Cliff's Edge

by Meg Tilly

  The younger cop opened his mouth, but Detective Mackelwayne cut him off. “There’s an incident we’re checking into.”

  “Yeah, an incident,” the younger cop said, a shadow falling across his face. Then he brightened. “Hey, I’m hanging with Rhys Thomas. It’s a good day. Smile.”

  The cop’s cell phone flashed. Click . . . click . . . click.

  “And you want to talk to Ms. Harris because . . . ?” Rhys made sure to keep the internal tension that was coiling tighter and tighter from being outwardly visible.

  “She was the last person seen . . .” the young cop said, lowering the cell phone and swiping through the photos. “Wow! These are fantastic. What a thrill running into you, dude. Here’s my card. Let Ms. Harris know we’d like to talk with her. Call if you need anything, or if you’d just like to grab a few brewskis and hang out.” His eyes reminded Rhys of the overeager puppy his friend Ken had snuck into their elementary school. They’d managed to keep the pup hidden until fifth period, and then all hell had broken loose.

  “Will do,” Rhys said, keeping his smile in place. “So, you were saying, she was the last person seen—”

  “Tell Ms. Harris we need her to drop by the station.” Detective Mackelwayne’s voice was a brick wall as he steered the younger cop to their car.

  “Okay. Thanks for dropping by.” Nothing more was going to be forthcoming. Rhys activated the gate, gave a wave, maintaining his relaxed nonchalance while the gate closed, then headed to the house at a dead run.

  Fifty-three

  RHYS WAS PULLING on his coat and was halfway to his truck when his cell phone rang. His heart leapt into his throat. Let it be Eve, he prayed.

  “Rhys? Hi. It’s Maggie, Eve’s sister. Is she with you? I got your number from Luke. Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m kind of freaking out. I’ve been trying to get ahold of Eve, but she’s not answering her cell phone.”

  “I know.” Frustration was making his throat tight. “I tried calling her as well.”

  “So, she’s not home yet?”

  “No.”

  “Damn. I knew something was wrong. Felt it in my gut—Luke, she’s not there—I spoke to her around an hour ago. She was just about to go into the pharmacy.”

  “The pharmacy?” Trying to push coherent reasoning through the residual dull throb from the receding migraine was making his thought process sluggish.

  “To get you some migraine medicine. That was more than an hour ago. She should have returned by now. It’s possible she got sidetracked, dropped into the grocery store, but why isn’t she answering her cell phone?”

  “I’ll go to the pharmacy now. Maybe she had car trouble, a flat tire or something. Also, heads up, the police dropped by, wanting to talk with her about an ‘incident.’ I’m not sure what the hell that’s about. Wouldn’t tell me what kind of incident. Were very tight-lipped. If you could have Luke do some digging, see if he can shed some light on it. I’ll let you know if I hear from her.”

  Fifty-four

  EVE BECAME AWARE of a drip . . . drip . . . the sound steady and consistent as a metronome. She pried her eyes open. She felt groggy, disoriented. Where am I? Her eyelids were heavy, wouldn’t stay ajar.

  Drip . . . drip . . .

  She was lying facedown, something soft against her cheek. What was it? A bedspread, maybe? Her eyes flickered up, then shut again. The fabric’s a pretty color, dark crimson crushed velvet. And soft, like a kitty. She tried to stroke it, but her hand wouldn’t work. It was secured to something. Both her hands were. That realization yanked her out of the drifty zone and plunged her into full-blown panic.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  She was on a bed, her arms over her head, her hands affixed together, and the rope was tied to the bedpost. She crawled to her knees, her legs weak and wobbly. Where her belly had been resting there was a large gold cross embroidered in the center of the crimson bedspread. A green spray of leaves and a sprig of delicate white snowdrops were interwoven over and under the cross. The handiwork was beautiful, expensive, and it made Eve feel slightly nauseous. As if God were saying, I haven’t seen you in church recently, and now look what has happened.

  Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . .

  What is making that infernal noise? She jerked her gaze away from the bedspread. Hunching her shoulders, she was able to see under her arm to the room beyond. A looped black garden hose was attached to a concrete wall. It hadn’t been shut off completely. Why would someone need a hose inside?

