by Tessa Wegert
“This is entirely your call,” McIntyre said. “I’m just saying you should give him a chance. Tim’s a good man, Shay.”
“I know he is.” In the three months I’d known him, Tim hadn’t done a thing to suggest he lacked empathy. About everything else, in every situation, he’d been sympathetic but strong, compassionate without being feeble. That was part of the problem. I liked the guy. Tim’s opinion of me mattered.
“If you need help out there, he can give it to you.”
“Speaking of help,” I said, anxious to change the subject, “have you got a few minutes to do some recon work on our witnesses?”
McIntyre missed her detective days, and I knew she’d love to pitch in. With a smile in her voice she said, “What do you need to know?”
I gave her every name I had and asked her to poke around for anything peculiar. Assault charges, divorces, bankruptcies.
“I’ll text you when I’ve got something, see if you’re free,” she said.
I thanked her and quickly hung up. The walls of the shed were quaking. Through the back window I could see the river raging like an open ocean. If Jasper was unlucky enough to end up down there, then down there he would stay.
Tell Tim. I pressed my hands over my eyes. Where would I even begin? There was no way I could tell him, not now. Maybe not ever.
My conversation with McIntyre still fresh in my mind, I flipped open my notebook and started to map out the case. Back at the Ninth Precinct, I’d have an interactive whiteboard or touch screen to help me picture the connections I’d made. All I’d get in A-Bay was a communal bulletin board.
Out on the island, pen and paper would have to do.
There were links all over the place. Our witnesses all had ties to Jasper and to each other. They interacted in the city, on the island, at work. By the time I was done with my preliminary visualization, the notebook page was filled with scribbles and lines and I was staring at what looked like a distorted family tree.
When I stepped back outside I could swear my nose hairs frosted up. The house loomed tall before me as I struggled against the force of the wind. The rain was relentless, painful on my exposed skin. I was dying for a hot coffee and desperately needed to pee, and I wasn’t sure how to go about resolving either issue. Being at the Sinclairs was like visiting a great-aunt’s house when you’re a kid. You tiptoe around without touching anything, and deep down you just want to go home.
My gaze returned to the second-floor windows. Flynn and Ned’s bedroom was on the other side of the house, and Camilla’s was upstairs. Norton’s sleeping quarters were on the main floor, so the rooms on either side of Jasper’s must belong to Bebe and Miles, and Jade. In one of the windows a curtain twitched and a pale flash caught my eye. I squinted up at it. What on earth? Jade was in her bedroom, and damned if she wasn’t smoking a cigarette. Behind the pane she took a drag, looked down at me, and smiled.
I watched the teenager, and she watched me. Jade hadn’t factored into my investigation yet, but this wine-guzzling, cigarette-smoking child would need to be vetted just like everyone else. After a minute she broke eye contact. She’d grown bored with me, I guess. Funny how she didn’t seem bothered by my presence on the island, let alone the fact that she woke up this morning to find her fun-loving uncle was gone.
Jade disappeared behind the curtain, but I stayed put. What was it Tim said earlier? Jade spent a lot of time brooding in her room.
And from that room, she had a perfect view of the shed.
THIRTEEN
I was the kind of wet that wraps you in gooseflesh and blast-freezes your bones. Dripping all over the mudroom floor, I did my best to clean off my boots and shivered out of my jacket. Then I crouched down on the tiles.
I’d noticed something about the Sinclairs. Aside from Abella, who was in stocking feet today, they all wore house shoes. Apparently, going shoeless in the house was gauche—and based on Camilla’s reaction to Abella’s dirty footprints in Abella’s story, so was wearing street shoes. It explained why Flynn was in summer shoes in October, and the disapproving looks Tim and I got when we sullied the family’s floors with our boots. Personally I’m a fan of thick socks indoors, but the Sinclairs’ custom was fine by me. It gave me a chance to examine the discarded shoes lined up along the mudroom wall.
