by Dea Poirier
“What’re you doing out of school, Claire?” he asks in what I imagine is his best dad voice. I’ve heard my friends’ dads talk that way—mine, not so much.
“I really need to talk to you about Rachel.”
“We already have your statement. You should go back to class.” He motions toward the door with dismissal.
A lump forms in my throat, and though I try to swallow it down, it doesn’t budge an inch. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
CHAPTER 32
After what I’ve found on Frank and his father, all I can wonder is what else his father has covered up for him. I need to talk to Frank again. This time I need answers about his father and sister. Because it’s possible that Frank was my attacker, I take Jason with me.
I glance at the clock in my car. It’s a bit early to make our way to Frank’s shop, but I’m too antsy to keep myself busy in town. Jason and I make small talk outside the shop rather than waiting in the car, because I’d rather catch Frank the moment he gets in. I’ve learned in all my time questioning suspects that people are more likely to tell the truth when they’re frazzled or thrown off their routine.
Jason glances at the shop. “You really think Frank could have done this?”
Frank is my first real suspect for this, but I have nothing concrete. Though the past records point me in a pretty clear direction, that’s all circumstantial. There’s nothing tying him to the boat, the girls, the call to the station. If I talk to him, he might slip up; he might give me something. “I have suspicions, but nothing solid. We need to find direct evidence, and we’ve got to find it soon.”
Frank’s shop is in a small building that obviously used to be one of the smallest houses in Vinalhaven. It’d fit in perfectly with the tiny-house trend. From the porch of the shop, I’ve got a great view of the marina. Many of the boats pulled out of the harbor just as the sun crept up from the horizon. The docks are half-empty. From above, I’m sure it looks like a gap-toothed, jagged jack-o’-lantern. The boats that are getting a late start are small—probably people fishing for their families rather than company ships.
“How’s your neck?” Jason asks, eyeing my bruise. It’s an ugly eggplant color at the moment.
“Still tender but looks worse than it is.”
Gulls circle above me, their chatter so loud it drowns out my thoughts. That’s the good and the bad thing about the beach. You can’t be alone with your thoughts, but the noise can help you take your mind off things. A shuffling inside the shop tells me that Frank is already here. His shop has a basement, and I imagine he’s set it up so he can spend the night there if he wants.
“Good morning,” Frank says as he cracks the door open. “I thought I saw someone on the porch.”
There’s a scratch on his cheek that sets my nerves on edge. I know I scratched my attacker. I’d guess on the face, but I can’t be certain. My eyes travel down to his hands, where I know I did manage to do some damage, and there are matching scratches there too.
“What happened there?” I ask, motioning toward his face and hands.
“Damnedest thing—there was a stray cat on one of the boats I was working on. I tried to get it off of there, and it scratched me,” he says without skipping a beat.
“You’re lucky it didn’t get you in the eye,” I say, sharing a look with Jason.
The smell of strong coffee wafts from the house, warm and inviting. Even if I’ve had my fill of coffee, I’ll never get sick of that smell or the way it envelops me.
“Do you have a minute?” I ask as I take a step toward the door. I could request that he come down to the station, but I’ve found that asking people questions at the station, even if they’re not suspects, tends to shut them up and make them real careful about everything they say. Twitchy people ask for lawyers instead of giving answers.
“Of course. You’re both probably freezing out there.” He waves us inside. The cold this morning really isn’t that bad. My cheeks may be numb, but the rest of me has managed to cling to the warmth from my car.
“Do either of you want some coffee?” He shuffles to the pot. “I just brewed it.”
“No, thank you,” we both say at the same time.
“What can I do you for?” he asks as he pours himself a cup.
“I was hoping I could talk to you about your father,” I say, deciding to start with a subject that won’t set him off immediately.
He presses his lips together and glances toward the floor as if saddened. “Again?”
I nod. “How would you describe him?”
He shrugs and sips his coffee. “He was quiet. He liked to keep to himself. Why the interest in my dad?”
“As I said before, just following up on some loose ends. He was the sheriff when Rachel died. I’m just trying to get a sense of him and how he investigated the case.”
His eyes tighten, and I think I may have touched a nerve. “You already know that he and I weren’t speaking when Rachel died.”
“Is there anything else you can tell me about that?” Did the strain come from his father covering up his crimes? Or did they fight about something else?
He leans against the counter, his attention on the coffee cup. “After my mom died, things between us were never the same. He was never the same. Then after my sister died—it only got worse.” He shakes his head. That’d be a lot for any family to bear; no wonder things became strained. Death either brings people together or forces them apart. If Sheriff Dyer had been going through losses like that, his focus wouldn’t have been on Rachel—or anything else, for that matter.
“When did your sister die? I thought she left the island.” I didn’t know that Frank’s sister—Delilah Dyer—had died. All information I’ve seen or heard about her during this investigation stated that she left the island. A bad feeling coils inside me, and I’m glad I didn’t come here alone.
“When I was sixteen.” He glances at his coffee cup while he speaks. Though I expect to find some emotion behind his words, or a hint of it on his face—there’s nothing. Frank sets his coffee down on the counter behind him and crosses his arms. “Are you asking about him because you think my dad had something to do with Rachel’s death?”
