayne, the heavyset cop, asked.

  “I don’t actually.”

  “When do you expect her back?”


  “Sorry. I can’t help you. I have no idea. What’s this about?”

  The cops exchanged a look. “When did you last see her?” the younger cop asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  They didn’t answer his question. Not good.

  “Tell you what,” Rhys said. “Give me your card. When I see her next, I’ll make sure to pass it on.”

  The older, heavyset cop’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Luke or Maggie Benson home?”

  “No, sir,” Rhys said, keeping it polite. No sense pissing them off. “Won’t be back until later tonight. But I’m happy to pass your card on to them as—”

  “Wait a minute.” The young cop stepped forward, his face brightening. “I know you! It’s Rhys Thomas! The frikkin’ movie star!” he exclaimed. “I love you, man. You’re the bomb.” He turned to his partner, who was looking at Rhys as if he were a bug that had just crawled over his shoe. “Joe, you seen any of the Stung movies? This guy’s the star in it. He is amazing!” He turned back to Rhys. “Hey, man. Mind if I grab a selfie with you?”

  Out came the cell phone, the arm slung around Rhys’s neck. Close quarters, physical contact. It was worth another try. “So, why do you wanna talk to Eve?” Rhys asked softly, both of them looking into the cop’s cell phone.

  “Found a disme—”

  “Ben . . .” There was a warning note in the older cop’s voice.

  “Joe. This is Rhys-frickin’-Thomas. He’s cool. Spends half his life around cops, the FBI, CIA.” He grinned at Rhys. “Gotta say, you got it down pat.”

  “Thanks.” Rhys kept the easygoing expression on his face. “You were saying . . . ?”