  From what she could see, the floor, the walls, and the ceiling were all made of concrete. No windows. A lightbulb hung from the ceiling. The room was cold, damp. It felt like she was underground. Panic rose. She stuffed it down.

  Where was she and how did she get there?

  It was as if there were a gray curtain of fog between her and her memory.

  Rhys. She could remember Rhys. He was sick. Needed medicine.

  Fifty-five

  RHYS PULLED HIS truck into the pharmacy parking lot. The small town of Comfort was closing down for the night. Most of the boutique shops were already dark and locked. The pharmacy and Becca’s Italian Gelato were still lit, but the neighboring storeowners had already shuttered their storefronts and gone home.

  There were a few cars and trucks in the parking lot, but Eve’s was nowhere to be seen.

  He peeled out of the lot, the smell of burnt rubber from his back tires singeing his nostrils. He swung into the large parking lot by the grocery and liquor store.

  Her car wasn’t there either.

  Shit! He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, a growing sense of fear and helplessness sucking the air out of his lungs, panic rising.

  Think, man. Think! You are not a helpless child anymore. This will not be a repeat of your mom. He exhaled slowly, centering himself. Go back. Trace her steps. Maggie says she was going to the pharmacy. Start there.

  * * *

  • • •

  RHYS EXPANDED THE snapshot he had taken of Eve and his mom until Eve’s smiling face filled the frame. His goddamned hands were shaking. “Did you happen to see this woman this afternoon?” He showed the image on his phone to the young homeless couple setting up for the night.

  “No,” the young woman said, eyes lowered to the blanket she was spreading on the sparse patch of green between the wall and the parking lot. As if by not looking at him, at the image on his phone, she would make herself invisible. Make him less of a threat. She could probably feel the tension pulsating off of him, no matter how much he was trying to tamp it down. Her animal instinct could tell that his adrenaline was running hot.

  “Abby,” the young man said, jerking his head to the side.

  She dropped the blanket instantly and darted to stand behind her skinny young man, his chest thrust out, gaze hard as glass, a hunting knife suddenly appearing in his hand.

  “Leave her alone.”

  “I mean you no harm,” Rhys said, turning his hands palms-up, Eve’s face on the screen of his phone glowing in the dark. “My friend is missing.”

  “We don’t got her—”

  “I didn’t think you did. I’m hoping you could help. Maybe you noticed her. Saw something that triggered alarms.” He took a careful step closer, the phone in his palm outstretched. “I’m worried. I think she’s in danger.” He took another step, slowly, as if approaching a feral dog. He was close enough now for the defiant young man to see the image. “Have you seen her? Was she by herself?”

  The young man stared at him, eyes narrowed, jaw jutted out. Rhys held still. He knew he was being measured, judged, and if found wanting he would feel the sharp edge of the knife.

  There was a flicker in the guy’s eyes, a slight softening of the stance. He didn’t relax the grip on his knife, but he glanced down. Paused. “Yeah,” he said. “I saw her. She went into the pharmacy. Came out w
ith some lady. Hopped in her car and followed her out of the lot.”

  “What did the other woman look like?”

  “Middle-aged, stick up the ass, rich.”

  “Hair color? What was she wearing? What kind of car did she drive?”

  “Sorry, man.” The young man turned back to setting up camp. “Wasn’t paying much attention. That’s all I got.”

  “Thank you,” Rhys said, setting a hundred-dollar bill on top of their backpack, which was propped against the tree. “I appreciate your help.”

  Fifty-six

  THE LIGHTS WERE still on, but the pharmacy door was locked. Rhys glanced at the time. Three minutes after eight. Damn. He could see the staff moving around inside, an elderly woman pushing a large dust mop, the cashier closing out the till. Is she the one who recognized me? He couldn’t tell. It had been a blur of giggling faces.

  He knocked on the glass door. The occupants didn’t look up. Must happen all the time. People wanting to slip in to purchase “one last thing.” He knocked a little harder. The old woman straightened and looked at him.

  Please, he mouthed.

