Black Rock Bay

by Brianna Labuskes

  A protest slipped out, scraping against his throat. “Don’t leave me.”

  “I don’t think you’ll make it up those stairs.” This wasn’t the time for a debate. If needed, she could put pressure on the right places so that he would go down without a fight. She didn’t want it to come to that, though.

  “I will. Let me try,” Robert said, lifting his chin. “Let me try.”

  She met his eyes. This was a man who had spent however many days locked in a damp basement. If the situation were reversed, she’d rather do anything than be left behind.

  “Okay. But if you need to stop . . .”

  “I won’t.”

  Mia took him for his word and started up. She didn’t need to turn to make sure he was keeping up; his breathing was loud enough that she could track his progress.

  By the time they got to the top, sweat had beaded along his hairline, and his face was nearly gray in the light from the single bulb above their heads.

  But he’d made it.

  Neither of them smiled in celebration this time.

  She held her finger to her lips and then tested the knob. Again, it gave beneath her hand, and in the next second she was in a kitchen, one she hadn’t been in before. But she knew where she was. The abandoned house, the one Peter had been caught sneaking into.

  The door to the back was right there, only three strides away. But she was frozen.

  Too easy. This was all too fucking easy.

  Mia glanced toward Robert, who had moved toward the counter with the sink. Not toward the door.

  Too easy.

  What were the chances they’d make it this far? Almost zero.

  Everything slowed down as she watched Robert open a drawer without any hesitation. He knew the layout too well.

  In between heartbeats she looked toward the door once more. Three strides. That’s all it was. Throw the lock open; then she’d be outside. Free to get lost in the night.

  Too easy.

  But she had to try.

  She ducked on instinct and took one step before Robert’s voice stopped her.

  “I’m sorry I can’t let you do that, Detective,” he said, his voice holding enough authority to tell her that he had a weapon.

  Mia debated going for it anyway. She doubted he was a good shot. But they were close, close enough that he could just point and maybe hit something vital.

  She stilled, turning toward him, palms up. He was holding the gun with two hands like they did in bad movies, his stance wide and all wrong. He wasn’t shaking, though, which wasn’t a good sign for her.

  His side had to still be killing him—that wasn’t fake. She’d seen it. But desperation and stress did funny things to the body, and right now they seemed to be keeping him upright.

  “Why?” she asked, curious rather than betrayed. She should have questioned why he hadn’t been bound. It was a sloppy mistake.

  Robert bit his lip and then started to answer before a voice from the doorway interrupted him.

  “Oh, Detective,” Lacey Bell said, stepping into the room. “I do so hope you liked my game. It makes everything so much more interesting, don’t you think?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  IZZY

  Her. It’s always been her.

  The echo of Charles Bell’s voice drowned out every other thought. Izzy didn’t even realize that she was back in her car before she was sliding the key in the ignition. She’d tossed the journal onto the passenger seat, and it stared at her now as mindless pop music blared over the stereo. Its blank face was mocking in its neutrality. The pages held answers, but they were false ones. Just like the rest of the goddamn case.

  Bix didn’t write it.

  Someone set it up to look like Charles killed his wife. Someone wrote the journal, kept it hidden in the back of a closet just in case anyone went looking for a bad guy to blame.

  Those girls were all scared. That’s what Jimmy Roarke had said.

  But why did he think that?

  Bruises.

  A thumbprint blue-and-green splotch on a pale, delicate arm.

  “Jesus,” Izzy breathed out, staring, unseeing, out the windshield. Her pulse, a pounding beneath her ribs, almost painful.

  Lacey Bell.

  The girl’s fear had never been anything obvious, had always been subtle. That’s why Izzy had trusted it.

  That first interview. Her sweater had slipped up, offering a glimpse that had been so quick it was over between one blink and the next.

  The first seed planted?

  Later, when Izzy had run into her at the bar, she’d done it again. Jumped when the door slammed. She’d flushed and ducked out, with a believable embarrassment of someone who knew abuse, knew how to hide it.

