by Lisa Jackson
Lucas had wanted to beat the living shit out of the guy, to pummel Dustin with his fists until he was spent, because he knew, he damned well knew the cowboy had been ogling his kid sister. “Perverted son of a bitch,” he’d ground out just as he heard approaching footsteps. He’d glanced over his shoulder to spy Naomi rounding the corner of the stable, heading straight at them.
And then he’d heard a sniggering laugh. Not from Naomi, from above. Squinting, he’d glanced skyward and caught sight of Ryan with his head out of the tiny window of the hayloft looking down at the scene unfolding below him.
Damn, damn, damn!
“What’s going on here?” Naomi had demanded, her lips glistening and pursed tight. Her lips were a thin line as she said with barely suppressed anger, “The truck is fine. I just spoke with your father. No one needs it to go into town.”
Caught in the lie, he hadn’t responded.
She’d looked at Dusty. “For heaven’s sake, are you two fighting? Really? Well, stop it. For the love of . . . just stop it.”
Still hot under the collar, feeling the need for a fight boiling through his blood, Lucas had reluctantly lowered his arm and taken a step back.
“That’s better. But you lied, Lucas,” she’d charged. “And it’s not the first time. You know, the Bible says, ‘The wages of sin is death.’ Romans 6:23. God is watching. He sees all, and you’ll pay, Lucas, for your sins.”
“What about yours?” he’d asked, and her lips had flattened.
“That’s enough.” She’d let out an angry breath and glared at him from behind her glasses. Then, deciding not to push it, Naomi had turned and stormed off, leaving them as quickly as she’d come.
Coughing, sagged against the wall, Dusty had finally pushed his arms through his sleeves. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot,” he’d choked out.
Lucas, muscles still tense, had warned, “Stay away from Leah.”
Dusty had shaken his head and doubled over, hands on his knees, propping himself up.
Backing up before he tore Dustin to pieces, Lucas had pointed an accusing finger at the ranch hand. “You hear me? Just stay the hell away. From both of them.”
“Or what?” Dusty had croaked, straightening and trying to regain some of his disappearing dignity. “Didn’t you hear her about all that Bible stuff? About sins? That you’re gonna pay? She’s right, you know. You will.” He’d straightened a bit then, challenge in his eyes. “So what was it you were gonna do?”
“You keep away from my sister, or I’ll kill ya,” Lucas had threatened. “I’ll rip your fuckin’ head off.” And then, before he got himself into any deeper trouble, he’d left Dusty coughing and leaning against the wall of the stable.
Lucas had taken off at a jog, rounding the corner of the stable, keeping to a well-worn path and passing his stepmother, who was still striding back to the heart of the camp. He’d caught sight of his own reflection in her sunglasses.
“Lucas!” she’d called after him, but he’d ignored her. He was going to catch hell from his old man for his actions later, so what did it matter. “Lucas!” she’d screeched more loudly, but he’d just kept running and had tried not to notice the familiar scent of her perfume wafting in the hot summer air.
Now, two decades later, he wondered about Dustin Peters and what had happened to him, just as he wondered about the women who had vanished. In less than a week, all three who had been part of the camp were gone. There had been a media circus over their disappearances, but it had faded with the passage of time; until now, the only person still actively demanding answers was Meredith O’Neal, Monica’s mother. Meredith had even moved to Averille years before to be “close to the investigation” and keep the story of her daughter’s disappearance in the news. Over the years, of course, interest had waned as the case had gone cold. Ice-cold. That had all changed, of course, with the discovery of the skull.
