Flight

by Laura Griffin

  “Who ran the prints?” Joel asked.

  “Miranda did.”

  She was working at the police station after refusing to go to the clinic and get checked out.

  Nicole looked at the nature center entrance, where CSIs were shuttling back and forth with evidence bags and cardboard boxes.

  “How’s it going here?” Nicole asked.

  “So far, we found several pots of hemlock and an interesting collection of feathers,” Joel said.

  “What about phones and wallets?”

  He shook his head. “But our search warrant is on the way. Maybe we’ll turn up something at their house.”

  “If the pistol checks out, we might not need the phones and wallets.”

  “We need everything we can get.”

  His tone was sharp, and Nicole studied his face.

  Joel’s jaw was tense. His clothes were still damp from fishing Miranda out of the bay. He turned and looked toward it now. Several portable klieg lights shone down on the boat dock where Tom Miller had been wrestled to the ground. The motorized skiff there—which was used by the nature center for turtle rescues—was presumed to be the boat that had been used to approach Liz and Will’s canoe. It all made sense now. If Alexander Kendrick had passed the nature center on his bike and recognized a car or a person in the parking lot around the time of the murders, he could have figured out that Daisy and Tom Miller were involved. Whether he had realized it or not, he was a possible eyewitness, and someone had wanted him eliminated.

  The shoe print in the flower bed suggested that someone was Tom Miller.

  But who had pulled the trigger on the others? Was it Daisy? Her husband? Were they working together? The two were being questioned separately right now by FBI agents trained in interrogation, and Nicole knew Joel was pissed. He’d wanted to do it himself, but Brady had made him sit this one out. The chief wasn’t clueless. And he evidently thought that Joel’s personal connection to one of the victims—namely, Miranda—might be a conflict of interest.

  Nicole thought he was right. A case this high-profile was sure to come under intense scrutiny, and the chief couldn’t afford any mistakes.

  Nicole suspected Joel knew that. But still he looked tense and tired and more than a little frustrated.

  “It’s a .38, you know.”

  Joel looked at her. “What’s that?”

  “The gun Tom had on him. It’s already been sent to the lab to see if the slugs match.”

  He nodded.

  “We got him, Joel. No matter what crazy story they come up with. The physical evidence is overwhelming already, even if we never find the cell phones or the wallets or size eleven sneakers. We’ve got enough to nail them.”

  Joel raked a hand through his hair. He turned and looked at Miranda’s Jeep, which was still swarming with CSIs. One was crouched beside the back bumper measuring the bullet hole near her tire.

  Nicole suspected that bullet hole was the real thing driving Joel crazy right now.

  She stepped closer. “Hey, we’ve got things covered here, if you want to head to the station.”

  Joel wanted to be with Miranda—it was written all over his face.

  “Go,” she said. “Emmet’s here. I’m here. Owen’s here. We got this.”

  Joel looked at his brother, who wasn’t known for being the most buttoned-up guy on the planet. But even Owen was rising to the occasion tonight.

  “Go, Joel. We’ve got this covered.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  He took his keys from his pocket.

  “Hey, tell her thanks,” Nicole said.

  “Who?”

  “Miranda. Who do you think? We never could have done this without her.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  Seagulls screeched outside the window as Miranda dragged herself out of bed. She didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was past eight. Benji’s bed was empty. Miranda dressed and went into the kitchen.

  The light on the coffeepot was on, and she felt a rush of joy. A yellow sticky note sat beside her favorite Snoopy mug.

  WENT FOR A RUN.

  Miranda poured herself some coffee and took it out onto the deck. A thin fog hung over the beach, and she couldn’t see very far up the coast. Grabbing the yellow beach towel off the chair, she went downstairs and crossed the bridge spanning the dunes. Insects trilled all around her, and the vines carpeting the hills were thick with dewy morning glories.

  Miranda stepped onto the beach and tipped her head back to look at the sky. She took a deep gulp of fresh air. She’d slept hard again. Slowly but surely, the anxiety that had had her in its grip for months was loosening its hold.

  She spread her towel on the sand and sat down to watch the sandpipers as sunlight glimmered off the water. Her coffee tasted rich and strong. The air around her smelled of fog. Everything was sharp and vibrant, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so alive.

  A runner and a dog caught her eye, and Miranda felt a jolt of yearning. Every time she saw them together, her heart swelled. She knew the instant Benji spotted her because he broke into a sprint.

  She braced herself as he charged up to her and raced around the towel, kicking up sand. She tried to pet him, but he darted for the waves.

  Joel halted beside her, resting his hand on his hips. Sweat streamed down his temples, and his damp T-shirt clung to his body.

  “You’re up.”

  “Of course.”

  He sank to the sand beside her and leaned back on his elbows. “Of course?” he turned and smiled at her, and she saw her disheveled reflection in his shades.

  “I just got up,” she said.

  “No kidding.” He turned and kissed her neck, brushing his wet hair against her chin.