“No, not at all.” I try to keep my features in check. Usually I have a great poker face, but it’s incredibly important that I don’t show a hint of suspicion here.
He nods. “He didn’t talk to me about cases, or anything, really. But I did notice that after Rachel died, he spent a lot of time in the park.”
That’s something interesting. Why would he be spending a lot of time in the park?
I circle back to his sister, needing more information about her. “How did your sister die?” Based on what I know now, it doesn’t surprise me in the least that she ended up dead. But it does surprise me that he knows she’s dead if everyone else thinks she moved, and that he either readily or accidentally supplied me with that information. Did he mean to say it? Or did it slip out?
His mouth twitches, and he scratches his neck, his thick fingernails clicking against the stubble there like it’s high-grit sandpaper. “Why does that matter?”
“I’ve just never heard much about her.” There was also no file on her at the station, and considering what I know about Sheriff Dyer’s record-eliminating habits, a missing file makes me even more concerned.
Red creeps from Frank’s collar, painting his neck and cheeks in crimson. “I don’t like the cops in here asking questions about my family.” There’s an edge to his voice I’ve never heard before.
I know I’ve only got another question or two before he refuses to answer anything, so I’m going to take the opportunity to ask about the girl he attacked. “What can you tell me about Kassie Mulholland?”
His left eye quivers, and his hand tightens around his mug until his knuckles turn as white as pearls. All I can imagine is those hands around my neck.
“Get out.”
“Maybe you should come back to the station,”
Jason suggests.
“Get the hell out of my shop. If you want me in that station, you’ll have to arrest me.”
Jason tugs on my arm, and we head out of the shop, back toward my car. It only takes a few minutes to get back to the station, and my hands tremble the entire drive.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say as the gravel parking lot crunches beneath the tires.
He nods. “How long until we can arrest him?”
“We don’t have enough hard evidence yet. I might be able to press a warrant for DNA based on the scratches, but I’m not sure if we’ll get it. I need to keep an eye on him so maybe we can get DNA on our own. I want someone watching him at all times.”
“I’ll head back over there in my car,” Jason offers.
“Thank you. Stay out of sight, and please stay safe. We don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“Yes, we do,” Jason says, and he motions at my neck.
Jason gets out of my car and climbs into his. I yank my coat up around my neck and throw open the door. By the time I duck into the station, I’m chilled to the bone. Only Allen is in the bull pen, and he doesn’t even glance at me as I pass. Sergeant Michaels is at his desk. I invite myself in and stand near the doorway. I catch him up on what happened with Frank and where my head is regarding his involvement.
“Is he the right build for your attacker?” he asks.
“It was too dark for me to tell. All I know is my attacker was much larger than I am. In that respect he fits.”
“We need more for a warrant to get his DNA or prints.”
“The guys are going to take turns watching him. Maybe he’ll throw something away we can get prints or DNA from.” We need something to test against the DNA from under my fingernails. I find it unlikely—based on all the cover-ups—that Frank’s DNA will be in the system. And even if it is, it could take us a week or more to process a sample to submit for a database reference. Then who knows how long it will take to hear back about a database match. We don’t have the time to spare.
He nods. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him at all times. We can’t afford another death or to have him attack you again.”
Sergeant Michaels picks up his phone. As he makes sure to relay the message about Frank to the guys, I sit at my desk and glance at my computer without really seeing it. We’re so close that there’s a buzz in my blood as I nudge my mouse to the side, making the monitor come back to life. I force myself to focus and shoot Mrs. Peterson a quick email about the broken lock. The details of the case flood my mind again as soon as the email is sent. I want to tell Noah how close we are, that we might have our guy, but I can’t tell him about this, not until I can bring Frank in.
CHAPTER 33
The next day, as I’m reading an email on my phone—Mrs. Peterson has fixed both of the locks on my rental and dropped the new key in the mailbox—with a fresh cup of coffee in hand, I head out of the café and am nearly run over by a large man. Blinking, forcing my eyes to adjust to the sunshine, I realize it’s Madeline’s dad who nearly ran into me. He looks the worse for wear. He’s got on a stained T-shirt under his open coat, and his stubble has grown into a shaggy beard. His eyes are somehow dim and feral at the same time.
“Mayor Clark,” I say, and he grabs my arm, yanking me into the café.
As soon as we’re inside, I step away from him, out of reach. Under any other circumstances, I’d be angry. But I’m determined to remember everything he’s been through. I’m not sure I’d act any better in these circumstances. He glances behind the counter at Morgan. “You, go outside,” he orders her.
Her body goes rigid for a moment. I think she’s going to argue. Instead, she walks past us and hangs out just outside the doors.
“Not surprised to see you here, Calderwood,” he says, his words laced with venom.
“Mayor Clark, how are you doing?” I ask, choosing to let the malice behind his words roll right off.
His brows furrow, and he clenches his fists at his sides. I swear there’s a vein pulsing at the side of his head that makes me want to back away, but I don’t. I stand my ground. “Obviously not as well as you. Parading around downtown with your boyfriend without a care in the world.” He throws every syllable at me like a dagger.
