Chapter 2

“To accept this collect call, press one—” the prerecorded message continued.

My face must have shown something of what I was feeling because Indira said, “What’s wrong?”

Cornhusker Dad asked—with misguided enthusiasm—“Is it Kiefer?”

“Dash?” Fox asked.

Keme sat up and glanced around, as though the threat he sensed might be physical.

“It’s Vivienne,” I said. “She’s calling collect.” And then, perhaps unnecessarily, I added, “From prison.”

“Don’t answer!” Millie shouted and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Indira and Fox traded a look.

In my ear, the message was repeating itself now. I was distantly aware of a rushing sound in my head. Sweat had broken out across my back and under my arms. It took me a moment to recognize the bubble in my chest as panic, making it impossible for me to draw a full breath.

“I’m not sure it would be wise—” Indira began.

Definitely not wise, I thought. I’d moved to Hastings Rock to take a job with Vivienne; she’d been one of the best-selling mystery writers in the world, and on top of that, she’d solved a number of real-life murders. All of that, though, had been before she faked her own death and then tried to kill me.

So, why was she calling me now?

I wanted to know. And competing with the panic in my chest was an ember of anger, growing brighter and hotter as my shock faded. Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed one, and the call clicked as it connected.

I was proud of myself, by the way. My voice came out rock steady. “Hello?”

There was the slightest pause. The connection, maybe. Or perhaps Vivienne had been surprised I’d accepted the call. “Good afternoon, Dashiell.”

“Just Dash,” I said. “What do you want?”

She laughed. “What a way to talk, Dashiell. No longer playing the part of the wide-eyed na?f, are we?”

“What do you want, Vivienne?”

“How are you liking Hemlock House?”

“It’s wonderful. It’s big and beautiful and full of complicated people and fraught relationships. It’s just like home. What do you want?”

“I want you to solve a murder.”

I burst out laughing. Fox’s eyes widened. Indira frowned. Keme looked at Millie, and Millie still had one hand over her mouth.

Until a moment later when she stage-whispered, “What does she want?”

Nebraska Mom, who was now busily wiping the baby’s face and hands, said, “Yeah, the rest of us can’t hear her.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said into the phone. “I don’t know what kind of trick you’re trying to pull, but I’m not interested. Goodbye—”

“No, please!”

The words were sharp, and they had a breathy, punched-out quality, as though they’d been wrenched from her against her will.

I told myself to disconnect.

Instead, I said, “Hold on.”

With a quick wave for the Last Picks, I made my way out of Fishermen’s Market. The pier was busy with families and buskers and vendors—Hastings Rock was at the height of its tourist season. Mrs. Palakiko, in her enormous sunglasses, was doing steady business at her shave ice stand, and it looked like Mr. Li had set up his vendor tent on the pier today instead of the boardwalk. A pair of blond ladies with matching headbands were holding up one of his bestselling tees—ROCK ON – HASTINGS ROCK—and seemed to be considering purchasing multiples in various colors. The breeze was steady, and farther down the pier, Mr. Tate was helping a little Black girl get her kite up.

I headed in their direction—not because I wanted to help with the kite, but because the crowd was thinner at the end of the pier, and the press of people was making my anxiety tick into the red. As I walked, I said, “Okay, what’s the punch line?”

“It’s not a joke, Dashiell—Dash. I’m quite serious. I’ve been wrongly accused, and I believe you’re the perfect person to prove I’m innocent.”

Another laugh escaped me. “This keeps getting better and better. All right. Who are you supposed to have murdered? Besides Mr. Huggins and Sheriff Jakes?”

“My brother.”

I kept walking. My steps rang out on the creaky old boards. The little girl with the kite was laughing. A pair of teenage boys were trying to feed french fries to a seagull and screaming every time it came close to them.

“Okay,” I finally said.

“Needless to say—well, I suppose it’s not needless, is it?” Vivienne took a breath. “I didn’t kill him. I loved my brother. Deeply. I want you to prove I didn’t do this; I will not be known as a kin slayer and a fratricide. And more importantly, I want you to find out who did kill him.”

“Vivienne—” I struggled for a moment with what to say. “I’m sorry for your loss. But I don’t think I’m the right person—”

“You are, though. That’s why I called you. I’ve been keeping my eye on you, Dash, and you’ve outdone yourself. It’s a shame things worked out the way they did because I think you and I might be kindred spirits.”

If you’ve never had a homicidal maniac call you a kindred spirit, let me tell you, it takes the shine off your day. And I didn’t love that part about keeping an eye on you either. But all I said was “I’ve helped with a few investigations, but only because—”

“It’s always ‘only because,’” Vivienne said, and it took me a moment to recognize the note in her voice as amusement. Wry amusement. As though she knew all too well. “It’s a friend, or a friend of a friend, or a long-lost nephew.”

My throat was strangely dry, but I managed to say, “No nephews.”

“Let me tell you why you must be the one to investigate my brother’s death. The first reason is because you’re good at it. You won’t settle for superficial answers. You won’t accept the story that those bumbling police will embrace. Because you want to know the truth, Dashiell.” Again, her tone changed—taking on an intensity that surprised me. “That’s always our charge, isn’t it? To see truly, to know truly, so that we may write truly. That’s what carries us into the dark.”

