by Skye Warren
I want her alone in a room so I can back her against the wall and write questions on her skin. She’ll give me the answers. They just have to be coaxed out of her. We put Paige to bed, dancing around the worry she won’t talk about.
Jane slips into my bedroom a few minutes after Paige has fallen asleep. I’m at the dresser, pulling a sweater over my head.
From the shift in the air, I think she might be crying. There’s a certain relief in that. I can hold her too close. I can wipe her tears away.
Taste them on her lips.
But when I turn to face her, she’s not crying. Jane clasps her hands in front of her, and there’s pained indecision on her face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“This might sound—” She shakes her head. “Last night, while I was giving Paige her bath, I saw this woman walking on the beach. She was there one second, and then just… gone.”
“Probably Marjorie out for a walk.”
“In a white nightgown? With blonde hair?”
It’s like she’s tipped an ice pitcher down into my gut. “Not Marjorie, then.” She’s a redhead. “A guest from one of the other bed-and-breakfasts, Jane. People walk on the beach.”
“That’s the thing.” More color fades from her cheeks. “Paige mentioned a woman this morning. She said a woman used to walk on the cliff by the house before it burned down.” Jane swallows. “She said the woman wore a white nightgown, too.”
Fuck.
I want to back away from her, but there’s no space left in the room to do it. The window’s the only illusion of escape. An empty stretch of sand waits in front of rippling waves. Makes it hard to see if there’s anything in the water. I can’t logic my way out of this. It would be easy to dismiss them both. Chalk it up to being tired and stressed.
My stomach turns.
Jane touches my elbow, her fingertips light on the fabric. I feel like a house fire waiting to start. Her dark eyes find mine. “What should we do?”
She’s urgent. Afraid. I want to soothe her, not scare her.
But she should be afraid. My heart pumps pure adrenaline into my veins. I’ve already installed a security system. There’s not much more I can do to protect the house other than hiring armed guards to stand around a mostly-empty beach.
What would that say about my sanity, if I surrounded this place with mercenaries? What would it do to Jane’s sanity? To Paige’s? It would only be confirmation that we’re not safe. Visible, unavoidable confirmation.
Then again, maybe we’re not safe. It might only confirm the truth.
Her voice trembles. “Who could be doing this?”
If the sightings on the beach are related, then it’s a blonde woman. “It could be Zoey Aldridge. I thought of her from the beginning, but she has an alibi. The cops already checked her out. But there’s always a chance she manufactured it.”
“What can we do about it?”
“I’ll keep pushing the detectives in her direction. Unfortunately it’s a small department. It would be easy for her to produce a fake charter for her jet.”
“Do you really think it’s her?”
“I don’t know, but it works. Zoey has a reason to hate me.”
“Because you… stopped dating her?”
“I never started dating her, not really.” At Jane’s disbelieving look, I elaborate. “We went out a couple times in LA. She wanted more. I didn’t. She kept texting me all the damn time, even when I completely ghosted her. There were red flags all over the place.”
“Then why did you call her?”
“Because I was getting too close to you,” I admit, my tone grim. “You were getting too close to me. And I thought that bringing in a third party, a woman who would sweep in and make assumptions, might somehow stop the inevitable.”
The look she gives me is pure wounded pride. “That is so messed up.”
“Yes. I did warn you about me.”
“But if she has a history of acting out, then she should be at the top of the suspect list.”
“Joe Causey doesn’t give a shit what I say. He’s determined to pin this on me somehow. But it may come down to that. I’ll go to jail for insurance fraud and be done with it.”
“Why?” she breathes. “Why does Joe Causey hate you so much over some childhood issue?”
“Because it’s not just a childhood issue. He’s Emily’s brother.”
Jane’s mouth drops open. She actually takes a step back, putting space between us. Good. Good. She’s finally realizing where the danger is here. It’s me, and all these tangles from the past. “What?”
“Yeah. He blames me for her death. And for her ending up with Rhys.”
Two spots of color have appeared on her cheeks. Her hand goes to her throat. “That means he’s Paige’s uncle.”
“Yes. He fought me for custody.” Family court is hell on earth. It reeks of small-town gossip and old vendettas. Everything hinges on the mood of the judge, who pretends to be impartial in his black robe and spends every Wednesday night at a card game with the mayor and the principal of the school. He’s always liked Joe. “But Emily named me in her will, which probably took him by surprise. It took me by surprise. She loved her brother. Spoiled him, actually. Was very protective of him. No one was more surprised than me to find out she’d named me. The judge had the ultimate decision, but based on her wishes, he granted me custody.”
Jane’s eyes soften, her brow furrowed. I don’t know what kind of calculations she does in moments like this. They probably have more to do with how good she is, how innocent, than the ones I make. “We have to tell the police about the woman on the beach.”
“He’s a bastard and a bully.”
Her chin comes up a little bit. “I know you don’t trust him, but he’s the only chance we have of catching whoever did this. Because I think they’re still doing it. I think they’re still following us.”
“You know what the fire chief said to me? No. Nevermind.”
“Tell me.” Her eyes bore into me. “I deserve the truth, remember.”
