Death in the Family

by Tessa Wegert

  How would I have handled this situation a year ago, before Bram and Carson and everything that came with them? I was definitely more suspicious now. Less self-assured. When I pressed him on it, Carson said Bram would make me stronger in the long run, both as a person and a cop, but he made sure to add that I wasn’t there yet. I couldn’t even use Tim as a barometer to measure how well I was doing my job, not now that Carson had me doubting him. I hated that Carson didn’t trust Tim, but I couldn’t ignore his warning. There was a reason why my fiancé said what he did.

  I used to be a good judge of character. Separating the heroes from the villains was my specialty. It was all so simple back then—get the bad guys, avenge the good. As I listened to McIntyre try to convince me I could count on Tim’s help all over again, I thought about how Tim had behaved since arriving on Tern Island. Despite evidence to the contrary, he refused to believe Jasper was dead. I’d relayed every bit of what I’d gleaned from our witnesses. Tim ignored it and stuck to his sunshine-and-rainbows theory that all was well.

  Tim knew the islands, and he knew the Sinclairs. At least, he knew of them. He seemed relaxed around the family. Like his guard was down. I thought it was an act, his way of getting on their good side, but what if there was more to it? Was it possible he’d met the Sinclairs before? Could it be Tim was concealing something? A relationship of some kind with our witnesses?

  I trusted that Tim was a competent investigator, but nothing about his behavior today buoyed my confidence about his ability to help solve this unusual case. He’d tried to incriminate Abella with a ridiculous theory about the blood in the bed. He’d allowed Jade to wander off on her own in the middle of our investigation. When Abella came to me asking to talk, at the exact moment I needed her to break, Tim sent her packing.

  Like everyone else in the house, Tim wanted to convince me his account of the situation was the gospel truth. Now, when I pictured him, all I saw were the smiles he’d traded with the Sinclairs and their guests over lunch. How quick he’d been to let me take the reins, and satisfied he was to fade into the background. His confidence on the water and on these islands. The muscles that strained against his clothes.

  I thanked McIntyre for her concern and reiterated that I was in full control.

  Then I closed my eyes and counted the heartbeats resonating in my hollow chest.

  TWENTY

  Trust is a trickster. A con man. A shark. We think we know it. We tell ourselves it’s a simple emotion. Either it’s present or it’s not.

  Before Bram took me, I trusted in myself. I knew where I came from and where I was going. I was sure about my life. If not for him, I’d still be in full possession of the mettle I once prided myself on. I’d never have drawn my weapon during an interview with a witness. And I would know with certainty whether Carson’s warning about Tim was a harbinger of dangers to come.

  Bram changed everything.

  It was a Friday, and after a week of long hours collaborating with the Seventh Precinct on the murders of Becca, Lanie, and Jess, I was spent. I’d followed a breadcrumb trail of eyewitness accounts, had spoken with everyone from the missing women’s friends and loved ones to bar patrons and strangers on the street. I felt duty bound to find the guy. The fact that he claimed to be from Swanton made me feel connected to him. I had an obligation to figure out how my hometown could have produced such a monster. I needed to know who he was.

  I should have gone home to a hot shower and a cold glass of wine, but instead I walked to Tompkins Square Park. Bram’s most recent victim had been found across the street at a construction site. I wanted to take another look around to see if there was something I missed.

  I wandered the park for twenty minutes before it started to rain. There was an Irish pub down the block, its picture window emitting a warm and welcoming glow. A beer. That’s what I needed. A few minutes to clear my head.

  Scanning the bustling pub from the threshold, I shook off my coat and took a seat at the bar. The bartender, a freckled brunette like me, smiled and said, “What’ll you have?”

  A lucky break, I thought. A sign. There was a theory going around the precinct that Bram lived in the neighborhood. Sooner or later someone would recognize him. His days of ensnaring victims through the dating app were over. The papers had reported on the murders, the women of the East Village were on high alert, and we were monitoring IP addresses associated with user bios on the site. Bram would be crazy to go that route again, but I wasn’t convinced that meant he was done. Call it intuition, but I knew he was still out there. I just didn’t know where to look.