  Then there’d been the cutoff remarks about Charles, never fully formed, never truly bitter, but hinting at a strict father who had a heavy hand.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Izzy slammed her palm against the steering wheel as every little moment stood out in sharp relief.

  Lacey had been the one to tell them Monroe was having an affair in the first place. Nothing concrete, no. That would have been too blatant. Just an impression, a suggestion. Give them enough information to be reliable, not enough to actually figure anything out.

  God, the bar. The scene at the bar had been played beautifully even before her fake fear. That napkin, the quick sketch of Monroe as a seductress in training. The sly grin. The pauses and downcast eyes.

  Monroe wasn’t mean . . . She wasn’t.

  An insistence that hadn’t even needed to be made if it wasn’t true, which Lacey would know. It put the idea that Monroe was mean, manipulative, the kind of person who treated others like playthings into Izzy’s head even as Lacey denied it.

  All of the little dots, dropped seemingly at random, to create a picture of a girl. And it was all lies.

  She hadn’t stopped at Monroe, either.

  I hope I didn’t make you think anything bad about Mia.

  That had been too brash, too much. Lacey had been slipping. An off note in an otherwise smooth concerto.

  At the time, Izzy had paused but had written it off as jealousy of Mia. Maybe resentment for her surviving instead of Monroe.

  But it was just another seed. She was setting something up.

  What?

  I hope I didn’t make you think anything bad about Mia.

  Just like with her assertion that Monroe wasn’t mean, Lacey was putting the thought into Izzy’s head even as she denied it, knowing it would stick there, fester, sour and oozing and begging to be noticed.

  So what had it accomplished?

  Lacey had said Mia showed up at the Bell mansion that day, upset about Cash, about Asher. Then she’d gotten quiet and left.

  It hit Izzy then. Lacey was going to pin it all on Mia.

  That was the missing long-term plan, the one Izzy couldn’t figure out. Mia was going to take the fall for whatever had happened that night. Perhaps there was even a record of her traveling to the island in the last couple of months, one that Izzy would conveniently find at the right time.

  A sharp buzzing threatened at the corner of Izzy’s brain, and she forced herself to ignore it.

  Had this been Lacey’s strategy all along? For decades?

  Lacey said she didn’t know how Earl had gotten there so fast.

  That had been Edie’s retelling of that night. That’s what Lacey had kept saying, even then, even at fifteen. Earl must have been her first attempt at setting up a fall guy.

  A sociopath in training.

  That Bell girl. The voice of Cash’s secretary, Dot, rang bitter and haunting in Izzy’s mind. That Bell girl had been cruel to Dot, had goaded her into humiliating herself in front of her peers, had laughed, had laughed along with Mia.

  And what had Lacey said about that night? That she was meeting Sammy Bowdoin. When she’d said it, she’d been defiant, all teenage pride and hurt ego that she’d been single in a group of coupled-up friends. It was so well
played. Distract, deflect. A master manipulator at work, at ease knowing just how to work the strings.

  Izzy licked her dry lips and dug her phone out of her pocket. Nothing from Mia. Had she even gotten any of Izzy’s previous messages?

  A horn honked in the distance, and Izzy recoiled, her body clearly braced for an attack that wasn’t coming while she was still in the safety of her car.

  The tangled nerves that sat heavy in her windpipe escaped on a breathy laugh that had nothing to do with humor, then got lost among the radio hosts’ inane chatter. Izzy slapped at the controls, her fingers fumbling with the buttons until there was nothing but silence and her ragged inhales that sounded far too close to hyperventilation.

  Izzy had to get back to St. Lucy’s.

  She pulled out onto the road, clearing her mind so that she didn’t lose control of the car. The miles ticked by, and she barely acknowledged them. The only thing that sank in was a sign letting her know she was twenty miles outside Rockport.

  When she passed that, she reached over blindly, her hand groping for her purse. Without taking her eyes off the road, Izzy dug for the business card she knew she’d shoved in there.

  Quinn picked up on the second ring. “Island Hops, how can I help you?”

  “Quinn, it’s Izzy. Santiago. From Rockport?”

  The laugh on the other line was mocking. “Yeah, I remember you from a day ago, babe.”