  “You’re slimy!”

  He dragged her down and pinned her wrists. “Kiss me.”

  “Eww.”

  But she leaned up and kissed him anyway, and he tasted salty and musky and amazing, like he always did, and every cell in her body responded. She slid her hand over his lean waist and dipped her fingers into the back of his shorts.

  He smiled down at her. “You save me some coffee?”

  “Yep.”

  They sat up and turned to watch Benji frolicking in the waves. He raced down the shore, scaring up a trio of seagulls.

  Joel pulled his shades off and wiped his brow with the back of his arm. “The chief called.”

  “Oh yeah?” She could tell by his tone that something had happened.

  “We got a confession,” he said.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “From?”

  “Him.”

  The news left her slightly dazed. For three weeks, both Tom and Daisy Miller had refused to talk, leaving investigators to piece together what had happened. As near as they could tell, Daisy was the mastermind behind the killings—a conclusion supported by the extreme reading material they found on her computer, including the Unabomber manifesto, which railed against development and modern technology. Somewhere along the way, her passion had turned into an obsession, and she’d become fixated on local companies that personified what she viewed as evil. So, she developed a hit list.

  Who actually carried out the murders was another question.

  “What did he confess to?” Miranda asked.

  “He shot Alexander.”

  A bitter lump lodged in her throat. She turned away.

  “Why? After three weeks of stonewalling, why talk now?”

  “Part of it was the shoe-print evidence,” Joel said. “Once they found those Nikes at his house and got a match, there was no way he could wiggle out of it. Plus, he hired his own lawyer a couple days ago, so I guess he got advice that he had to come clean or risk taki
ng the fall for everything. He claims Daisy was responsible for the other murders, and that he didn’t even know about them—only suspected—until Liz and Will.”

  “Why would he kill Alexander?”

  “He said Daisy pressured him to. Alexander was a witness who could identify Tom’s truck in the parking lot of the nature center at the time of the murders, so she insisted they needed to eliminate him.” Joel paused. “It’s the same reason, according to Tom, that she set fire to the lighthouse while you were there. Tom said his wife was obsessed with you. She’d been stalking you, just like Liz and Will. She wanted to eliminate anyone who was too close to the truth.”

  Miranda shivered. Deep down, she’d known someone wanted her to die in that fire, but it felt strange to hear it confirmed.

  “But I wasn’t even an eyewitness to anything,” she said.

  “You came up with the lead about the feathers,” Joel said. “Maybe she was worried you knew too much.”

  Miranda looked out at the waves, trying to digest everything. “Why would Tom even admit all this?”

  “Who knows? But if he testifies against his wife, he can probably cut a deal and avoid the death penalty.”

  Tears stung Miranda’s eyes, and she shook her head. “So pointless. Such a waste.”

  “I know.”

  Benji raced over and shook water all over them. Miranda stroked his fur. It was gritty with sand, but she hugged him anyway, taking comfort in how oblivious he was to all the bad that had happened. She kissed his head, and he zipped off again.

  Joel picked up her hand and squeezed it. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She heaved a sigh. “I’m glad it’s over.”

  “Me, too.”

  She turned to look at him, and his blue eyes were intent on her. His concern for her was palpable, always. She hadn’t gotten used to someone caring so much about her feelings and how things affected her. It was a level of intimacy she’d never experienced before.

  She looked out at the surf. “So . . . I heard from Bailey yesterday.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “She and her fiancé want to drive down this weekend.”

  “Great.”

  “And since they’re coming, my parents will probably drive up from Padre and spend the day.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Everyone wants to meet you.”

  “Good. I want to meet them.”

  She searched his eyes. “Really?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, really. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. Everyone all at once might be a little much.”

  “I think I can handle it.” He bumped his shoulder against hers. “Can you?”

  “Yes. But I don’t want to put pressure on you.”

  “Miranda?”

  “What?”

  “I love you.”

  She stared at him, and his smile turned into a grin.

  Emotions flooded her. Happiness and nervousness and disbelief.

  “You love me,” she repeated.

  “Yes. I want to meet your family. I want to meet everyone who’s important to you.” He squeezed her hand. “Why do you look so shocked?”

  “I love you, too.”

  Just saying the words made her heart flutter, especially when he leaned close and kissed her.

  “I know,” he said.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve been paying attention.” He eased her back against the sand, and his smile turned serious as he hovered over her.

  She pulled his head down and kissed him. And like always, it went from sweet to desperate in only a few heartbeats. His hand slid under her shirt, and the burning-hot need took over. She couldn’t stop touching him, grasping him, pulling him closer to prove that this was real.

  He eased back, and his eyes glinted down at her. “We can’t do this here.”

  “Why not?” She kissed him again, sliding her leg between his.

  “Seriously.” He pulled back. “Let’s go home.”

  He got up and tugged her to her feet, and she grabbed the towel. She shook the sand from it and looked for Benji, but he was all the way down the beach chasing birds.