Yes, she deserves that much from me. More, really. “You’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you. Even I think I’m crazy.” I feel crazy now. Like the beam did more than fuck up my knee and trap me in a burning building. Like it knocked something loose in my mind. The beam’s just an excuse, though. I’ve had this recurring suspicion for months. Since the accident.
“What is it?”
Jane’s so sweet. So hopeful. She’s a goddamn miracle, is what she is. The kind of like she’s lived—so rough and so painful. It shouldn’t have let her trust me. It shouldn’t give her big dark eyes that look up at me like I have any of the answers. Like I could keep her safe, if only she can solve this one problem. “What if Emily survived?”
Her face pales. “Emily like Paige’s mom? Emily Rochester?”
“I don’t know. Yes.” I look over the beach again. Nothing but empty sand. No woman in a white nightgown. The visual is creepy as hell. A nightgown on the cliffside? A nightgown on the beach? “She had blonde curls like that. And I keep having this feeling of dread. Like somebody’s watching.”
Eyes on the back of my neck. Not just at the house. Here, too.
“Did you tell this to the police?” she asks.
“Christ. Of course not. They’re looking for a real person. Not a ghost.” I look away from her like a coward. The sincerity in her eyes is too much to see right now. My heart punches faster. “I haven’t been calling the cops. The opposite. I’ve been avoiding them. Causey’s demanding an interview with Paige. My lawyer has managed to put him off so far because she needs time to recover, but he’s insisting. We’re going to have to let him. And—” Among all those phone calls with the insurance company today, there was another one. Joe Causey’s demand on my voicemail. “He wants to interview you again.”
Emotions flash through her dark eyes. Dread. And then a beautiful resolve. “Okay.”
“I don’t want him near Paige. I don’t
want him near you.”
“We might be the only ones,” she says.
The only ones in the world. The only ones left. When that fire was coming down around us, we were the only ones in the world. Jane’s face was the last thing I was going to see before I died. Jane, dying herself, for love of me. She’d accepted it. Her death. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t accept a damn thing when it came to her. Not the way I felt. Not the way I wanted her. It didn’t matter, in the end, whether I accepted it or not. Hasn’t changed anything.
I want her, and it’s not good for her. None of this is good for her.
It’s dangerous.
“The only witnesses,” she continues. “We might be the only witnesses who can place this person at the house, and out on the beach. Paige and I.”
My veins burn with how much I hate this. How much I hate the thought of letting Joe sit across a table from Paige or Jane. I don’t want his eyes on them, or his questions in their memories. I don’t want his twisted suggestions of guilt to get under their skin, or under mine. But if they’re right, and there’s someone out here, someone following us…
What other choice do I have? I can’t hold him off forever. And I can’t pack us up and disappear into the night. Paige wouldn’t be able to handle it.
“I wish you would stop.”
Jane’s dark eyes are luminous in the lamp from my bedside table. She has both arms crossed in front of her stomach. A shield. “Stop what?”
“Stop holding yourself so far away. It’s like you’re gone, and we’re in the same room.” She takes a shaky breath. “You’re not protecting me from anything when you do that.”
“I’m not protecting you from anything, ever.” There’s a person on the beach. A person on the cliff. Someone lit a fire above our heads. Joe Causey’s breathing down our necks.
I can’t make it stop.
“Not standing over there, you’re not.”
I do what I’ve wanted to do since she came in the room. Two steps and she’s close enough to crush her to my body. Jane sighs, like this is a good thing, like this is an improvement and not a faulty lifeboat off a sinking ship. She smells like the shampoo from the inn and sunscreen from their afternoon at the beach. It’s an innocent scent.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t touch you again,” I want to lick it off her. Inhale it until there’s nothing left. With her body against mine like this, I want to make her a hundred promises. I want to tell her not to worry. The urge is so strong I almost say it. Don’t worry, Jane. I’ll fix everything. But I’m failing miserably. My love is dangerous, but it’s fucking unstoppable.
“I saw her,” she says against my chest, and I hear the tiniest waver in her voice. Like she’s sure I won’t believe her. I’m sure she got by in her previous life by keeping her mouth shut. I know it from the way her arms hold tight around my waist.
I don’t want to have to do this to her. Sit her in that room across from Joe Causey and let him disbelief her. But it’s coming. The only thing I can do is try to gain a little control over where it happens, and when.
“I believe you,” I tell her. Jane squeezes tighter. “We’ll make this quick. It’ll be over soon.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jane Mendoza
It takes a couple days of negotiation between lawyers and the police department, but finally it’s agreed that Joe Causey will come here. It took a while but still feels too soon.
Paige goes first, red-faced and silent, her arms crossed over her chest. I wish I could be in there for moral support, but apparently it’s important that we’re questioned separately. At least Beau is inside with her, but that presents its own kind of danger.
He’s volatile when he’s near the detective.
I can’t think over the heavy beat of my heart. The sharp edge of Joe’s voice is all I can hear through the floor. Pacing is too loud but standing still is its own form of torture.
I’m braced for the yelling of men or the screams of a scared child.
They never come.
