“She’s killing survivors? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Finishing what she started—because she left enough behind to prove she started it. She planned it—hadn’t quite finished the plans. Her brother got impatient. My theory, anyway.”
She lost some of the color the cold had pumped into her cheeks. “Mi’s a survivor. My mother, my sister. Me. You.”
“Mi got some press, but she didn’t give any interviews. The same with you. Your family didn’t get a lot of attention. I think she’s after ones who did. But you and me? We got through to nine-one-one. First and second callers. You should be careful, and you can believe I’ll be watching for her.”
Anxiety churned in her stomach. “The island’s mobbed in the summer. Day-trippers, vacationers, summer workers.”
“I’m going to be chief of police. Every cop and first responder’s going to have her photo. I’m going to have it posted in every fricking shop and restaurant and hotel. On the ferry. I’m not saying she won’t try to get here, but I think, for now, she’s after easier targets. And if she tries to come here, it’ll be to finish me first. I shot the bitch.”
He didn’t sound affable now, Simone thought. He sounded hard, tough, and very, very capable.
“I think I want something stronger than coffee.” She rose. “How about you?”
“I wouldn’t say no.”
She opted for wine, a full-bodied red, and poured two generous glasses.
“Now I haven’t just upset you. I’ve scared you.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know how I feel, exactly. Unnerved, you bet. I’m not brave. I wasn’t brave that night.”
“You’re wrong about that. You didn’t run screaming, and there wouldn’t have been any shame if you had. But you did the smart thing. You hid and called for help. I’ve heard the nine-one-one call. You held it together. That’s bravery.”
“I didn’t feel brave, and I haven’t since. But … Come up to my studio. I want to show you something.”
“Like etchings?”
She smiled, didn’t feel quite as unnerved. “Not in the least.”
“I keep striking out with the beautiful artists in this house. I have to try another tactic.”
But he went with her. “I can arrange for a cop—a girl cop—to stay with you tonight if you’re worried.”
“No, but thanks. I’ve always felt safe in this house. She won’t make me a victim again. I know her victims.”
In the studio he saw dozens and dozens of sketches pinned to boards.
He knew them, too.
He knew the faces, the few she’d created with clay.
“I started with her. Tiffany.” Simone picked up the small bust. “I did her before.” She turned the bust. “And after. It, I thought, would be a kind of purge for me. But it didn’t turn out that way. You’re one of the reasons.”
Fascinated, he watched her. “I am?”
“The night of the party, I talked to Mi up here, showed her these two faces. I talked to you. More, I listened to you. And since …
“She survived,” Simone said, and set the bust down again. “But she’s not grateful. I hadn’t been, either, not really. That’s what struck me. I lived, and instead of being grateful, I wanted to pretend it never happened. What does that say about the ones who died? Was I saying they never happened?”
She took a long drink. “‘Proof of life,’ you said that night, about Emergence. About Tish. It struck me, it rang the damn bell. So, I’m—in my way, I guess—giving them all proof of life.”
He looked at her now, at that face, not just because it made his heart thump, not just because she made his blood swim. But because he felt a kind of awe and respect.
“This is bravery.”
She closed her eyes a moment. “God. I hope so.”
He stepped to the shelf, carefully lifted one of the busts. “I knew her. Angie—Angela Patterson. She was so damn pretty. I had a real thing for her.”
“Oh. You were in love with her.”
“No, but I liked her a lot.” He thought of the kiosk, the blood, the body. And looked at the face, young, lovely, just on the edge of flirty. “I talk to her mother a couple times a year. This? This will mean the world to Angie’s mother.”
“I want to create a memorial, all their faces. People shouldn’t forget who they were, what happened to them. You could help me.”
“How?”
“I want to include the people who’ve died since, because of that night, or because of Patricia Hobart. You could help me.”
“I could.” He set the bust down. “I will. What will you do with it when you finish?”
“That’ll be months—longer. I’ll need to take a break from it or I won’t see or hear clearly. But I’m hoping my father can help there. He’s a lawyer, and has a lot of connections. And, of course, there’s CiCi. I’d like to do molds, cast it in bronze, place it in a park.”
“I could maybe help there, too.”
“How?”
“I talk to the next of kin, survivors off and on. Like Angie’s mom. So with that, we might be able to help get that going when you’re ready for it.”
She nodded, slowly. “An appeal from survivors and loved ones? Hard to refuse. Some might not want this.”
“They’d be wrong. So.”
He set aside his glass, stepped to her. He took her face in his hands, watched those gorgeous eyes calculate. He kissed her, soft, slow. No demand, no pressure. And felt—hoped he felt—her give just a little before he eased away again.
“Change of tactic,” he said.
“It was interesting.”
“Told ya. I’m going to head out, for my lonely meatloaf. I’ll see you around.”
“I don’t get around very much,” she said as he started out.
“That’s okay. I do.” He stopped at the doorway, turned for just a moment. “I’ve gotta say this one more thing. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in my goddamn life.”
She laughed, sincerely amused. “I’m not even close.”
“You’re wrong again. I ought to know what I’ve seen in my own life. CiCi’s got my number around here somewhere. You need anything, call.”
She frowned as he walked out, as she listened to his boots on the stairs. She sipped more wine, then poured what he’d left in his glass into her own, drank a little more.
He was interesting, she thought. And could put the affable on and off like a pair of socks. She had a sense he could be dangerous, and that just made him more interesting.
Plus he knew how to kiss in a way that nudged open the door, just a crack.
She’d have to think about that one.
Most of all, he’d looked at her work and seen what she needed to give it, what she’d needed from it.
And he’d understood.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Standing on the widow’s walk, Essie McVee marveled. The day shuddered with dead gray February, cold as the lash of a frozen whip, and still the view spread like wonder.
The sea and sky, both that broody, bored gray, couldn’t erase the breadth of it or the power of the rocky coastline with the incessant flick of icy water.
She smelled pine and snow, breathed air so cold and damp it felt like she swallowed chipped ice. Far to the right, the buildings of painted clapboard formed the village and a path of trampled snow wound through trees with white-coated branches.
Far off, the lighthouse stood, a beacon of color and joy against the stubborn winter gloom.
Below the house, a rickety pier, with some worrisome gaps, cut on an angle through a break in the rocks.
“You’ve got a dock.”
“Yeah, such as it is. I’ve got a boat shed, too. No boat. Mrs. Dorchet sold it after her husband died. I might get one. A boat. Maybe.”
“A boat.”
“Maybe. I’ve already got the shed and the pier. It seems like I should have the reason for them.”
She looked up at him, remembered the sorrowful boy on the bench at the park, the young cop learning his way, the partner she’d gone through doors with. The friend she’d found bleeding.
Now this. A man looking out at what was his.
“It’s not a shithole, Reed.”
He grinned. “Needs some work here and there, but nope, not a shithole.”