“Actually, I think I just read too much Chandler at an impressionable age.”

She laughed, and it broke the unexpected tension of the moment. “Second, because my family will talk to you, Dashiell. In fact, they’ll tell you everything you want to know. Because you destroyed my life once, and they will assume—gleefully—that you’re trying to destroy it again. Hammer a few more nails in the coffin, that kind of thing.”

“Nice family.”

“You have no idea.”

“Also, I feel like I have to point out that you destroyed your own life. And you framed me. And you tried to kill me.”

“But that’s all in the past. I can’t hire a private investigator, Dashiell—Dash. If my family suspects that I’m trying to build a defense, they’ll clam up. And they certainly won’t reveal anything that will give away the truth. And if you’re going to find whoever killed my brother, you’ll need them to talk to you.”

“I haven’t said I was going to—”

“And the third reason is because I’m innocent, and I know you won’t let an innocent person go to prison while a murderer walks free.”

I opened my mouth to say something snarky, but I stopped myself. Instead, I said the only honest thing I could think of: “This feels like a trap.”

She laughed, but it was dark and short. “I imagine it does.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened to your brother—what you know, I mean—and I’ll think about it? I’m not making any promises.”

“He disappeared in the summer of 1985,” Vivienne said. “June 21. The solstice.”

“He—that was over thirty years ago.”

“That’s right.”

“Why are they charging you with murder now?”

“Because his body was found in the slough behind his home.” She spoke with a chilling matter-of-factness that reminded me that Vivienne Carver was no stranger to gruesome death. “It had been weighted down and hidden in the water, but something must have given way, because some bones washed ashore a few weeks ago. They identified the body with dental records, and my family was quick to explain to the police that I must have killed him.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re hoping for a civil suit. They’ve always wanted to get their hands on my money.”

That was…a lot, but I said, “No, I meant why do they say you killed him?”

“Ask them yourself.”

The next gust of breeze carried a spray of water against my cheek, and it was cold and bracing. The sun glinted on the saw-toothed waves. When I glanced down the pier, Mr. Li waved and smiled, and somehow, I managed to wave back.

“Vivienne, I’m sorry—I really am. But I don’t think I should get involved.”

She made an understanding noise. “If you change your mind about letting a killer go unpunished, I’ll be happy for any assistance you can provide. I’ll have my attorney send you a photograph of Richard and anything else I can think of that might help.”

“Still not taking the case,” I said.

“Of course not.”

If Emily Post had written a chapter on “How to End a Collect Call with Your Attempted Murderess,” I hadn’t read it. So, I said, “Well, goodbye.”

For some reason, that made Vivienne laugh. “Goodbye, Dashiell.”

“Just—”

The call disconnected.

“—Dash,” I finished.

I leaned against the rail, looking out at the ocean and the hot white disc of the sun. Its light was warm on my face. A salt-damp eddy tickled the hairs on the back of my neck. Behind me, screams of excitement suggested the little girl had finally gotten her kite into the air.

Vivienne Carver was a cold-blooded murderer. She’d tried to kill me. I didn’t feel sorry for her. I didn’t think she deserved some sort of second chance. Another murder charge wouldn’t change the fact that she was going to spend the rest of her life in prison.

But if she was telling the truth, another killer would walk free.

Did it matter? The question had a kind of icy clarity that unbalanced me. Vivienne’s brother had been murdered over thirty years ago, and that was a long time. Longer than I’d been alive, as a matter of fact. After all that time, did it matter if the killer was found and brought to justice—assuming such a thing was even possible at this point?

The answer came immediately. Yes, it mattered. It mattered because no matter how that family felt about Vivienne, they were grieving their loss all over again—even if the discovery of his body provided some closure, it would also open old wounds. And it mattered because every death mattered. Every injustice mattered. And because no one should be allowed to take another’s life and get away with it.

And I realized, with a cold wave of horror rising in me, that I was going to do it.

Just like Vivienne had known I would.

The Last Picks would be thrilled, of course—for a variety of reasons. Bobby, on the other hand, would probably murder me—if he wasn’t too busy playing patty-cake with his latest flavor of the week.

That gave me an idea.

I placed a call on my phone, and Bobby answered on the second ring. A blow dryer cut off. He was getting ready for his date.

“You know how we had that big fight a few months ago?”

“Hi,” Bobby said. And then, voice dry, “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Bobby!”

The sounds of movement came from the other side. His voice was muffled for the first few words, and I realized he was pulling on a shirt. Was he naked? Nope. I was not going to think about that . Scratch that from the record, uh, judge. “I’m in a hurry. What’s up?”

“When I, um, did some investigating—”

“Snooping.”

“—at the amusement park, and it turned out the killer was still there—”

“And they would have killed you if someone hadn’t saved your hide.” Bobby’s tone was treacherously deadpan.

“Actually, I was doing a great job on my own—”

“I’m hanging up in five seconds.”

“You told me that if I was going to do something stupid, I should have told you because you’re my friend.”

His silence had the quality of a lot of teeth-grinding.

“Well,” I said in a small voice, “I’m about to do something stupid.”