One by one, I turned each shoe over to inspect the sole. I was looking for one thing in particular: dried mud. The rain started late afternoon on the previous day, and everyone in the family had arrived at the house by then. The shoes were a way to corroborate Abella’s story and find out who else was wandering around in the storm on the night Jasper disappeared.
It was easy enough to match the shoes to their owners. Jade’s sneakers were the smallest, while Flynn’s, an expensive designer brand, were huge. The wing tips had to belong to Miles the lawyer. Ned’s loafers were as long and lean as he was, and Camilla wore pretty boat shoes, sensibly flat. Bebe’s were Italian, also designer. The filthy rubber boots could only belong to Norton. That left Abella’s kitten-heel booties and the shoes that, somehow, Jasper left behind.
Between Norton’s walk down to the boathouse to greet us and his trips outside to restock the parlor basket with firewood, he had an excuse for the wet mud that caked the bottoms of his boots. The state of the other shoes was what concerned me. Aside from Camilla’s and Jade’s, all showed traces of mud and yellow, tender bits of leaves. Bebe’s and Ned’s included a dash of sawdust; they’d been in the shed, no question. Miles’s were especially messy, but that could be because he’d searched the grounds with Norton that morning. Strangely, Jasper’s shoes were also tainted with dried mud. That meant five of the guests, plus Jasper himself, spent time outside between the previous afternoon when it started to rain and our arrival that morning on Tern Island.
My pants felt like spandex against my legs as the wet fabric pulled tight over my thighs. Leaving the shoes the way I found them, I rose to standing and stepped into the kitchen. At the apartment, I always keep a pot of coffee on the counter. I can’t say it’s always fresh and hot, but that’s not the point. It’s strong, and ready when I needed it. There was no coffee in the Sinclairs’ kitchen, at least none that I could see. Norton probably hid the machine away in a custom cabinet, cleaned and prepped for morning. The kitchen was completely deserted. But something wasn’t right. I sensed movement. A whisper, slow and steady, source unknown.
The baby-fine hairs on my neck lifted as my eyes darted around the room. What was that sound? More important, why did every muscle in my body strain back toward the door from which I’d come?
The realization hit me all at once. Across the room, a burner on the gas range flickered blue. The flame licked the underside of a small pot. I ventured closer, images of boiled bunnies racing through my mind. Bracing myself, I looked inside. It was water, nothing more. Nearly all of it had evaporated and the cup or so that was left sizzled softly, trying to disappear.
“Um, can I help you?”
I’d already turned off the burner and was holding the hot pot by its handle when Jade swept into the room. I could have left the water where it was, but the disembodied quality it brought to the kitchen unsettled me. I wanted it gone. I was already jittery, and Jade’s voice made me jump. “Give it,” she said, and made a grab for the handle, upending the scalding water onto my hand.
I yelped and clutched my hand to my chest as the empty pot clattered across the floor. The pain was exquisite; every cell in my body shrieked. I ground my teeth so hard I thought I might crush the enamel into dust. A world away Jade was babbling excuses. I tuned them out and chanced a glance at my hand.
I was of sound mind when I entered that kitchen. Thinking about Bram in the shed hadn’t impaired my judgment. I’m not saying there haven’t been times when it did. A string of words spoken just the right way or the clang of old pipes can take me back. But in spite of what Carson thinks, the memories don’t r
attle me. If anything, they make me more vigilant. They remind me people can turn on you faster than an eyeblink, and that the smart ones will make sure you never see them coming.
I was of sound mind, yes. But when I looked at my palm, pink as a boiled Easter ham, it wasn’t a burn I saw, but blood. Blood, slick and glossy, gluey and thick. Blood between my fingers and coating my nails. It was like those thirteen months and the distance they put between me and Bram never happened. The walls pressed in around my body, and I found myself thinking, Please don’t let this blood be his. Oh God, I’m too late.
Fear, dazzling in its intensity, coursed through me. The flashback was so convincing I wanted to cry. My chest exploded with pain and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, the imagined blood on my hand was gone.
