“Where a pocket might have been . . .” Cate held her breath.
“The year on one of them is from five years ago.”
“And Jeff has been locked up for eight. We have an accomplice . . . or a fan,” said Cate. Her mind raced. Bryan Sowle was an option they needed to investigate.
No. Mike needs to investigate. Not me.
“We do. And I think while Tessa and our forensics expert work with the remains, you and I need to go to the Stafford Creek prison and talk with both Lamb and Sowle.”
Cate leaned against the rear wall of the bakery and looked up at the blue sky. At that very second she wanted more than anything to dive headfirst into the case. She wanted to match wits again with Lamb. Bounce ideas and theories off Mike.
A scent of chocolate and espresso wafted through the air, and her mind cleared.
That’s not my life anymore.
“I can’t, Mike. I’m done with that. And the FBI would nev—”
“I’ve already cleared it with Phillip.”
She blinked. “Like right now? You called him before you called me?”
“Correct.”
She wanted to fume about his high-handedness, but her pulse was beating too fast, her emotions building, torn between wanting to join and being scared of the consequences. “I can’t do the job anymore. I walked away for a reason.”
“I know why you left, Cate,” he said in a softer tone. “And I know the trauma has stuck with you. I don’t blame you one bit for stepping away. No one does. I probably would have done the same.”
“My edge is gone.” My confidence.
“This is just an interview. Nothing else. You don’t need an edge to talk to an imprisoned man. You know the case best, and you know him; you know how he thinks.”
True.
She’d worked many cases at the FBI, and some had stuck more deeply in her brain than others. Jeff Lamb had stuck. He was the killer journalists loved to write about. A popular man who seemingly had his life together. The guy who always got the girl, with his sincere smile and kind eyes.
Until someone pissed him off. Then the eyes went cold.
His eyes had also stuck in Cate’s brain. Icy blue. Unique. Startling.
“You can do this, Cate. I need you on this.”
“When do you want to go?” The words had rolled off her tongue before they’d formed in her mind. Her body was making decisions without her.
“Tomorrow. I’ll make the calls.”
“I want Henry to come with me.”
Mike paused. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll get him clearance.”
“Thank you.” She ended the call, exhaled heavily, and continued to study the sky. Her emotions were a confusing jumble. Elation, anxiety, regret.
Why did I ask for Henry?
She didn’t need him to hold her hand.
Do I?
She hadn’t left the island since they had brought back Sam last winter. It’d been an unpleasant trip, with Cate feeling nauseated and off balance a lot of the time. Henry too.
If she had to leave the island, she wanted him with her. The feeling was visceral.
An icy breeze touched her neck, and she straightened, scouring her surroundings.
She saw nothing.
“Did I make the right choice?” she asked the empty air.
Silence.
But her conflicting emotions vanished and left her with confidence. She’d done the right thing.
“Thanks, Ruby,” she whispered.
6
“Room three,” Julie told Henry. “Sore throat.”
“Thanks.” Henry strode down the hallway of his clinic. Business had cranked up since the tourist season had started. More business was always good, but it made him feel rushed. He’d grown used to talking with his local patients for longer periods of time, catching up on what was going on with their families and businesses.
Oddly, all the locals seemed to have stayed healthy as tourist season kicked in. Now he’d go a few days without seeing a familiar face in his waiting room. The tourists brought him mostly sore throats, earaches, upset stomachs, and the occasional broken bone. His nurse, Julie, was an organizational queen. She thrived on the increased pace and kept him on track.
He’d expanded the clinic, bought new equipment, and was in the process of setting up virtual visits so he’d be accessible to the surrounding islands that didn’t have medical care.
It felt good. He was making a difference, and he was happy. Not stressed out of his mind and crushed by the depth of the unmet medical needs he’d seen every day in LA.
His tiny laptop open and balanced on one hand, he knocked on room three’s door, paused for two seconds, and then opened it. A woman sat on the exam table, looking at him expectantly.
Tourist.
He’d glanced at her name, vitals, and complaint, which Julie had typed in her digital chart. “Afternoon, Wendy. Julie tells me you’ve been exposed to strep, and now your throat is sore?”
“That’s right.” Wendy nodded emphatically. “Hurts pretty bad.”
Henry set his computer on the counter and washed his hands, taking a quick visual survey of his patient. Her chart said she was twenty-eight, but in person she seemed ten years older. Her dishwater-blonde hair was straight and stringy. She seemed very thin and had dark shadows under her eyes. Her jeans were stained, and her tank top seemed too big.
Not the usual tourist.
Widow’s Island could be an expensive place to vacation. Most of the visitors were upper-middle class. But the island also attracted a small less affluent group that came to live simply and be as close to nature as possible. Wendy appeared to be the latter.
Henry did a quick exam as he questioned her about her symptoms and asked a few polite small talk questions.
“I like the island,” she told him. “I’ve been meaning to come for years.” She lowered her voice. “But I hear you’ve got a crime problem.” Her green eyes grew wide.
“Crime?”
“Yeah. Heard there’s been some murders.”
Henry frowned as he typed notes in her chart. “I don’t think so. I would know about that.”
“I guess they’re old, though.”
“The victims were old?”
“No, the murders.”
He paused and looked her full in the face. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Disappointment flashed in her gaze. “I heard there were some bodies buried in the forest. Someone said you were there as the coroner.”
“Oh.” The gossip has reached the tourists. “That’s not quite accurate. And definitely not something to be worried about during your stay on the island.”
“What did they find?”
“It’s a police matter right now. I don’t want to give any incorrect information. I really don’t know much anyway.”
“Do they have any leads? Do they know how many victims there are?”
He held her gaze. “I don’t know much,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word.
“Don’t you think the public should know what’s going on?” Wendy asked. “It’s important to feel safe. It’d be nice to know if they have a suspect.”
He ignored her question. “I’m going to do a quick strep test,” Henry told her. “I’ll also send it to the lab for a culture. It’s more accurate.”