He eyed his surroundings, where, on this lonely spit, Caleb Carter had been certain he’d seen Elle. Lucas spied no one, of course, and certainly not Elle. What the hell was the deal with that, her ghost supposedly appearing? Why the sightings over the years? The incidents had been spotty and he’d dismissed them, chalked up the supposed appearances of her ghost as either misconceptions, hopeful sightings, or out-and-out lies. Some had claimed to have seen her walking along the edge of the sea, near the camp. There had been differing reports over the years. One from a group of teenagers having a bonfire on the beach three years after her disappearance. Two girls had sworn they’d seen a weird figure dressed in white running through the dunes as they walked from their car and along a path to the beach. Another time a fisherman, hauling his gear back to his car, had caught sight of “something eerie, a woman in white,” on the strand where Lucas had watched her disappear into the fog years before. Another report had come from a twenty-eight-year-old kite surfer who had been riding the waves and had sworn he’d seen a lonely woman in white standing on the edge of Cape Horseshoe, on Suicide Ledge, the very spot where, people had speculated over the years, Elle had leaped to her death into the ocean.
Had she taken her own life?
Had someone murdered her?
Were her bones being examined in the lab even now?
Jamming his fists into the pockets of his jacket, Lucas walked through the shivering grass to the headland and eyed the ocean, ever moving, swells and whitecaps visible.
Was Maggie right? Was Elle at the center of it all, her disappearance the crux of all the disappearances? Had her vanishing been caused by more than his rejection of her? Was it even possible that she had not vanished, but had somehow been a part of whatever the hell happened the following night?
He didn’t know, but as he watched a storm roll in from the west, he decided he was damned well going to find out.
With one last glance at the steely waters, he turned and started for the path leading to his Jeep. He walked across the sandy dune to the edge of the tree line, where in the shadowy gloom he noticed a scrap of white caught on a berry vine. Thinking it was a bit of paper, litter that had been carelessly dropped, he stopped to take a closer look. Not paper, he realized as he approached, but some kind of filmy cloth.
As he bent down, he saw that there was lace attached to the thin cotton and the edges were ripped as if the fabric had been caught on the thorn . . . the hem of a long dress left because whoever was wearing it was fleeing?
Goose bumps crawled up the back of his neck.
In his mind’s eye he pictured Elle as Caleb had described her, wind in her hair, standing alone on the dune. But why? And how?
He shook his head. Just because he found a scrap of white material on the ground didn’t mean it was torn from Elle’s dress, that she’d been here. Caleb may have seen someone, and even that someone may have caught her hem on the thorn, but the idea that this bit of cotton belonged to Elle Brady, that she’d been out here, was a big damned leap.
Telling himself he was an idiot, that he was letting a drunk’s hallucinations influence his own judgment, Lucas took a picture of the bit of cloth with his cell phone, then picked up the scrap by one corner. His jaw tightened when he saw the stain on the ripped edge. Red. Blood? Or was he again jumping to conclusions, ideas implanted by a drunk? He held the torn piece to his nose and sniffed, a faint coppery smell evident in the sea air.
What the hell was this all about?
He couldn’t believe it had anything to do with Elle Brady. Still, he carried the bit of cloth to his Jeep, where he kept a box of plastic bags, and sealed the scrap in one of the small sacks, then slid behind the wheel and fired the engine. As he drove toward town he knew one thing: If the ripped piece of fabric had been worn by some woman who Caleb thought was Elle, then whoever she was, she certainly was not a ghost.
CHAPTER 27
Averille, Oregon
Now
Kinley
“Damn it!” Kinley was pissed as she made her way back to the hotel. Make that beyond pissed. Just when she was about to ge
t a little insight into this piss-ant town, learn what the locals knew from Caleb Carter, Lucas Damned Dalton had swooped in, hauled Caleb out—literally by the scruff of his neck—and pulled that “no comment” bullshit she was sick of. Obviously everyone had something to hide including Detective Dalton and they were stonewalling her.
But it wouldn’t last long. She wouldn’t let it. She was going to ferret out the truth, write the story of her lifetime, and have it streaming on the Internet so fast that the Portland TV stations who were on their way here would be playing second fiddle, if that. The glory and fame for breaking the biggest story to hit this part of Oregon in years would be hers.
And those big leaguers in Portland could just suck it!
Little did anyone know that Kinley Marsh had more than an ace up her sleeve. In fact, she had the whole effin’ deck! Smiling to herself, knowing this little misstep with Dalton would soon be straightened out, she hurried across a street, jaywalking as there was like zero traffic in this tiny town.
