Chapter 5

The next morning found me up way too early. It also found me walking way too fast as I tried to keep up with Dagan Glass.

"I'm very busy, Mr. Dane," he said.

The sky was the same color as the clouds, and the day had the coast's usual winter light, so wan and thin it felt like it could slip through your fingers. Dagan looked worse than he had the night before: pouches under his eyes, a day's worth of stubble, his clothes rumpled. His dishwater mullet even looked dispirited and limp. In spite of what must have been a sleepless night, he walked so quickly he was almost jogging. I thought he was trying to give me the impression that he was surveying the park (which had opened less than an hour before), but it felt more like he was trying to run away.

Like Dagan, the park looked a little rougher by daylight. Flaking paint, boards riddled with dry rot, trash that had gotten caught in the flower beds. The night before, the strands of overhead lights had softened everything with their gentle glow—and, more importantly, had left some of the less appealing aspects of the park hidden in shadow. Now, though, the sun laid everything bare: the cracks in the asphalt, a gutter pulling away from a steel roof, a precipitously leaning fence around the go-kart track. The park still had a distinct charm—it was hard to argue with the swarms of giggling children who had turned out early today to take advantage of shorter lines—but this was reality, not last night's wonderland.

Which, considering the dead body, might have been for the best.

"I'm sure you are very busy," I said, "but you did say to let you know if you could do anything to help."

Not exactly what he'd said, but close enough.

Dagan said something under his breath that didn't sound particularly helpful, but finally he said, "I understand, after last night's events, why you might be…curious. But there's nothing to see. Our best guess is that someone fainted." He laughed, and it sounded strained. "There's certainly no—no mysterious cover-up."

Which is what someone would say if there was a mysterious cover-up. On Scooby-Doo.

"I just want a few minutes of your time," I said. And since it never hurts to shoot for the moon, I added, "I know it's asking a lot, but if you could let me look at the security footage from last night—"

The park manager opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a pirate whizzed overhead (eww, that really did not come out the way I intended). Flew overhead. Over us, to be precise. With another of those bloodcurdling screams. It startled me, sure, but Dagan flinched .

He muttered some more of those not-so-helpful words and then, clearly making an effort to pull himself together, he wiped sweat from his forehead and said, "As I told the police last night, Mr. Dane, there is no security footage. At least, none relevant to this—"

I swear to God, he almost said mysterious cover-up .

He recovered, though, and fumbled his way through "—bizarre incident. I've got a park to run. I don't have time to sit around and chat. If you want to send a list of questions to my assistant…"

Instead of finishing that sentence, though, he trailed off, his gaze fixed on something behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a woman approaching us—Black, in her thirties, with her hair cut short and dyed a fading blue. She wore a coat embroidered with SHIPWRECK SHORES on the breast, canvas work pants, and steel-toed boots. The way she moved toward us—hands balled at her sides, in a stiff-legged stride—made me think she wasn't coming to wish us a happy Sweethearts Festival.

"I need to talk to you about the Sea Snake," she said to Dagan. Her gaze flicked to me, but only for a moment. "Right now."

"There's nothing to talk about—"

"There sure is. The brakes are shot. Listen."

As though on cue, a chorus of delighted screams came from the direction of the Sea Snake, followed by the shriek of metal on metal. If that was the brakes, I decided not to take Bobby up on any future offers to ride the Sea Snake. (Oh my God, not what I meant.)

Dagan's gaze slid to me, and he wiped his forehead again. "You know the policy at Shipwreck Shores: we keep every ride maintained to optimize passenger safety and ensure the continued safe functioning of the park."

"Great," the woman said flatly. "So, I can buy new brakes."

"Submit a purchase requisition—"

"I am. Right now. In front of this guy. How would you like to ride the Sea Snake without any brakes?"

(To be totally fair to myself, it didn't sound any better when she said it.)

"Jessica," Dagan snapped. "Get back to work. Take care of the brakes. Don't bother me again—that's what I pay you for. Or do you want to find work at another park?"

This time, it was the woman—Jessica—who flinched. Then she tried to cover it with a sneer. "You think you're going to find somebody else to keep this place running?" She let out a laugh. "Go ahead. Fire me. I'm not the only one who knows where the bodies are buried."

She didn't seem to mean anything by it—it seemed to be, as far as I could tell, nothing more than an infelicitous turn of phrase, especially considering last night. But Dagan went white and actually wobbled .