It was a second-degree burn, real bad. Soon it would puff up, then blister, then leak, a full-course dinner of pain. Studying the injury triggered a sinking feeling in my gut. It was my right hand. The hand I needed to fire my gun.
“What the hell.” It was the best I could come up with. I was incensed. I couldn’t prove it, but I was sure Jade burned me on purpose. This was no accident.
That’s ridiculous, I told myself, she’s just a kid.
As quickly as the paranoid thoughts arrived, logic drove them from my mind. The memories don’t rattle me. They only make me stronger. Believe it, Shay.
“What are you even doing in here?” Jade said.
“Me?” The girl’s oblivion left me slack-jawed with awe. “What about you?”
“I was making tea.”
“You’re supposed to stay in the parlor.”
“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” She ogled my hand with repugnance. “But maybe you do.”
At fourteen, she was nearly as tall as me, so when we glared at each other we were eye to eye. I turned and strode off toward the sink. Cold water from the faucet slapped my raw skin and I sucked in air through my teeth. “I saw you. In your room.”
“So? I needed a break. Everyone’s so fucking serious in there, it’s exhausting. Anyway, the other detective said I could go.”
I didn’t believe her. If she’d voiced a desire for tea, Norton would have made it for her. Tim had corralled everyone and monitored them all day. He wouldn’t invite Jade to wander off now.
“Go get your dad. Right now,” I said. I need a witness so I don’t wring your neck. “Tell him I have some questions for you both.”
Jade leveled her gaze. The corner of her mouth twitched. “I know what she did.”
I was still occupied with my hand, opening whisper-smooth cabinet drawers in search of a first-aid kit, so her statement caught me off guard. My blood got viscous in my veins, damned up. Which she was Jade talking about? Abella? Bebe? Camilla? Or someone else?
“What who did, Jade?” I stepped in closer. “If you know what happened to Jasper, you need to tell me.”
She was outfitted with those trendy invisible braces, though her mouth didn’t appear to need fixing. When she smiled, the teeth she flashed between candy-gloss lips were perfection. Teenage girls aren’t supposed to have Jade’s confidence and polish. This kid was growing up too fast. If Jade no longer considered herself a child, that could elicit a whole world of trouble. I’d seen it happen before, and I feared Jade was on her way down the same path.
“Who’s she?” I repeated. “What did she do?”
Jade batted her lashes. “I honestly have no idea?”
There were a dozen things I could have said, a dozen ways to make her talk. But just then, from somewhere on Jade’s body, came the unmistakable chime of a mobile device.
“That you?” I asked, cocking my head. “Nah. How could it be, when Wellington told you to turn off your phone?”
Jade blanched. “I—”
“Did you contact anyone with that device after we got here? And don’t bother lying,” I said, “because I’m about to check for myself.”
Her expression darkened. “It’s notifications. I didn’t talk to anyone.”
“Friends from school? Classmates?”
“I said no, okay?”
I wasn’t buying her story—what kind of teenage girl doesn’t reach out to her friends when her life’s turned upside down? Jade was hiding something.
“Unlock the phone and hand it over.”
“What? No way.”
Her cryptic words—I know what she did—were gaining mass in my mind, elbowing everything out of their way. “Failure to comply with a criminal investigation is obstruction of justice,” I said, because I was suddenly sure her device was the key to figuring this family out. “Remove it from your pocket and unlock it. Now.”
For a few seconds she didn’t budge. Then she lifted her T-shirt high enough for me to see her flat, white stomach and slid the phone from between her waistband and the sharp bone of her hip.
I stuck out my good hand and said, “Give it to me.” I had no right to seize her phone as evidence, no proof it contained anything that was pertinent to the investigation. All I had was a feeling and a profound yearning to teach the kid a lesson. At the time, it felt like enough.
Jade pressed her thumb against the home button to unlock it, but her hands were too sweaty. I watched her type in her passcode. Even then, the phone stayed in her grip.
