“You know nothing about me. Or my family.”
Clare clicks open the gun and allows the bullets to pour onto the floor. She picks them up in a fist and jams them in her pocket, then slides the gun across to Charlotte. It’s a risk, but the way Charlotte had held the gun, the safety still on, Clare can assume she doesn’t have any spare bullets. Charlotte leans forward and snatches the weapon from the floor.
“Collateral damage,” Clare says again.
“That’s what my lawyer said to me,” Charlotte says, her voice low. “Four years ago. Collateral damage. My ex-husband got sole custody of my daughter and moved her across the country. I have zero visitation rights. Nothing. Everything I owned… my house, my car, was repossessed, because my father co-owned it all. This house is technically still a family asset, but it’s frozen. Because where the fuck are the owners? Jesus. You have no idea what’s happened here, Clare. I warn you, run while you can. There hasn’t just been damage to me, to my family. It’s been complete and total obliteration.”
“So what do you want, then?” Clare asks. “Why are you here in this house?”
“Let me tell you something.” Charlotte studies the card again. “Clare? Is that your real name? My brother-in-law Malcolm? He’s not the good guy in this story. If you dig a little, you’ll see what I mean. I’d warn against it, but who am I to stop you? And if you think you’re going to find him, to save him or whatever, you’re in for a big surprise. There will be no happy ending.”
It takes effort to hold Charlotte’s steady gaze.
“What about your sister?” Clare asks. “You say she’s dead. Do you really believe that?”
“You want a place to start?” Charlotte says. “Talk to the cops around here. There’s been about eight of them assigned to the case since my dad died. And nothing’s come up. Nothing. The newest detective? His name is Patrick Germain. I’m pretty sure he made detective barely a year ago. The so-called journalist who works the case knows more than the cops do. It’s all too fishy, you know?”
“I know.”
“Yeah. So you do whatever you want. It’s a fucking quagmire, Clare. Go find Germain if you want. Get yourself caught up in this mess. But leave me alone. I don’t want any part of it.”
When Charlotte hoists herself to standing, Clare does the same. Charlotte gestures for Clare to leave the room first. They descend the stairs together, the hallway lit. When they reach the front door, Clare turns to speak, but Charlotte waves her off, shaking her head no. Outside, once she’s alone again, Clare’s heart begins to race. Don’t risk your life, Somers said. And yet in only her first stop Clare found herself at gunpoint. An omen, she knows, that this place is not safe.
The bathroom mirror is fogged. Clare clears a streak across it with her palm and scrunches her hair to draw the water from her curls. She leans in to examine herself. She looks almost healthy, a peach tone to her cheeks, the circles under her eyes faded from dark purple to something gentler. Clare points her index finger and presses it into the scar at the exact angle the bullet entered her shoulder about six weeks ago. It is still tender, the damaged nerves sending a tingling shot down her arm. With her thumb and finger Clare marks the distance from the wound to the top of her breast, her heart. Two inches, maybe three.
Her first case ended with Clare taking a bullet to the shoulder. The wound is now settling into being only a nuisance, an unsightly scar. The pain still comes and goes, though Clare has stopped taking medication for it. It is better to endure the ache than to risk the urge those pills bring her.
Chance is a funny thing. Fate.
Had Clare turned just slightly to the left as the bullet came at her, it would have hit her heart and not her shoulder. You’re here and then you’re not, Clare’s mother used to say from her hospital bed, inuring herself against her own impending death. It often comes down to chance.
This hotel room is soothing in its blandness. The carpet, the faded comforter, the landscape paintings on the wall. The cheapest place to stay near the center of Lune Bay, a relic from before the Westman money flowed into town. The walls of her room are thin enough that Clare can discern the dialogue from the sitcom playing in the next. In less than an hour, Clare has managed to overtake the entire space, her belongings scattered, the desk covered with papers and photographs, the details of Malcolm’s file. Her cell phone rings at full volume. Clare yelps, startled. She collects it from the dresser and swipes the screen to take the call.
“Somers,” she says, breathless. “Hi.”
“That’s Detective Somers to you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You all right?” Somers asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Okay,” Somers says, unconvinced.
In the silence Clare tries to evoke an image of Somers, her exact looks. Her braided hair pulled half up, glasses only when she needs to read. Clare lies on the bed.
“I went to Malcolm and Zoe’s house as soon as I got here. Seemed like a logical first stop.”
“Don’t tell me you—”
“The back door was open.”
“Jesus, Clare. I told you, nothing risky. Don’t be stupid.”
“Yeah. Well, Zoe’s sister, Charlotte Westman, showed up with a gun.”
“Oh Christ,” Somers says. “I’m about to pull you off this case.”
“No, no. I was able to talk her down.” Clare will withhold the details, the gun held at point-blank range, the wrestling match it took for Clare to retrieve it. “She’s very angry. You remember her from the file? She lost custody of her daughter. Drug problems, I think. She was with her dad when he was murdered. Seems to me like she’s lost everything since then.”
Through the receiver Clare can hear Somers flipping papers. Writing things down. She feels a surge of something she cannot decipher, a sense of authority. She feels useful, in control.
“She mentioned the cops on the case,” Clare continues. “There’s been a string of them. I mean on her father’s murder case, which seems to have been merged with Zoe’s disappearance, even though they happened almost three years apart. I get the murder happened five years ago, but Zoe’s only been missing eighteen months. Feels weird that they’re lumped together.”
“They’re lumped because they’re connected,” Somers offers.
“Right. But there doesn’t seem to be much focus on either anymore. Apparently, the current detective is a rookie.”
“That’s not good,” Somers says. “There are two reasons cops stop working on a case. One, it’s truly gone cold. No eyewitnesses, no hard evidence, no DNA, no weapon. You nudge those cases to the back of your desk and hope someone walks in one day and confesses.”
“And the other kind?” Clare asks.
“The other cases get nudged to the back of your desk for you. You’re given no choice in the matter. You understand?”
“Right.” Clare sits up and twists a finger through her damp hair. “The detective’s name is Patrick Germain. I looked him up after I checked in to the hotel. From what I can see he was a beat cop this time last year. My plan is to give him a call.”