  The pub received a steady stream of off-duty office workers looking for shelter from the cold September drizzle and a well-deserved Friday drink. A group of women with flat-ironed hair came in and went straight to the bar. I heard them debating cocktail options to kick off their night.

  “Fair warning,” the bartender said as they settled in a few seats down from me, “this lot’s going to keep me busy awhile.” I ordered an Irish cream ale and thanked her for her candor. I could have used something stronger, but I wanted to stay sharp. The bartender filled my glass and rolled her eyes while heading off to take a drink order she clearly thought belonged in a dance club in Bushwick.

  The creamy froth atop my beer gave way to liquid the color of rust. The effect was like fast-moving storm clouds, and then the beer was empty and I could see straight through the glass. What did I know that could help me find Bram? His victims all met him at a bar, according to the friends they’d left behind, but never the same place twice. His dating-app profile painted the picture of a good guy from a small town—a safe choice for a city girl on the hunt for a husband. The more I thought about it, the surer I felt that Swanton was the key.

  When I initially heard about Bram, the first thing I did was call my mother. Dad’s newer to Swanton, but Mom’s a born-and-raised townie who’d spent decades collecting local gossip. Like any small, working-class town, Swanton had a few shady characters and an underbelly smeared with dirt. Domestic disputes and drugs weren’t uncommon. Some of its troubles hit close to home. My mom’s family had its share of black sheep. When I was thirteen a cousin was missing for days until the cops found her by a creek in the woods with her head bashed in. She tested positive for meth and was never the same again. But the police didn’t manage to establish who hurt her, and Mom said she couldn’t think of a single person who could possibly grow up to be a serial killer, not even when, with a wiggle in her voice, she mentioned how I got my scar.

  Again and again, the pub door swung open. Crammed with bodies, the place was starting to heat up. I took a swallow of beer and returned my attention to the case. We’d circulated Bram’s profile photo around the neighborhood but got nowhere with that. There were dozens of men like him roaming the streets—attractive enough, easy to forget. Often the nastiest people are the ones you’d never suspect, the sweet neighbors and pleasant coworkers. They put on a mask and move among us so we don’t notice when they start to circle their prey.

  I heard an explosion of laughter nearby and took another sip of beer. The throng of bodies that had formed behind me shifted, and as the rim of the glass touched my bottom teeth a stray elbow made contact with my lower back. The shove pitched me forward against the bar. When I pulled myself up, all I was left with was a half-empty pint and a cold, wet sweater that clung uncomfortably to my skin.

  A face appeared beside me. “Crap, I’m sorry, are you—”

  “Drenched? Yes, I am.”

  “That was a good beer you had, too.”

  “It was.”

  “That’s not right. That beer was just minding its own business. Christ, can’t a beer sit at a bar and be left alone?”

  I was using stiff little napkins to draw the liquid from my top, and when I finally looked up at the guy who’d wasted my pint, I saw his face was crinkled with amusement. There was something familiar about that face
, tenuous as a long-forgotten memory. He had an average build and bangs long enough to flip back the way men his age like to do. The color of his eyes was startling, like snow in the moonlight or ice on a creek. I waited for the grimace I knew would come. Up close my scar looks like a long seam holding together my jaw and my cheek. It’s not especially gruesome, not anymore, but it sends a message—something awful happened here. People think my bad luck’s going to wear off on them. Most aren’t willing to take that chance.

  The guy’s eyes met mine. Somehow in the midst of our banter he’d ordered me a fresh beer. He slid it toward me and smiled.

  “God,” he said, “these places. Why do I come?”

  “For the scenery?” I nodded at the bar babes.

  Ignoring them, he held my gaze. “You might be right. I’m Seth, and I’m sorry.”

  “I’m Shay, and it’s okay.”