Her advantage in solving the case was compliments of Annette Alsace, though poor little Annette didn’t know it: her diary! Yes, Kinley had taken it all those years ago and had held on to it, sure that someday it would be worth something to somebody. And that day had come. That day was here. It was going to make Kinley famous. She’d always known it was important, more than just the faded diary of a lovesick little twerp of a counselor. Those pages with their loopy script held secrets about what had gone on at Camp Horseshoe twenty years before and might just hold the key to the current investigation. Yes, the diary was important, but just one part of what she considered her upper hand. The other cards in that fabulous deck, the ticket to her leaping to the big time? Her own skills, her ability to read people, to get what she wanted, and of course, if she had to, to bend the law a bit. Not that she would ever admit to as much, and she never had to. What with her sticking to “not revealing her sources” and her editor’s disinterest in “how” a story was discovered, she was able to work the system—just enough.
And then, the best part, Kinley was not only going to interview all of the family members of the victims, but she intended to spy on the other women here, at the hotel, those very women who had been the irresponsible counselors in the middle of the night doing what Annette had thankfully described in minute detail. She’d been a snoop and the secrets in the pages would be more than helpful in painting a picture of the debauchery, carelessness, and intrigue that had been Camp Horseshoe twenty years before. However, Kinley had been forced to steal the diary on the night that Monica O’Neal had vanished, so there was no entry about the secret meeting in the cave down by the beach.
Too bad.
That would have been the coup de grâce.
So now, she would have to count on her interview skills, her investigative ability, and . . . yes, the spy equipment she’d planted earlier.
Kinley had managed to swipe a house key to the hotel rooms from a careless housekeeper, who, as it turned out, was afraid to lose her job and had lied about how she’d “misplaced” the card at home.
Which had been perfect, Kinley thought now as she crossed to the side of the hotel away from the street, her boots sliding a bit on the wet grass.
She’d had other help as well, a stroke of luck! Kinley had recognized Jacqui, one of the desk clerks at the hotel. They’d met briefly in college before Jacqui had dropped out, so she’d made a big point of being thrilled to reconnect, insisting on having drinks and “catching up.” As things turned out, Jacqui had just broken up with her decade-long boyfriend, was heartbroken, and needed a single friend to whom she could pour out her heart and hatred of Brad, while scoping out new candidates for “Mr. Right.” Jacqui was pathetic and bored Kinley to no end. Come on, did the woman have no backbone? Wonderful Brad didn’t have a job, owed her money, and had ended up leaving her for someone with a brighter future. Kinley thought “good riddance to bad news,” but Jacqui didn’t quite see it that way . . . yet. She was still hung up on the loser, a man-boy in whom she’d “invested years of my life,” as well as, probably, what could have been a nice little nest egg.
Kinley hated her evenings with miserable Jacqui, who had lost ten pounds and had begun wearing decidedly more makeup, along with low-cut tops and a push-up bra. For a more dramatic effect, Jacqui had also dyed her naturally black hair a weird shade of straw blond, just to “show him.” Like Brad gave a rat’s ass that his once-plain-Jane of a girlfriend was now sporting a way more slutty demeanor in her attempts to look sexy and younger.
Jacqui had started opening up over a few drinks, admitted that the hotel was booked for the next couple of days, lots of out-of-towners showing up for some kind of a reunion, which wasn’t usual for this time of year. At least not midweek.
Kinley had put two and two together and come up with seven, as in seven female counselors from Camp Horseshoe from twenty years ago: Bernadette and Annette, Jo-Beth Chancellor, Reva Mercado, Jayla Williams, Sosi Gaffney, and Nell. The only two missing would, of course, be Elle Brady and Monica O’Neal.
Still, it was good to confirm what she’d suspected, that the lot of those pathetic “counselors” would be within these hundred-year-old walls, and it helped to know exactly which rooms to bug.