  “Right. Are you still on the mainland?”

  “Yup, stuck and bored as hell,” Quinn said, clearly missing the tightness in Izzy’s voice.

  “Any chance you can fly me back to St. Lucy’s?” Izzy asked, braking hard. She’d nearly blown through a red light without thought.

  “No can do, babe,” Quinn said. “Storm’s still sitting just off the coast.”

  Izzy pulled the phone away from her ear to keep the string of curses that sat on her lips from reaching Quinn.

  “Is there any way to get back to the island? Other than you?” Izzy asked.

  There was a long pause, a new kind of silence. Not the bored kind. Quinn must have finally picked up on something. “What’s going on?”

  “I need to get back to St. Lucy’s, Quinn,” Izzy said.

  Izzy could hear Quinn breathing, but she didn’t push. They were on the precipice of something, and Izzy didn’t want it to go the wrong way.

  “Okay.”

  Izzy closed her eyes for a heartbeat, afraid she was misunderstanding. “You’ll take me?”

  “We both might die,” Quinn said, and she was back to the careless attitude from before. Izzy couldn’t tell if she was just confident or if it was gallows humor. “But there’s a small gap in the clouds. Normally I wouldn’t risk it, but . . .”

  “Thank you,” Izzy said on an exhale.

  “You gotta be here in like fifteen minutes or the deal’s off.”

  Izzy glanced at the dashboard clock, trying to calculate all the possibilities. The only one that was realistic was driving directly to the docks. And even then, she’d be cutting it close.

  “I’ll be there,” Izzy said, then paused. They weren’t going to beat Lacey by charging in, guns drawn. For one, they had no evidence. She’d made sure of that. And two, she was much too smart to be caught off guard. Izzy could bet money that she had a plan on how this was going to end. “Would anyone on the island think you could make it back in this storm?”

  Quinn hummed in thought. “Nah. They’ll think I’m stuck.”

  Izzy smiled for the first time all day. “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MIA

  Mia didn’t take her eyes off Lacey as the woman stepped farther into the kitchen, closer to Robert. “Game?”

  “The daring escape, of course,” Lacey said, tilting her head, a childlike smile on her lips. “I thought you’d appreciate the challenge, Detective. And this pup is so willing to play.” Lacey patted Robert on the cheek. “So eager for a treat.”

  Robert’s hand shook, but the gun stayed pointed at Mia’s chest. Tears had turned his eyes glassy, and a low whine caught in his mouth as his gaze flicked almost helplessly to Lacey’s face. Embarrassment for the man burned hot in Mia’s cheeks.

  Lacey had done a number on him.

  “See, what a good boy,” Lacey cooed, her pointed nails scraping along his jaw in a facsimile of petting. Goose bumps that had nothing to do with the cold pulled tight on Mia’s arms. “Now you’re going to stay right here, and keep the detective where she is, okay?”

  Robert nodded but didn’t try to speak, and Lacey turned her full attention to Mia. She didn’t come closer, though. Instead, she hopped up onto the kitchen counter, just like she had in their interview.

  Lacey wasn’t twitchy this time. Her body was held in complete control, and Mia realized just how deep her act went.

  The pieces still didn’t all fit yet. But Mia knew that she’d been played.

  Monroe hadn’t been the one to tell Cash about the pregnancy that summer. Lacey had. She was the only possibility. It hadn’t been Asher, because Cash went to confront him. And it certainly hadn’t been Mia.

  That alone wouldn’t have been enough to set off alarm bells—Lacey could have been protecting her sister, or maybe she hadn’t known whom else to talk to so she went to Cash.

  Except . . .

  Except that Izzy said Lacey hadn’t known Monroe was pregnant when she’d questioned her. That Lacey hadn’t come right out and said Cash was lying about the baby, but she’d acted nervous.

  “Was Monroe pregnant?” Mia asked now, simple curiosity driving the question at this point.

  “Sweet Princess Monroe, pregnant at sixteen?” Lacey tipped her head back and laughed, rusted wind chimes. “Can you imagine?”