  It was easy for us from the start. We were actors in a play, effortlessly lobbing lines back and forth as if we’d rehearsed the moment for months. There were no awkward pauses, no discouraging lulls. I’ve done some research into mental manipulation, the kind of stuff psychics with their neon signs and crystal balls use to fool people into thinking they’re real. The man I met that night relied on a technique called the Barnum Statement. His insights were so surface level and vague they could have applied to anyone. He told me I seemed like the independent type and guessed I had a lot on my mind. Sitting alone at the bar, preoccupied with the case, I convinced myself he’d nailed it. The pub filled and emptied, patrons flowing in and out like water in a tide pool. We talked until closing time.

  “Last call,” the bartender said. There was a chorus of groans from the end of the bar and one of the women drinking cocktails hiccuped loudly. Only then did I realized I, too, was drunk. When I pushed back my stool to stand, my head felt like an hourglass filling with sand. I made a sound of surprise and listed sideways. The edge of the bar felt slippery, like someone coated it with oil. My eyes rolled in their sockets, two greasy marbles in the palm of a hand. Including the one that got spilled, I’d had only three pints all night. I’d gotten up to use the bathroom just once, timing my departure with the bottom of my pint. I knew better than to trust a strange man around my drink. So why couldn’t my body connect with my brain?

  “Let me call you an Uber, ’kay, love?”

  The bartender’s voice sounded far away. My head swiveled toward it but I couldn’t find her.

  “On it,” said my new friend, and took out his phone. I tried to focus on his thumb skating across the surface of the screen. That, too, was a blur.

  “We have a protocol for this.” The bartender again. A phone rang somewhere in the pub, the landline kind. “I have to be the one to do it, nothing against you, yeah? It’s the rules.”

  “Oh yeah, of course. What a sad thing, needing to have a rule like that. I’ll wait with her. Is that okay? If I just wait with her outside?”

  “She’ll need to stay with me,” the bartender said, and I thought, They’re talking about me like I’m not even here. “I’m sorry, rules are rules—O’Dwyer’s, hello? Hello? Ah, shite.” She turned her attention from the phone behind the bar to the women she’d filled with cocktails. One of them was vomiting onto the floor.

  “No worries, I see it, it’s here.” His voice was close to my ear. I tried to speak but my lips wouldn’t cooperate. Quickly, he steered me toward the door. The wet fall air was a smack in the face, but I still couldn’t get the words out. Sand filled every crevice of my brain. Then, suddenly, I wasn’t in the bar anymore. I was nowhere.

  And I knew I’d found Bram.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Drinks in the parlor, everyone!”

  Philip Norton’s voice rang out through the hall, and all at once they were on the move. Bebe, Flynn, Miles, and Jade made for the staircase. Ned snaked an arm around Abella’s waist and they followed reluctantly, like they suspected what was happening was outrageous but didn’t know how to resist.

  I raised my hands. “Whoa, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  “To dress for dinner,” said Bebe, as if it was the stupidest question on earth. Abella, in her bloody pajamas, went crimson. The skin under her eyes was marbled with veins.

  Cocktail hour. The thought of it pulled my mouth into a grim line. With tensions high, the last thing we needed was to introduce alcohol into the mix. The circumstances surrounding this island-bound case were unorthodox, sure, but no way would I consider allowing a group of sketchy witnesses to have a few rounds. I didn’t like the idea of them scattering either.

  I glanced at Tim and felt my nerves go taut. What happens next decides it. If he was the investigator I thought he was, he’d agree with me on both counts. Tim would back my decision completely.

  In response, my associate adjusted his belt and made a noncommittal sound with his teeth.

  “We need you to stay in the parlor,” I said. “No one’s changing. Nobody’s having a drink.”

  “No drinks?” Bebe’s expression was halfway manic.

  “A change of clothes and a glass of scotch. We’re talking basic human needs, here,” said Flynn. “What’s wrong, detective? You worried I’ve got a knife under my mattress?”

  “Flynn,” Ned said weakly. “Don’t.”