Jessica was still speaking, though, and didn't seem to have noticed. "Now, about the go-karts, I've got to replace the tires on at least three of them—"

"I'm in the middle of something," Dagan said breathily. "Mr. Dane is interviewing me about the park. We'll have to talk about this later."

"Oh yeah," Jessica said. "We'll talk about it later."

Dagan gave her a furious look, but he hurried away without another word.

When I caught up with Dagan, I said, "So—"

"Everything in the park has passed the state-mandated safety inspection within the last twelve months." And then, the words bubbling up with frustration: "No thanks to her. She got fired from her last park, you know. She's lucky to have a job here."

That was a tantalizing thread to follow, but I decided to focus on the matter at hand. "About last night—"

"Nothing happened last night." Dagan stopped to pick up a waxed-paper hot dog wrapper. "How many times do I have to say that?"

"Okay, I understand. I wanted to know if anybody reported to the first aid area—you have an EMT on staff, right?"

"We do. We had a woman in her seventies who had an asthma attack, and we had an eight-year-old boy who threw up behind the corn dog stand. That's it." As he talked, his voice became less combative and more…pedantic, for lack of a better word. I got the feeling Dagan liked to hear himself talk. "Most of the issues in the summer have to do with people getting dehydrated, or with the heat, you know. The Sweethearts Festival is shorter, and it's a lot calmer." He gave me a dirty look. "Usually."

"Nobody who reported a fainting spell."

"No. But they're not required to report it."

"And you don't have any security footage at all?"

"No, Mr. Dane." He let out a tired and strangely twisty laugh. "Believe it or not, people don't go into the amusement park business to make money. We thought those cameras were working. Looks like they're starting to go out."

"All of them?" I asked. And I couldn't help adding, "Right now?"

A second dirty look told me I hadn't managed to keep the skepticism out of my tone. "If that's all—"

"Did anyone contact the park last night about a guest who went missing? I mean, maybe someone got confused and wandered off. If they hit their head—" I couldn't quite bring myself to say the word amnesia , mostly because this wasn't an episode of Days of our Lives , but—was there a medical term for getting whacked out of your gourd? Oh. Right. "—like, maybe a concussion?"

"No. Nothing like that. Nobody was reported lost. Nobody was reported missing. No calls to help locate a guest." At the next intersection, a group of park employees in mascot costumes were loafing around (I counted two blue whales, two Dungeness crabs, and a mermaid who was losing her tail). Dagan waved the hot dog wrapper. "Mikey. Olivia. Get your—" He didn't exactly look at me, but I sensed some on-the-fly editing. "—butts in gear. What'd I tell you about trash?"

The costumed employees exchanged looks (which was kind of impressive considering the oversized heads they were wearing), and then they separated. The mermaid hopped along, still trying to pin her tail in place.

"But doesn't that seem strange?" I asked. "Nobody reported anything. I mean, I know what I saw—"

It was the wrong thing to say. Dagan spun toward me. "If you know what you saw, Mr. Dane, then where's the body?" He didn't wait for my answer. "Do you know what that little stunt cost me last night? People love Davy Jones' Locker, and they weren't happy that it was closed. If people aren't happy, they don't come back to Shipwreck Shores. Do you know how many chocolate-covered strawberries I had to give away?"

Early in our friendship—right at the beginning, if we want to get technical—Bobby had pointed out that I have a tendency to be a smart aleck. It's mostly a one-on-one thing, since I hate crowds, hate being the center of attention, and hate, well, peopling. But it's an unfortunate trait that does tend to come out at inconvenient times. Like, for example, when my own temper is starting to stretch thin.

Which is why I said, "Six?"

A flush climbed Dagan's neck and into his face. He stalked away.

I went after him because his little rant had given me an idea. "What about another possibility?"

"You need to leave, Mr. Dane."

"Maybe we've been thinking about this the wrong way. What if someone wanted that body to be found? What if they're trying to ruin the park? Or they're trying to frame one of the employees?"

Dagan grunted and kept walking.

"Can you think of anybody who hates you—or hates the park—enough to do something like that?"

"Are you crazy? Everybody loves Shipwreck Shores. We're an institution. Family owned and operated for sixty years, Mr. Dane. We're a tradition. Nobody would want to shut the park down."

"What about you?" It wasn't standard interview protocol to say something like because you're a massive jerk, and maybe somebody was going after you . I managed to change it at the last moment into "I didn't realize you grew up here—"

"I didn't. And I'm out of time, Mr. Dane. I've got an important meeting, so if you'll excuse me."

"It would have been more convincing if you looked at your watch," I told him.

He made an annoyed noise and picked up the pace.

