To this elegant woman, mainland towns like Alexandria Bay had nothing in common with Tern. Owning an island was like erecting a sweeping, vine-draped manor in the sticks of Arkansas. The river served as a convenient barrier between the haves and the have-nots, and a public reminder of the Sinclair family’s worth. Tim and I didn’t meet their standards, not by a long shot. I smiled at her, sweet as candy-shop fudge, and said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Barbara Sinclair—Bebe. Jasper’s my brother.”
Not was, but is. Her choice of words didn’t mean she knew he was alive, or even that she believed it, but it was interesting all the same. Past tense can be hard for people; I know parents of children lost decades ago who still can’t bring themselves to use it. I’ve also seen it give murderers away. Other than parents most people are quick to adjust, while criminals tend to overthink it. They play the part of the suffering martyr, thinking they know what grief looks like. They don’t, though. Until fear and sorrow smother you like a burial shroud, you have no idea how you’re going to react, can’t understand that you’re powerless to change it.
“This isn’t going to be easy, on any of you,” I said. “I won’t pretend otherwise. What I will do is promise not to make it more painful than it needs to be. As you can see”—I shot a sideways glance at Tim—“it’s just the two of us here right now. We’ve got other troopers on the way, but with the weather like this I can’t say when they’ll arrive. In the meantime, there are some things that have to happen, things that can’t be delayed.”
In the hearth, a log shifted with a thump and the scent of woodsmoke swirled through the air. All eyes stayed on me. The dark-skinned man was busy stroking Abella’s hand, but his eyebrows hovered expectantly. Our witnesses could sense it coming, a request they wouldn’t be able to refuse.
“I’m going to interview each of you about what happened here last night,” I said. “I want you to tell me everything you remember, no matter how insignificant it may seem. This is going to take some time. As Wellington already explained, we’re asking that you turn off your mobile devices and refrain from contacting anyone outside this room.”
“But why?”
How is it that teen girls are capable of infusing two small words with so much loathing? The kid on the couch looked at me like I’d just told her she wasn’t allowed to breathe.
“For one thing,” I said, “we’re still trying to determine what happened. It’s in nobody’s best interest to start a gossip chain that could spread false information to your neighbors and friends. For another, there may come a time when we need to take a look at those devices. We won’t do that unless we suspect they contain evidence related to this investigation, but until then, we need the information on them to remain untouched and intact.”
Slowly, the people in the room came to a consensus and there were small nods of agreement all around. Arms folded defiantly over her chest, the teenager continued to seethe, but she didn’t fight back. My appeal made sense to them, or they were willing to pretend it did. I didn’t tell them they had every right to use their phones if they wanted to. Under the circumstances, I felt I’d be forgiven for taking a few liberties with the law.
“While I’m speaking with you individually,” I said without delay, because this was the tough part, the part they’d hate, “I’d like you to stay right here in this room. Wellington will be with you until the state police troopers arrive. Until then, stay put.”
There was a beat of silence, and then everyone spoke at once. I caught snippets of what they were saying, all of it standard-issue outrage. I was accused of treating them like naughty children sent to their rooms. The elegant parlor was likened to a jail cell. Somebody threatened to contact a reporter. Someone else—the man in glasses, the teenager’s dad—pointed out he was a lawyer and prepared to act.
I didn’t respond, didn’t say one damn word, and eventually the clamor died down. Only when they were all red-faced and deflated did I go on. “I’m not saying you can’t get up to use the bathroom. I’m not cuffing you to a chair. We’re here to find out what happened, and this is how we do it. But I want to remind you of something, too. While I haven’t seen any evidence of an intruder—no broken windows or busted locks—we can’t rule that possibility out. You need to understand whoever did this might still be here, on the island. Your comfort and convenience is not my priority. My priority is to keep the rest of you safe.”
The wind blew harder and the house gave a shudder. Against the windows the rain mimicked the sound of a million pebbles falling from a great height. A log split open with a crack like a gunshot, and this time I felt everyone tense. Abella drew in a ragged breath. Bebe Sinclair’s jaw hung slack. Her skin reminded me of rubber; there was a shiny, overplumped quality to it that smacked of Botox. A new smell filled the air, mingling with the wood smoke. Fear. “Now,” I said. “Who are we missing?”
It was the man next to Abella who answered. “Flynn,” he said. “We’re missing Flynn.”
“Flynn Sinclair. Jasper’s older brother,” Tim told me, blushing hard as he stared down at his boots. “Thanks, Ned,” he said, then, back to me, “Sorry. I should have mentioned that.”
We were new to it still, to each other, but Tim and I were slowly learning to play the game, and the seamlessness of our exchange thrilled me. Tim, as it turned out, could act. He wore an abashed expression that wasn’t lost on the others. Bebe watched with interest and the tiniest of smirks, while Camilla looked slightly offended by Tim’s apparent misstep. Her eyes crinkled in a way that implied disappointment. Unlike Bebe, Camilla took us for consummate professionals. Tim had let her down.
I sighed and jutted out my chin in the direction of the hallway. It gave our witnesses a good look at the colorless crease that slashed across my cheek, stretching from my earlobe all the way to the corner of my mouth. The only benefit of having a scar like mine is related to my work. People assume I’m tough. Good. Let them. Tim didn’t look up as he followed me out of the room.
“The apology was a nice touch,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“You sure you want to talk to this guy alone?” Gone was the face of a cop who’d messed up, the face of a performer. Now Tim looked uneasy. I could hear the others conferring, and I couldn’t shake the image of the blood on the bed. I’d made our objectives, mine and Tim’s, clear. If the Sinclair family had something to hide and hadn’t made a desperate, slapdash attempt at collusion already, they didn’t have much time left. We had to move fast.
“I’ll call you if I need help,” I said. I had no reason to fear Flynn Sinclair, not yet. Tim was just being cautious. But my lungs felt like they were in a vise and my palms were starting to sweat.