Jacqui’s brokenhearted, desperate emotional state had been a big help to Kinley with the layout of the hotel, how the security worked. With the passkey she’d lifted and Jacqui’s loose tongue after a few drinks, Kinley had not only gleaned that the female counselors from Camp Horseshoe were all staying at the Hotel Averille—well, duh, it was the only game in town, the nearest Motel 6 being thirty-five miles north—she’d also learned that Jo-Beth Chancellor had wanted a suite where she could have a “meeting” with some “old friends.” Bingo. Luckily, the suite next door, identical aside from being a reverse layout, had been available and Kinley had booked it, getting a BFF discount from Jacqui in the process. Because she felt that this story had the potential to launch her career far beyond what NewzZone could supply, she’d rented a room on the third floor even though she lived only about fifty miles north in Astoria.
The room was an extra place to keep her things, collect her thoughts, write her notes, and most importantly, observe those who came and went through a discreet wireless connection to minuscule hidden cameras and microphones. She’d bought her equipment in Portland and returned to the hotel, where she’d been camped out, ever since hearing about the partial body being discovered on the beach.
Now she entered the hotel through a side door and slipped into the staircase used mainly by the staff. She hurried up the stairs, her wet boots making entirely too much noise, though she came across no one. On the third floor, Kinley slipped into her room, locked the door behind her, and checked the hotel safe, where she’d put her notes and the small diary. Half-filled with Annette’s scrawl and dozens upon dozens of decades-old secrets, along with the sick musings of a girl in love with her sister’s boyfriend—that lousy cop Dalton.
Flopping onto the bed, propping herself with pillows, she turned on the television, a poor excuse of a flat-screen perched atop an ancient dresser that was supposed to be antique, but just looked cheap.
For what had to be the hundredth time, she started rereading the diary. She’d taken pictures of every page and kept them on her computer, as well as on a backup drive. Just in case. But holding the actual little book with its filled pages of teenage longing and worries and observations could only help in Kinley’s mission, which was to solve the mystery of the disappearances at the camp and divulge all of the dirty little secrets that had played a part in two girls and one ranch hand seemingly falling off the face of the earth.
She picked up her cell phone, saw no messages, and fumed a bit. Why hadn’t there been an ID on the body? In this day and age it wouldn’t take too long, despite the whole holdup with DNA. They had the skull, right? So wouldn’t the old-fashioned dental records come through? Or some hair samples, if there were any? She shuddered inwardly at the
thought of the decomposition of the skull, then went back to what she sarcastically referred to as “light” reading: Annette Alsace’s diary.
From Annette’s perspective, no one had much liked Monica O’Neal, and Annette had overheard Monica reveal to Bernadette that she was pregnant, with Tyler Quade’s baby. All very interesting since Tyler had been practically engaged to Jo-Beth at the time. So how did that play out? Did Jo-Beth know? The Tyler/Jo-Beth/Monica love triangle was just one, what about the other? Elle/Lucas/Bernadette? And then there were rumors about Naomi, Lucas’s stepmother, that she’d had a fling with her stepson.
The juicy details, well, those that Annette had surmised, were captured in her little once-pink book. Studying words she had practically memorized, Kinsey flipped through the pages and thought about her next move. She’d considered, in doing her piece for NewzZone, or maybe some other bidder, using some of Annette’s quotes, spinning the story so that it would show from a teenage girl’s eyes and pretend that those eyes were hers. She had, after all, been at the camp during the time in question.
“So many options,” she said, and wished she had a glass of wine. The Hotel Averille was short on amenities, however, and room service was one of them. Even the Wi-Fi, though offered, was untrustworthy, the connection poor at best, and probably not all that secure. Not that it mattered to her. Kinley had brought her own portable connection. Completely private. Which was essential.
The familiar words in the diary couldn’t keep her attention this afternoon. She was restless, wanted action, was a little edgy as she waited. She should have had a glass of wine at the bar when she’d been trying to pry information from Caleb. Tossing the diary aside, she slipped off the bed and walked to the French doors that led to a long deck shared by all the residents of the third floor. A staircase was positioned at one end, grounded near the parking lot, to be used as an emergency escape if this tinderbox of an ancient building ever caught fire. The doors opened to a beautiful view of the rapidly going to seed parking lot.