"And it really would have been more convincing if you hadn't used a similar line on Jessica," I added. "In front of me. You need some variety in your excuses."

Nothing.

"Like, instead of always pretending you have a meeting, you could say your child is sick. Or your dog. Or your grandmother."

He wouldn't look at me, but he growled, "You need to leave, Mr. Dane. Right now, or I'll have security remove you."

"Or here's a wingding: you work at an amusement park. You could pretend it was a work-related emergency. Like, someone put Kool-Aid in the lagoon. Or the Magnetron is running backwards again."

By this point, he was walking so fast that I was starting to lose him. Not because I was slow. Or out of shape. Or, um, in a long-term romantical relationship with Indira's Kentucky butter cake. And definitely not because of all those mornings when Bobby woke me at an ungodly hour (why did somebody invent eight a.m.? why does it even exist?) to go for a run, and I drew deeply from my well of excuses. Which didn't always work, unfortunately. Like the time I told him I'd eaten some bad shrimp and I had an upset tummy, and he said I hadn't eaten any shrimp, I said he didn't know everything, and then twenty minutes later I was running. Up a hill, for the love of Pete.

"But the all-time classic is a migraine," I called after him. "Even Bobby can't do anything about that one."

Dagan didn't look back. He certainly didn't seem like he appreciated all the free advice I'd given him.

I could have taken that as my cue to leave. I could have called Keme or Fox or Millie; they were supposed to be canvassing the park to see if anyone recognized the woman I'd seen last night.

Instead, though, I kept following Dagan. In part because I was stubborn, and in part because now that I'd had my flash of genius about another potential motive (i.e., someone had done it to destroy the park, or to get back at Dagan, or both), I wanted to know a little more about Shipwreck Shores. Also, as a writer, I was a keen observer and student of human behavior. So, like, when somebody abruptly tried to end a conversation, I knew it usually meant he had something to hide.

Dagan had built up a good lead, but I still had him in my sights when he darted into an unadorned building on the edge of the park property. It was a single-story cinderblock structure with a flat roof. Overgrown juniper formed a kind of hedge that screened most of the building from view, but I could make out, on the other side, a hint of windows with battered aluminum mini blinds. The plaque by the door said PARK OFFICE.

The door wasn't locked, so I let myself inside. The hum of a space heater met me. The front room was a small, utilitarian space: a particleboard desk, a couple of dinged-up filing cabinets, a faded SHIPWRECK SHORES poster that, by the look of it, had tried to capitalize heavily on the Goonies era. The air had that hot dust smell that a lot of space heaters give off. I was, for the moment, alone.

Two doors stood behind the desk. One was marked DAGAN GLASS – MANAGER. And the other said LYNDSEY ZEIMANTZ – OWNER. I padded around the desk. From Dagan's office came the unmistakable sound of an angry voice, although the words were too muffled for me to make out. I listened at the next door but didn't hear anything, and when I tried the handle, it was locked.

Maybe, in a gentler universe, it all would have ended there. Instead, though, I noticed a sign with an arrow. The sign said PARK SECURITY, and the arrow pointed down a hall that led deeper into the building. I passed two restrooms and stopped in the breakroom to consider the snack options. They had CHOCOLATE CAKE ROLL (compare to Hostess Ho Hos), and CINNAMON FLOP CAKE (compare to Hostess Cinnamon Streusel Coffee Cake), and BABY DONUTS (compare to Hostess Donettes). I know what you're thinking: the importance of intellectual property. But here's the thing—the knockoffs, I'd learned, were made by a local bakery, and they were phenomenal. Like, you wouldn't believe how good they were. So, I took a package of Baby Donuts, because I needed to keep my strength up. And a Chocolate Cake Roll—I mean, who was I kidding? I skipped the Cinnamon Flop Cake because Indira makes a coffee cake that's to die for.

Okay, I did take the flop cake, but only in case of emergency. A cake-related emergency. Nothing too serious, because I definitely did not need any more problems.

Sure enough, past the break room I found a door marked PARK SECURITY. The hallway continued until it ended in a fire door, which I assumed meant it led outside. Confirmation came in the form of a Magic Markered-sign that said NO SMOKING and the distinct smell of fresh cigarette smoke. Well, I thought, you can't win them all. That was one of my new favorite phrases, mostly because I'd discovered by accident that it drove Keme crazy. Naturally, now I said it every time I beat him at a game (which, admittedly, wasn't often).