  She shook her head, waggling an admonishing finger at him, then pointed at the store hours that were posted on the window.

  He knocked again, mimed it was urgent.

  She frowned, shook her head again, then bent to her work.

  He saw the pharmacist in the back of the store, a dark overcoat slung over his arm. He must have said something to the older woman and cashier, because they both looked up and nodded, then went back to work as the pharmacist disappeared through a door.

  Of course! An employees’ exit. Rhys sprinted around the building. Heard a steel door slam shut. Got to the parking lot just in time to see the tall, cadaver-like pharmacist fold his body into a hybrid Camry.

  “Wait!” Rhys put on a burst of speed. “Could you help me? Please!” He was almost abreast of the car when it reversed quickly and squealed out of the lot.

  “Bloody drug addicts,” the pharmacist yelled, shaking his fist out the window. “They should lock you up.”

  Rhys heard the door behind him open, along with the sound of women’s voices. Don’t blow it, he told himself as he turned to face them.

  “Hi,” he said.

  The cashier with the ponytail glanced over. The older woman tugged on her arm. “Come on,” she said.

  He made his feet stay put. Try to put them at ease. Let them know you aren’t a threat. “I was in your store a couple of days ago. Don’t know if you remember me? Rhys Thomas. I’m an actor.”

  “Oh my goodness.” The younger woman smiled and stepped toward him. “Rose, this is the movie star I was telling you about.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but my girlfriend’s gone missing. She was last seen at the pharmacy.” He held out his phone. “Here’s a photo of her. I was hoping one of you might help me. Perhaps noticed something unusual, had some information.”

  “Sure.” The younger woman snapped her gum. Held out her hand. “Lemme see.” She looked at the photo, then shook her head. “Sorry. Don’t remember her. Do you?”

  She stepped back to the older woman and showed her the phone.

  “Oh dear,” the woman murmured.

  “Did you see her?” It was an effort to keep his voice steady, calm.

  “Yes,” the woman said, looking shaken. “That there is Eve Harris. She was in the store this afternoon.”

  “Did you notice who she spoke to?”

  “Well, we . . . we exchanged words,” she said, her face paling.

  “What about?”

  “My boy, Larry. But he didn’t have anything to do with her going missing. I swear. He’s a good boy. Besides, I put him on the ferry during my lunch hour. He’s gone to visit my sister on the mainland. Gonna help with the yard work, clean out her gutters. Figured that was better than letting him mope around the house all weekend.”

  Rhys nodded. “Did you notice Eve speaking with anyone else?”

  “She had a lengthy conversation with Stanley, our pharmacist.”

  “The young couple outside said she left with a middle-aged woman,” Rhys said. “Do you have any idea who that would be?”

  “I saw her talking with Irene Dawson,” Larry’s mother said. “Didn’t notice if they left together.”

  “They described the woman she left with as ‘middle-aged, stick up the ass, rich.’”

  Both women snorted. “That would be Irene,” the cashier said. “My sister had the dubious pleasure of being a server at one of her shindigs. Treated the catering staff like shit, and no tip when the evening was done.”

  “You know where she lives?” Rhys’s heart had lodged itself in his throat.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “Perhaps you could call your sister . . .”

  She shrugged. “I’ll give it a go.” She dug her phone out of her purse and dialed.

  Rhys could hear the phone ringing, then came the faint, “I’m unable to answer the phone right now. If you—”

  The cashier hung up. “Yeah. Sorry about that. She rarely has her sound on. If you give me your cell number, I could call when—”

  “Hang on,” Larry’s mom said, thinking hard. “I remember Larry telling me about making a big delivery at some fancy mansion on Manzanita Heights. A lot of lugging back and forth. No tip. Could have been Irene. Not sure, though. I imagine Maggie would keep a record of large delivery orders on file.”

  Fifty-seven

  RHYS FLIPPED ON the light, illuminating the closet that Eve had repurposed for the Intrepid office, his breathing harsh, overly loud in the small space. He strode to the metal filing cabinet next to the small desk and tugged on the handle.

  It was locked.

  Dammit.

  He yanked the top desk drawer open only to find pencils, pens, Scotch tape. No help there.