  Mia tried to remember Monroe without all of the suggestions Lacey had planted getting in the way. She’d been funny. Self-deprecating. A little mischievous, but never unkind. At least that’s what Mia had thought before a few days ago.

  “God, she was a prissy bitch, and you all worshipped her.” Lacey’s voice was threaded with bitterness, the tang of it metallic against Mia’s taste buds as she breathed it in.

  “You killed her,” Mia said, watching for anything. A flicker of emotion. Regret. Grief. Anything.

  And yet Lacey’s smile didn’t change. The dreamy quality of it would have Mia questioning Lacey’s sanity if not for the sharpness in her eyes.

  “Uh-uh-uh, Detective.” Lacey wagged her finger at Mia. “I’m not a killer. How dare you throw around such slander.”

  Mia closed her eyes, trying desperately to remember anything past the sharp slice of razor against skin. There was only darkness.

  But saliva pooled in her mouth, and she swallowed against the bile that burned at the base of her esophagus. “Asher.”

  Lacey clapped, a giddy schoolgirl, and kicked her heels against the bottom cabinets in some kind of celebration. “Oh, brava, Detective,” she said, her smile turning sly. “And it’s only taken you fifteen years to figure it out.”

  “Why would he have . . . ?”

  “Puppies are so easy to train, don’t you think?” Lacey asked, reaching out to slip her fingers into what remained of Robert’s hair, not even flinching at the sweat and grease. He didn’t shift away, almost nudged into the caress even as he stood bleeding from wounds Lacey had inflicted. This was no amateur; this was a skilled sociopath with years of practice.

  Everyone’s scared. Mia wondered how many people on the island Lacey had worked her manipulation on. Jimmy, who had fear in his eyes. Dot, who still had venom in her mouth. Ellen and her parting shot: Define “friends.”

  Cash.

  Mia wondered just how much his memories, his behaviors had been shaped and dictated.

  Lacey was watching her closely, continuing: “See, this one here, he’s quite weak. Doesn’t care about many things. All he wants is for the pain to stop.”

  “You told him you’d let him go if he played this silly little”—Mia waved to e
ncompass the room—“game. You told him he’d be free?”

  Pleasure sparked, quick and gone, over Lacey’s face. “No, darling. I told him the pain would stop.”

  Robert whined, a reedy, broken plea, knowing that was his death sentence, but Mia couldn’t spare him a thought.

  “And Asher?”

  Lacey tipped her head to the side, her eyes hooded, coy and smug at once. “Jealousy is sinfully potent, isn’t it?”

  “But Cash said he wasn’t sleeping with Monroe. Why would Asher . . . ?”

  The small smile didn’t fade as Lacey just continued to watch her, patient. “It wasn’t about Monroe, darling.”

  Mia shook her head, her memories slotting, reslotting as she caught on to what Lacey was hinting at. But, no. Asher hadn’t wanted Mia like that.

  “He had Monroe. He loved her.” That Mia trusted. “He didn’t care about me. About me and Cash.”

  The look Lacey gave her was genuine pity. “Please. You’re not that stupid.”

  “He didn’t,” she said again, but this time mostly to herself. He didn’t. But that picture lingered behind the denial, the one of them dancing. The one where it hadn’t been a joke. Mia whispered the accusation as it came to her.

  Lacey straightened. “Do you really understand so little? That’s disappointing.”

  Maybe that was supposed to be a jab, but Mia didn’t care. The more Lacey talked, the more time Mia had. “What am I supposed to understand?”

  “It’s one of those truths that make humans so exquisitely predictable,” Lacey said. “Children only want a toy when someone else has it. Asher couldn’t just let Cash play with his toy, now could he?”

  Mia cringed. “Asher wasn’t like that. You made him think that.”

  “I simply offered him a sympathetic ear.” Lacey shrugged. “Is that really such a terrible crime?”

  “You planted suggestions.” Just like Lacey had been doing this whole investigation. Again, she said, “You made him think that.”

  “Everyone has buttons you can push.” Lacey lazily shrugged one shoulder before pinching Robert’s earlobe hard enough to make him wince. The gun still didn’t waver. “You just have to find the right ones.”