The door to the security office looked like every other door I'd seen—a standard, hollow-core interior model. Kind of like that whole student of human behavior thing, being a mystery writer meant I'd spent a lot of time thinking about (and listening to my parents talk about) how to do any number of criminal things. Like, for example, get past a locked door. This one didn't look particularly difficult—in fact, it looked painfully subpar as far as that sort of thing went. I thought I could probably bump the latch free and let myself in. I would have expected something more substantial for the park's security office, but I was starting to suspect that money was tight at Shipwreck Shores, and a security upgrade wasn't in the budget. Maybe that explained why the cameras had oh-so-conveniently malfunctioned during that crucial window of time before and after the murder. If Dagan had been telling the truth about that. If, for that matter, he'd been telling the truth about anything. Which was why I figured I should have a look at the recordings myself, just in case.

I grabbed the handle and got ready to hip-check the door—if that didn't work, I'd try something else, but sometimes the simple things were best.

"Can I help you with something?"

The voice came from the end of the hall. A man stood there, the fire door resting against his shoulder, staring at me with hard, unfriendly eyes. Cold air rushed in around him, carrying the smell of cold concrete and, yep, cigarette smoke. The man looked familiar, and then I spotted the walkie at his belt and made the connection. I'd seen him the night before, putting up the cordon around Davy Jones' Locker. He was a bluff-faced man, white, probably around the same age as Dagan. He wore his blond hair short and parted on the side, and his nose and eyes were red—from the cold, maybe, or the cigarette, but maybe from something else. He'd ditched the blazer and wore a white button-up with navy trousers, but the effect was more like a uniform than business casual—I was guessing there was a lot of polyester involved.

"Oh," I said. "Hey."

He kept staring. He wasn't wearing a gun, but he was a big guy.

"You're not supposed to be back here."

"Sorry about that. There wasn't anyone up front."

In the pause that came next, I could hear the cold air rushing into the building.

"You know what?" I said. "I'll get out of your hair—"

His smile was a thin slash of teeth. "What's your angle here, Mr. Dane?"

That answered one question—he definitely remembered me.

"My angle? No angle." I showed him my empty hands. "I was—" Genius struck. "—looking for my Switch. I think I left it here last night."

"You left your Switch here last night," he said, and it didn't sound like a question.

"Yeah. In the confusion, after, uh, everything, I forgot and—I don't suppose you found a Switch, did you?"

The silence was longer this time. "You know what? I think I did. Why don't we step into the office and take a look?"

"Uh, you know what? It wasn't so much my Switch as it was Keme's ." I took a step back. "And he already plays it way too much—"

But even as I was talking, the man unlocked the security office and threw open the door.

"—and since I'm an adult, I should probably, you know, let this be a lesson for him, something about responsibility—"

"You wanted something in the security office," he said. "Let's see if I can help you out."

"Actually, I just realized I'm late for a meeting—"

(Don't judge me. Dagan put it in my head.)

"Get in my office, Mr. Dane," the man said. "Or do you want me to call the sheriff?"

"That sounds like a great plan. Let's call the sheriff—"

From the front of the building came a crashing sound—a door being thrown open—and then raised voices.

"We talked about this!" That was Dagan, and he sounded furious. "I told you to stay away from here!"

"You told me to stay away? You told me ?" That was a woman's voice—equally angry and gilded with scorn. "I'll do whatever I want." A coarse laugh erupted, and she continued, "What are you going to do? Hit me? I'd love to see that."

I was still looking at the security guard, and I watched as his face changed—the expression emptied out of it, and in its place came a rage so intense that it looked mindless. He stepped around me, his attention clearly fixed now on the argument between Dagan and the woman, and I saw my chance. I sprinted for the back door. It opened easily, letting me out onto a concrete pad. A bucket had been placed next to the door, the sand inside studded with cigarette butts, and the smell of smoke was even stronger. Beyond the concrete pad, a chain-link fence marked the perimeter of the park. Thick brown vines, winter bare, choked the fence; most of the year, it probably provided a nice privacy screen, but in the winter, it was easy to see that county road on the other side.

I sprinted around the side of the building and stopped behind the overgrown juniper that marked the edge of the path. I had a clear view of the woman who stormed out of the park office—and stormed was the right verb; she even slammed the door behind her. She was taller than average for a woman, although some of that was the heels, with a staticky bob of chocolate-brown hair. But it was the shape of her face that held me. The unmistakable familiarity of her mouth. The overbite that made me think of a rabbit.

She looked different in a dozen ways, but I'd seen this woman before. Last time, though, she'd been lying on a fun house floor, dead.