  The next drawer proved to be more fruitful. Large paper clips. Perfect.

  Fred, the prop master on Stung, had shown him how to jimmy the lock on a variety of objects during the interminable hours of waiting while the sets were lit. Fred had come from a long line of locksmiths, and it had broken his pa’s heart when he’d run away and joined the circus that was Hollywood.

  At the time, learning how to jimmy locks had been an idle way to pass the hours, but now Rhys was grateful. “If this works, Fred my man,” Rhys muttered as he prepped the paper clip, “I’m buying you that fifty-nine Chevy you were lusting after.”

  He carefully inserted the clip into the small round lock. His fucking hands were still shaking. Get your shit together, Thomas. Every second you screw up is another second that asshole has her. On the third try, the damned lock finally gave way.

  He found the orders file neatly labeled and in alphabetical order. He flipped through the pages. Bingo! There was the information he was looking for. He pulled the order form out.

  DAWSON, IRENE—Address: 983 MANZANITA HEIGHTS.

  Quiche: 1 potato-leek-bacon with Parmesan and cheddar, 1 classic, 1 goat cheese with shallot and chives.

  Pies: 1 lemon-lime meringue, 1 apple, 1 peach-apricot.

  Toppings: 1 qt. of lemon-drop ice cream, 1 qt. vanilla ice cream, 1 Lg. whipped brandy cream, 1 Lg. plain whipped cream.

  Cookies: 3 doz. sugar cookies. 3 doz. chocolate-caramel.

  *Aug 28th, 4 p.m. delivery.

  Rhys plugged the address into his phone’s GPS and sprinted out of the building.

  Fifty-eight

  EVE MANAGED TO flip her body over and pull herself to a sitting position, using the restraint securing her hands for leverage. Her shoulder sockets ached from the maneuver, but at least she wasn’t facedown and vulnerable. Her back was pressed firmly against the headboard. Yes, her hands were still tied. There was nothing she could do about that. However, sitting against the hea
dboard instead of being sprawled in the middle of the bed had created some leeway in the restraint. She was able to move her arms.

  She had a clear view of the room now. There was a shrine, a photo of her exiting the church after her sister’s wedding.

  She swallowed hard, her gorge rising. For months he had been there. Watching. Waiting.

  She forced herself to look further. Knowledge was power. She needed to learn all she could about her abductor, and hopefully somewhere in the rubble, she would find the key to her escape.

  Her pale blue sheets, stolen from her apartment, were draped across a wall. They were carefully arranged, like a work of art. The sheets were stained.

  She jerked her gaze away from them, refused to contemplate what had put those stains there.

  Her red scarf was lying in a silken puddle next to the framed photo. All those hours spent searching for her scarf only to come up empty-handed. Her gaze moved on, past the bar with its crystal decanters of liquor, the dark leather armchair and side table, with Levi’s ukulele propped against it. How the hell did he get that? And then she saw her painting, her beautiful, dark, moody painting of moonlight, night sky, trees in silhouette and shadow. How had she not noticed it right off the bat, her painting hanging on the wall?

  And that was the thing that undid her. That he had stolen and tainted even her art.

  She clenched her eyes shut, her jaw aching as she tried to force the nausea to subside. Tremors coursed through her like BB gun pellets rattling around an old soup pot. She clutched her tied hands hard against her chest, trying to stop the ache, trying to will the shakes to stop.

  Tears rose. She angrily dashed them away. “Not now,” she told herself sternly, her barely there whisper sounding loud, too loud. She forced herself to take a long centering breath. Your job, she told herself, slowly exhaling and placing her hand over her grandmother’s brooches, is to corral all this fear that is rampaging through you and convert it into concrete action. She could feel her heart pounding like an off-centered washing machine. She took another deep breath, filling her lungs, her fingers tracing the wings of the jeweled dragonfly. She exhaled slowly as she moved her fingers onto the diamond stem of the flower, slid them up over the leaves. So many times her fingers had traced over them, finding comfort and solace. It felt as if her grandmother’s energy was flowing through them, watching over her. Keeping her safe.