  Joel gave a sharp whistle. Benji turned and sprinted right up to him.

  “How do you get him to do that for you?”

  “He knows when I mean business.” Joel snagged her empty coffee mug and grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

  “Wait.”

  She pulled him close and gazed up at the man who’d turned her life upside down since the moment she’d met him. He was hard and stubborn and brave and tender, and she couldn’t believe how fast her life had changed since the day they’d met.

  “I love you, Joel Breda.” She smiled. “Just had to tell you that again.”

  He kissed her softly. And then he pulled her down the beach.

  “Tell me again at home.”

  Read on for Laura Griffin’s next spine-tingling suspense novel,

  LAST SEEN ALONE

  Available in fall 2021 from Berkley

  He was late, and she shouldn’t have been surprised.

  Vanessa buzzed down the window a few inches and cut the engine. Crisp, piney air seeped into the car, along with the faint scent of someone’s campfire. She checked her phone. Nothing. She settled back in her seat to wait.

  Her headlights illuminated a clump of trees—spindly fresh ones, along with the pointed gray spires that had burned years ago. She looked at the stars beyond the treetops. Once upon a time, she’d stretched out on a patch of grass not far from here with Cooper, gazing up at the sky and trying to pick out constellations. Orion. Leo. The Big Dipper. The memory seemed strange. Fanciful. Everything like that was gone now, replaced by a dull ache that never went away. Her emotions felt like tar, thick and heavy in her veins, and even swinging her legs out of bed required effort.

  Yet here she was.

  She was sick of the dread in her stomach. She was sick of being a silent bystander to her own life.

  Vanessa eyed the bottle of Jim Beam peeking out from beneath the passenger seat. She reached for it and checked her phone again before twisting off the cap.

  Late, late, late.

  She took a swig. The bourbon burned the back of her throat, but then she felt a warm rush of courage. She could do this.

  Headlights, high and bright, flashed into her rearview mirror. Her shoulders tensed as she listened to the throaty sound of the approaching truck. It pulled up behind her and the lights went dark.

  Vanessa stashed the bottle on the floor and wiped her damp palms on her jeans. Her stomach flip-flopped as he slid from the pickup and walked over. She couldn’t believe she was doing this.

  He stopped by the car, and she pushed the door open. He watched her from beneath the brim of his ratty baseball cap, and she could smell the smoke on his clothes. Marlboro Reds.

  “Long time,” he said.

  “Do you have it?”

  He held up a bag.

  It was a lunch sack, like her mom used to pack for her. PBJ and a pudding cup. Vanessa took the bag, and the paper felt soft and greasy. She looked inside.

  “That’s four hundred.”

  Her head snapped up. “You said three fifty!”

  He pulled the bag away. “I need four.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  His gaze dropped to her breasts, and she knew that look. Her gut clenched. The thought of sex right now made her want to throw up.

  Twisting in her seat, she grabbed her leather tote from the back. She pulled the stack of bills from her wallet and counted twenty twenties. She turned and held them out.

  Tucking the sack under his arm, he took the cash and thumbed through it.

  “You look different,”
he said, and she caught the disapproval.

  Vanessa gritted her teeth and waited. His attention fell to the bottle on the floor, and his brow furrowed as he leaned on the door.

  “You all right, Van?”

  “Yeah.”

  Something flickered across his face. Pity? Tenderness? She had to be imagining it.

  “That’s not really for your sister, is it?”

  Vanessa didn’t respond. It was none of his damn business. He stepped away, and she yanked the door shut.

  For a moment he didn’t move. But then he turned and walked back to his truck, stuffing her money into his back pocket.

  The lights flashed on. Wincing, she watched in her rearview mirror as he backed up and made a three-point turn. When he was gone, she rested her hand on her stomach and let out a breath.

  Vanessa started her car. She retraced her route over the pitted road until she reached the two-lane highway. When her tires hit smooth pavement, she pressed the gas and a wave of dizziness washed over her—probably the whiskey. She sighed with relief as the Austin skyline came into view.

  Done.

  She looked at the houses—some with lights on, some without—scattered on either side of the highway. Through a gap in the pines she caught a glimpse of the lake glimmering under the half moon.

  Eying the brown bag beside her, she felt a pang of yearning. She checked the mirror, then pulled onto the shoulder and parked. She grabbed the bag and reached inside.

  Seventeen ounces.

  It felt heavier than she’d imagined. She held the pistol in her palm and ran her thumb over the textured grip. For the first time in months, the knot of fear in her stomach loosened. She’d never been brave, never in her life. But people could change.

  Headlights winked into the mirror, and she glanced up. High and bright again, probably a pickup truck. Squinting, she watched them get closer and closer.

  Vanessa’s nerves skittered. Was it slowing down?

  Had someone followed her here? But she’d been careful. Not just careful—vigilant. She’d taken every precaution.