“Jane?” Mateo stands at the foot of the stairs, Paige a foot away from him with her jaw jutted out. I go to meet them with a racing pulse. Sweat pricks at my hairline. I don’t trust the police. It feels awful having Joe in this house. “They’re ready for you.”
At the bottom of the steps, I get down on one knee to look Paige in the eye. “How are you doing, sweetheart? Can I give you a hug?”
She gives a quick shake of her head. No. That’s fair. I suppose it mirrors how I feel about this, too. No. Not now, not today, not ever. But like her, I don’t have a choice about it.
“How about we go get some ice cream at the shop downtown?” Mateo suggests.
Paige cuts a glance up at him. It’ll be better if she’s not here for whatever happens next. Better for her to be away from the thick tension in the house.
I’m torn between not wanting to let her out of my sight and not wanting her to be here while I’m being questioned. Interviewed. Interrogated.
Whatever you call it when you’re not a suspect…
But maybe I am a suspect.
“You can get extra chocolate syrup,” I tell her. “And all the sprinkles you want. We’ll be waiting for you when you get home. I’ll wait on the front porch.”
“Do you promise?” she whispers, barely audible.
“I swear.” A small part of me thinks something big might happen. Joe Causey might announce that they have proof I’m responsible for the fire. He might arrest me before she gets back. No, that’s crazy. “Right by the door. I’ll be waiting when you get back.”
Paige hesitates, and so does my heart. I can’t walk away from her if she melts down. And I can’t hold her on my lap while I face Joe Causey.
“Okay.” She takes a tiny step toward Mateo.
He lets out a breath. “Extra chocolate syrup it is.”
“And sprinkles,” I hear her reminding him, her voice only a shadow of its usual strength.
They leave the inn, and I have no choice but to go into the room.
A rectangular table sits in the middle of the room, pulled away from the wall where it normally rests. It’s innocuous, usually. A place to play the chess game that normally sits there. Somewhere to set down a cup of tea while you read a book.
Now it’s become the center of the room with chairs on either side.
It’s a dark-stained wood instead of stainless steel, but I can still imagine it as an interrogation room. Especially with Joe Causey giving me a cool, assessing look over the surface.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Mendoza,” he says with fake politeness.
Or maybe it’s real politeness. Maybe I’m overly suspicious because of all the cops I saw dragging children out of their family homes, taking them away from the mothers who were working the only jobs they could, stripping or prostituting themselves or selling drugs, to feed their children. And then the irony is, the government would give money to the foster parents. They wouldn’t help an actual family stay together, but they’d supplement some random alcoholic’s liquor fund if he had a spare bedroom. What kind of system was that?
I saw cops take sixteen-year-olds to jail when what they really needed was a hot meal and a mentor. I saw cops shoot foster kids in the street for doing nothing at all while rich kids were on TV getting off on theft and manslaughter.
Logically I know that some cops are good, but the problem is that when you’re faced with one of them, there’s no way to tell whether this is one of the good ones or not.
“Hello,” I say, my tone wary. I stand at the door.
The first man I notice is Edward Basil, the lawyer who showed up this morning. He has a fatherly air and kind eyes. He sat with me for a few minutes before Causey arrived. Just tell the truth. If you don’t remember something, say you don’t remember. If he asks you questions quickly, you can take as much time as you need to answer. He’ll want it to seem like he’s in charge, but really you run the show, Jane.
It was a nice sentiment, even
if I can’t quite believe it.
Beau pulls out a chair for me. In his eyes I find reassurance and a sense of belonging. He may be Paige’s uncle, Paige’s guardian, but he’s my boss. He’ll protect me from this—whatever this is. “This shouldn’t take too long,” he says in a warning tone directed at the detectives.
Only then do I notice the other detective in the room. A woman with short blonde hair and a pinstripe pantsuit watches us. “Of course we don’t want to inconvenience you,” she says, her soothing tone a sharp counterpoint to Joe Causey’s dark gaze. She gives me a small, professional smile. “I’m Detective Nell Moss, and I believe you’ve met my partner, Detective Joe Causey.”
Maybe it’s a good cop/bad cop setup.
I slide into the seat that Beau holds out for me and place my hands on the table. That feels weird, so I shove them onto my lap instead. I can’t help but imagine bright lights on my face and cinder block walls. A camera recording my every move in the corner. And a one-way mirror where a prosecutor watches, ready to press charges. I know the inn is comfortable, cozy, but I can feel none of its warmth as the cops take seats opposite me.
“Can you state your name for the record?” the woman asks.
“Jane Elizabeth Mendoza.”
The female detective writes it down on an old-fashioned flip notepad. “You understand that you are not under arrest. Your answers here are given of your own free will, and they are true to the best of your ability.”
Hearing the words under arrest from a detective makes my pulse pound. I glance at the lawyer. He gives an encouraging nod, adding, “You’re not under oath,” he says gently, with a sideways look at the detectives. “And there’s no reason to suspect her of anything.”
Joe Causey leans forward. “I wouldn’t go that far. You’re not under arrest. Not under oath. Only because we don’t have enough evidence to hold you.”
“If you badger my client, I will terminate this interview,” the lawyer says, his voice stern.