  “No, Ned, this is bullshit.” Flynn faced me once more. “All day we’ve done what you asked. We played along with your pointless interviews, and where did it get us? I told you who’s responsible for all this hours ago.” Flynn’s gaze slid from me to Abella. “Why haven’t you pressed charges against her? Why haven’t you hauled her ass to prison? The fact that she’s still here and my brother’s not, it makes me fucking sick. Get her out of here!” Flynn roared. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

  All the color drained from Abella’s face. She broke away from Ned and backed up unsteadily until she reached the staircase banister, where, without a word, she threw up on the lustrous floor.

  “Jesus,” Flynn muttered with loathing as Norton rushed off to get his cleaning supplies. “I’m done following your orders. This is our house.”

  Not yet it’s not. “This is an active investigation, so you will follow my orders, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “You’re not going to allow this, are you, Wellington?” said Bebe, and one by one every person in the hall transferred their gaze to Tim.

  There were no dirty looks for Timmy Wellington. All day long he’d been developing relationships with the family and their guests. They had camaraderie; as far as the Sinclairs were concerned, Tim was on their side. I’d assumed his efforts were strategic, another impressive trick up his sleeve. I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “That’s enough,” I said to Bebe and Flynn before Tim could reply. That’s when Norton cleared his throat.

  In one hand, Philip Norton held a bucket. The other clutched a bottle of wine. Fresh from the fridge, it glistened with condensation. Tim wrinkled his brow as he looked from the bottle back to Norton’s face.

  “Are you sure?” Norton said. “Won’t you reconsider, given the day they’ve had?”

  They, not we. I didn’t expect Norton to clink glasses with the others, but considering how upset he’d been that morning and how well he knew Jasper, it was a strange choice of words. They suggested he alone was free of emotion. Distanced him from the family.

  “It’s tradition,” he went on. “The cocktails, the formal attire. It might seem trivial to you, but I know it would mean a lot to Mrs. Sinclair to be doing something normal with the family. It’s a comfort, if you know what I mean.”

  I didn’t bother pointing out that Camilla, still resting upstairs, hadn’t been with her family for hours. I was too busy wondering why Norton was dead set on plying the family with drinks. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but it isn’t appropriate.”

  Suddenly, Flynn was in my face. “I thought I made myself clear. Yo
u don’t tell us what to do.”

  Tim pushed his way between us. “Cool it, Mr. Sinclair. Relax. He’s fine.”

  That last part, Tim meant for me. I wasn’t sure why, at first. Then I felt an explosion of pain and realized with a start my hand was once again on my gun.

  I wouldn’t be where I am today if I had a problem with self-control. I have a remarkable ability to stay calm, even when the situation’s dire. That’s what Carson called it when I told him what I’d been through: a remarkable ability to remain calm. Cops who can’t keep their shit together don’t stay alive. Some of it’s muscle memory, sure. We’re trained to react. Nibble your nails, think it through, and you’ll have a bullet in your neck long before you make a call. There’s a time and place for a freak-out, and it isn’t while you’re on the job.

  What I experienced in that hallway was different. I had no recollection of pulling my weapon on Ned in the library until the muzzle was inches from his face, and couldn’t have been more surprised to find it there than if it flew through the window on wings. Now I’d nearly done the same thing with Flynn. My arm trembled. Flynn wasn’t backing down. His breath, hot on my face, reeked of stale coffee, but I couldn’t move out of its path. I couldn’t take my hand off my weapon either. My fingers were welded in place.

  “Bebe’s right,” said Flynn. “You small-town detectives are pathetic. I should never have let Norton call you. You can’t help us find Jasper. You can’t even find your own ass.”

  I wanted to tell him to back off, that he was asking for trouble, but the bulk of my energy went toward keeping my hand on my weapon. Flynn was losing it, and if he moved on me I couldn’t be sure what I’d do.

  “Don’t you get it?” Like paper in the blades of a shredder, Flynn drove the words through his teeth. A trail of spittle swung from his lower lip, and as he shouted it splattered, warm and wet, on my cheek. “We invited you to this island, this private island. It’s time for you to go.”