You know that game kids play where they pass a hand over their face and change their expression—happy, sad, angry—like the hand controls their mood? That was Jade, except her mood swings were real. “Fuck you,” she said as she wagged the unlocked phone in my face.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s text messages or goddamn emojis, you’re withholding critical evidence related to Jasper’s disappearance. That’s a misdemeanor, Jade, punishable by up to a year in jail.” I was improvising. I was desperate. “I’m not kidding about this, not even a little.”
Jade went inert. Then, just as quickly, her expression changed again. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. “God, relax. Here, it’s yours,” she said—and it was. The palm of my left hand was open, waiting. But when Jade finally thrust the phone at me, she went for my right. The girl aimed straight for the burn. Smacked the device against my boiled hand with so much force that I cried out in pain.
“You little . . .” I gasped. The pain was dazzling.
Another flawless smile. “You asked for it.”
“What the hell is going on in here?”
Bebe stood in the kitchen doorway, her jaunty hairstyle at odds with her downturned mouth. “Jade? I thought you were using the bathroom. What are you doing with her?”
“You were all asked to stay with Wellington,” I said, trying to pull myself together. “But since you’re here, you should know Jade intentionally evaded his request and concealed a device that could be integral to our investigation.” You want to play, Jade? Let’s play.
“Jade’s a fourteen-year-old child,” Bebe said. “You can’t take anything she says seriously.”
“It was a flat-out lie. Deliberate disobedience.”
“Jasper’s missing. Jade’s very upset.”
“She has my phone, Bebe,” Jade said suddenly. “Make her give it back.”
“As I said,” I repeated, “I have reason to believe this device—”
“Wait a minute, were you questioning her?” Bebe’s nostrils flared. “You can’t do that, she’s underage! You can’t question a minor without an adult or guardian. Everyone knows that.”
Witnesses don’t usually refuse to be questioned unless they have something to hide. I wondered what Bebe didn’t want Jade to reveal. “All right,” I said. Not I haven’t arrested her, so I can question her all I like, not she’s the one who came to me. Just all right. I needed Miles and Bebe to give me access to the kid so I could find out what she knew. If Jade shut down at their behest, nothing I said wou
ld open her up again. “Let’s talk, then. All of us.”
“I don’t think so,” Bebe said. “You should know that when this is over and done I’ll be issuing a formal complaint.”
Over and done. Like her brother’s disappearance and the blood-soaked sheets he left behind were a minor inconvenience that would soon be sorted, laughed about for years to come.
Without another word Bebe grabbed the girl’s arm and hauled her from the room. Before they were out of sight Jade looked over her shoulder at me and sneered.
This time I smiled back.
Jade’s phone was still in my hand.
FOURTEEN
My God,” said Camilla Sinclair. “You’re a mess.”
Word for word it was the same thing Norton told me minutes earlier in the kitchen, when Bebe and Jade left and he found me wet and injured staring down at the phone in my hand. I’d long since forgotten the discomfort of clothing that slurped when I moved. I had full access to Jade’s phone. Without knowing how quickly it would auto-lock again, though—my own phone was set for the standard five minutes—I didn’t have much time to nose through it before it would be rendered inaccessible. I needed to be alone. And now here was Norton.
Deep creases formed on his forehead as I told him what happened, and he apologized for my burn so profusely you’d think he caused it himself. Grabbing some ointment and gauze from a cupboard, he insisted on bandaging my hand. He was efficient, and soon the burn was wrapped tight. I waited for him to be on his way. Instead, he ushered me out of the kitchen and down the hall to face his boss.
“Detective Wellington,” Camilla said, turning to Tim, “will you permit me to find your associate some dry clothes?” She lifted her chin, and for a second the pleats of skin on her neck were as taut and smooth as Bebe’s. The firelight gave Camilla some much-needed color, but all in all she looked worse than when I saw her last. “We’re about the same size, she and I. She can accompany me upstairs, if you like.”
