Chapter 11

Here’s the good news: I didn’t get a ticket for parking next to the service garage.

As I drove away from Hampton Automotive, though, I wasn’t happy. I considered what Nate had said. I should have considered the possibility that whoever had killed Gerry had managed to access the safe and remove anything incriminating. After all, it had been easy for me and Bobby to get into the safe—the key had been right there. But if the file had been taken, then anybody could be Gerry’s killer.

I knew two things, though. First, I didn’t trust Nate. I needed to try to verify his alibi (if you could call it that) for the time when Gerry was killed, but I didn’t have high hopes. And second, although I wasn’t sure I believed Nate’s story, I needed to talk to Ali Rivas. Even if the blackmail story wasn’t true, she had her own reasons to want Gerry Webb to disappear, and I was curious to hear her side of things.

The problem, though, was that I wasn’t really any further in the investigation. I had added a new suspect—Ali had been at the party, and she had her own reasons for wanting to get rid of Gerry. And I wanted to know how Ali kept getting into the camp, in spite of all that security. Did she have help? Was someone hoping that the vandalism would eventually make Gerry—what? Sell? Give up his share of the camp?

Adding a suspect, though, had only made the investigation more complicated. I had too many suspects. And too many motives. And not enough of anything else. What I needed was physical evidence, something irrefutable to tie the killer to Gerry’s murder. And, barring that, what I needed was something to maneuver the killer into confessing. The ideal thing to do (if this were a mystery novel) would be to manipulate the killer by claiming to have found a backup copy of the blackmail. The killer would then expose themselves by trying to recover it. But if Nate was correct, and if the killer had already recovered and destroyed their blackmail file from Gerry’s safe, then they might be feeling safe and secure. It would take more than an unsubstantiated claim to lure them out of hiding.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything, and nothing presented itself as I drove back to Hemlock House. I called Deputy Bobby on the way; I wanted to tell him—and the Last Picks—what I’d learned. Somebody might know more about Nate. Or about Ali. Or about something I hadn’t considered. Maybe Millie’s network of town gossip had picked up the perfect clue, and all I had to do was ask. Deputy Bobby didn’t answer, so I left him a message telling him I needed to talk. I tried one more time, but I got voicemail again, so I focused on driving.

My route took me south along the state highway. I passed through Hastings Rock. On a day like today, with the sky an intense, vast blue and the sun casting cut-glass shadows, the town looked like what it was supposed to be: a postcard destination, a perfect hodgepodge of dollhouse buildings rising from the bay to the bluffs. The oaks and maples were starting to turn, and scattered with the deep green of pine and spruce were flashes of gold and copper and red.

I was leaving town on the south side when I noticed the Jeep was handling differently. A little stiff. A little less responsive. I started up a small hill, and the engine seemed to hesitate, even when I fed it more gas. As I crested the hill and reached the tunnel of the spruce forest, I passed from the brilliance of a seaside day into the perpetual shadow under the canopy. That was when I noticed that the Jeep’s dash lights were flickering. A red warning light popped on—the battery.

At the exact same time, the Jeep shuddered. The steering wheel stiffened as the power steering went out. The hiss of air in the vents went silent. The Jeep gave another of those shudders, and it startled me out of my daze. I wrenched the wheel to the right, trying to wrestle it to the shoulder. The engine sputtered, the Jeep hitched, and then, with a final lurch, it died.

I had enough presence of mind to shift into neutral, and the last of the Jeep’s momentum was enough to let us trundle off the state highway and onto the side of the road. Adrenaline coursed through me too late: even though my brain knew I was safe now, my body couldn’t slow down the flood of hormones. My hands started to shake. My mouth tasted sour. I felt lightheaded, and I gripped the steering wheel to keep myself upright and steady.

After a few deep breaths, I felt a little better. I forced the shifter into park, set the emergency brake, and took out my phone. It hadn’t been that bad, I told myself. It had been the surprise more than anything. I was safe. I was fine. It was a quiet stretch of road, and I was lucky there hadn’t been any other cars around when it happened. When I glanced at my phone, though, I felt a little less lucky—like lots of spots up and down the coast, this was apparently a dead zone. Which meant I could either walk back to town, walk to Hemlock House, or wait and hope someone would stop.

Before I had to make a decision, movement in the rearview mirror caught my eye. A car came over the hill—a dark sedan. The driver must have seen me because they slowed and eased onto the side of the road. They must have been extra cautious because they stopped a long way back.

I opened the door and got out of the Jeep. Down the road, the driver was getting out of their car. I squinted, trying to make out details through the thick shade and the distance. Dark pants. Dark shirt. Dark…mask?

No, my brain said automatically. That couldn’t be right.

But it was. The driver was wearing a balaclava.

In October.

In Oregon.

On a beautifully bright, sunny day.

A fresh wave of adrenaline began to pump through me. That sick-sour churn of my stomach started again. My vision felt funny—off, somehow. Because, a detached voice inside me said, your eyes are dilating in response to the hormones. Not that I could process the words. I couldn’t think about anything. All I could hear was a drumbeat getting faster and faster inside my head.

The masked figure started up the shoulder toward me. They were carrying something in their hand—something small, something made of metal.

My rational brain gave one final protest. This was impossible. It was the middle of the day. It was a state highway. There would be cars, there would be people, there would be witnesses.

Which sounded all well and good and logical. Except where the heck was everybody?

The masked figure had closed a quarter of the distance. They weren’t running. They must have realized they didn’t need to run. I was just standing there. Staring. Like a moron.

I considered my options: lock myself in the Jeep, or run. The Jeep wasn’t a bad bet unless they had a gun. But they probably did have a gun. So, I ran.

The ground sloped down from the shoulder of the road, falling sharply into a wooded ravine. I pushed through a line of ferns, slipped on wet leaf litter, and almost went rolling the rest of the way down. Somehow, I recovered and caught my balance. A shout made me glance back. The masked figure was running toward me now. Behind them, another vehicle had finally appeared—a dark SUV barreling along the state highway. Too little, too late, I thought, and I hurried as best I could down the hill.

If you’ve never run down a wet, slippery hill before while a masked figure chases you, let me tell you: it’s not as easy (or as fun) as it sounds. Every step threatened to send my feet sliding out from under me. The soil gave way abruptly, which meant I’d skitter down a few inches until my heel caught something solid again. The understory wasn’t thick, but there were enough brushes, brambles, and yes, more ferns, that after a dozen yards, I was covered in scratches. I tried to be smart; I tried to zigzag, in case the masked figure was taking aim. I tried to take a path that would lead me between the trunks of the massive spruce and pine. But all of that was secondary to my main goal, which was to stay upright. And staying upright meant that, no matter how fast my heart was hammering, my progress was painfully slow.

Distantly, fresh shouts broke out above me. Then a gunshot broke the forest’s stillness. Dirt and decomposing leaves sprayed up a few feet to my right. I dove to the left, landed on my shoulder, and began to roll. I turned the roll into a scramble and ended up behind the bole of an enormous ponderosa pine. My brain told me to keep moving, but I felt frozen—that shot had come so close.

Up on the shoulder of the road, someone was shouting again—and you wouldn’t hear any of those words in church. Farther off, an engine growled, and then the sound faded. Someone was moving through the brush higher up the ravine—leaves rustling, branches snapping.

And then Deputy Bobby’s voice called, “Dash?”

I fought to control my breath. I sagged. The cold, damp leaves were like ice against my face, and they felt wonderful. Somehow, after a moment, I managed to sit up and call back, “Here!”