There’s a snide remark already waiting on my tongue. But I bite it back. He’s hurting. If there’s anyone who deserves to be cut some slack, it’s a grieving parent. Arguing with him or hurling an insult isn’t going to make this situation any better.
“I’m very sorry that you feel that way. We’re doing everything that we can,” I say as calmly as I can manage.
“Everything you can? Your everything is going to get every girl on this island killed.”
My heart pounds in my ears, and I glance out the window in the direction of the station. About a hundred yards separate me from it. Though I should probably say something else comforting, I know if I open my mouth again, the words that come out are going to be anything but. I try to move past him toward the door, but he sidesteps to block me. Isabelle Arey enters the café just as I’m trying to slip past Mayor Clark. Her eyes sharpen when she sees me.
“Excuse me,” I say forcefully as I step to the side. This time he lets me pass. But as I leave the coffee shop, Mayor Clark and Isabelle make it clear with their matching scowls what a shitty job they think I’m doing.
Fuming anger boils beneath my skin. Though I was planning to go back to the station, I need to vent some of my frustration, or I’ll blow up at one of the guys. I head to the hotel. With each step I climb to Noah’s room, I feel a little bit better, as if being one step closer to him can help set my mood right. I knock lightly, and Noah calls back, “It’s open.”
I open the door and look at him with a raised eyebrow. He’s got his laptop resting on his legs as he leans back on the couch.
“It’s open? There’s a killer out there, and it’s open?” I ask, trying to see the humor in it. He’s obviously not at all concerned.
He shrugs. I catch sight of his grin, and the hold the anger has on me lessens.
“I need to get something off my chest,” I say as I walk over and sit next to him on the couch. “Am I interrupting anything super important?”
“No,” he says as he snaps his laptop closed.
“The mayor just stopped me in town to tell me what a shitty job I’m doing.”
“You know—” he starts.
But I hold my hand up. Anger seizes me, choking off the words I’m desperate to vent. Fear flickers in the back of my mind, sweeping the rancor from my tongue. What if he’s right? What if I’m not doing enough? This isn’t like the cases I worked back in Detroit. Every moment I’ve spent with Noah, the times I didn’t stay at the station until the early hours of the morning—if I had sacrificed more, would I have solved this sooner? Would lives have been saved?
Emotion rushes to the surface, hitting me so hard I’m afraid it may actually bowl me over. I stand up and pace the small room. I may not have done any of the killing, but if I dragged my feet, I am just as guilty—just as responsible in this. Noah stands and reaches for me. But I back away, desperate to build a wall between us. I feel myself coming apart at the edges, as if I’m moments away from shattering all over the floor.
“You’re killing yourself over this,” he says. “You’re doing everything you can.” I take a moment to breathe, to wait for the vise around me to loosen its grip. But when the wave doesn’t pass, I know I need to get out of here. The walls seem to press in on me from all sides. And though Noah’s presence is normally comforting, right now I just feel like I need to justify how I feel to him, and how can I if I can’t even make sense of it myself?
I step toward the door, hearing the mayor’s words in my mind all over again. “I’ve got to run home and grab some things,” I say, and Noah reaches for me again, but I take off out the door before he can convince me to stay. I take a deep breath, sucking in the cold air as soon as I throw open the door. A cloud escapes, shapi
ng my breath on the wind. I turn right and walk down Main Street toward my rental, hoping that with every step I take I can shed the words that have built up in my mind.
CHAPTER 34
I walk slowly up the walkway toward my house and grab the key from the mailbox. I’ve nearly shaken off the emotions that bubbled up inside me after the confrontation with the mayor. Just as I reach the porch, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at the number on the screen. It’s a Bangor area code.
“Detective Calderwood,” I say as I accept the call.
“This is Ethan from the CSI team in Bangor. I wanted to update you about the items that your team sent up for fingerprinting.”
My heart pounds. “What’d you find?”
“There were no fingerprints on the screwdriver. The keys had a portion of a print, but it won’t be enough to match it against anything,” he says, his voice flat.
“Thank you for the call,” I say as my stomach twists.
Fishing my key from my pocket, I shove it into the lock and open the door.
As I head to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, the sound of the boards creaking on my back porch draws my attention. I open the door, ready to draw my gun, but find Ryder leaning back on a patio chair. His long black hair falls behind him. Though he’s got on a thick hoodie, the gauze binding his wrists peeks out from his sleeves. He has to be cold in that.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. The last thing I expected was to find him on my porch.
“I need to talk to you.”
I narrow my eyes. “They released you already?”
He lets out a low laugh and scratches his eyebrow. I’ve wanted to stop by to talk to him, but his doctors wouldn’t let me anywhere near him. Something about questioning him leading to further mental trauma.
“Can we go inside? No one can know I’m here.”
My backyard is ringed with trees. Unless someone walks back here, no one will know. Even my neighbors can’t see onto the back porch. I’m not going to stand here and argue that point to him, though, so I wave him into the house.
