Chapter 16

A few days later, Keme and I were playing Fortnite in the billiard room (which was really more of a family room, but the name was too cool to change), and I was getting slaughtered. I mean, I wasn't bad. But Keme was in a league of his own.

"Wait, wait, wait—" I tried.

But Keme's protectiveness had either been temporary or did not extend to the realm of video games. He didn't even have the decency to talk crap; he just gave me a pitying look, killed me, and kept playing.

After that night with Vivienne, I'd been in a weird limbo. Deputy Bobby had arrested Vivienne—which didn't take the first time, on account of the fact that Keme had sparked her out with kitchenware. More deputies had come. The chief deputy, who was also the acting sheriff—a terrifyingly reserved woman named Acosta—had come. And we'd all ended up at the station, telling our story. Acosta—and, for that matter, Deputy Bobby—had shared their thoughts about our plan (to borrow Indira's phrase, they'd shared their thoughts at length). But say what you will about an engineered public confession, it's a classic for a reason, especially when you record it.

Since then, there'd been a few follow-up interviews, but my days, for the most part, had been calm and quiet. And, frankly, a little empty. Which was where Keme came in—maybe he'd sensed I needed some company, or maybe Indira had said something after the third chocolate cake I devoured. We played video games. And we hung out. And the best part was that with Keme, I didn't have to talk. I saved all my talking for Fox, who came by to eat Indira's cooking, and Millie, who was at Hemlock House whenever she wasn't working.

A tap at the window interrupted another round of Keme ruthlessly hunting me down and exterminating me. Deputy Bobby was looking in at us, shading his eyes with one hand. I dropped the controller, ignored the look that Keme gave me—it was, for a teenager, a surprisingly knowing look—and motioned to Deputy Bobby that I'd meet him on the terrace.

When I let myself outside, the day was bright, and a clear, blue sky stretched as far as I could see. The sun was warm, and the air was sweet with the smell of rain-washed grass and hemlock and rose. Deputy Bobby appeared a moment later. He wasn't in uniform, I saw—a hoodie, joggers, and these suspiciously cool sneakers that were like another window into Deputy Bobby.

"Was that Fortnite?" he asked as he stepped up onto the terrace.

"You play?"

"Why were you trying to climb that tree?"

"I wasn't trying to climb it; I got stuck—" I caught his hint of a smile. "Don't start with me! I already have to put up with this kind of abuse from Keme."

"It was cute when you were trying to snipe."

Cute, I thought. But I said, "You try playing with him. He's a one-man assassination squad."

That made Deputy Bobby grin. He relaxed against the parapet and folded his arms. "No shorts? No T-shirt?"

I plucked at my hoodie, but I said, "It doesn't make any sense. It's warm. It's sunny! Why am I still cold?"

His grin got wider. "You finally look like a local."

"Just in time, huh?"

He cocked his head, and his grin dimmed a little. "What's that mean?"

"I don't know."

A gull called.

"Are you leaving?"

I shrugged.

Deputy Bobby considered me. "I heard Acosta talked to you about Hemlock House."

"Talked to me is a very good way of putting it. Obviously I can't inherit anything from Vivienne because she's alive, so that part doesn't matter, but the sheriff told me that, as far as anyone can tell, I really am the legal owner of Hemlock House. According to the county recorder, a quitclaim deed was filed by Vivienne Carver—signed and notarized, everything above board—giving me full ownership of the property. Then Acosta told me she didn't believe for a minute that Vivienne had signed that deed, and I'd better prepare myself for a legal battle."

"Maybe."

"What maybe? She's going to want her house back."

"She's got a lot to worry about. Not just the murders—"

"And attempted murder. That part is very important to me."

"—but also everything with the Nightingale murders. Matrika is back at the state penitentiary, and there will be consequences for the escape, but her appeal is going to move forward."

"And she'll be cleared by the DNA," I said. "Eventually."

"She's also going to sue Vivienne for everything she owns," Deputy Bobby said. "So, Vivienne might not be in a rush to get Hemlock House back. As it stands, she barely has the funds to hire a defense lawyer—I can't imagine she wants to extend herself and try a civil suit at the same time. Besides, she's too busy trying to blame everything on Huggins—it's a real song and dance, considering she's spent the last thirty years putting herself in the spotlight and Huggins is dead."

"Kind of puts a damper on all those thirtieth anniversary ‘Where are they now' specials, doesn't it?"

But Deputy Bobby didn't smile. He had his usual Deputy Bobby earnestness as he said, "What I'm trying to say is Hemlock House is yours, if you want it."

"I guess."

The gull again. And the restlessness of the ocean.

"You know," Deputy Bobby said, "a lot of people would be thrilled to have a mansion fall into their laps. Especially one that's completely paid off. Especially if they're a talented writer looking for a place where they can work in peace and quiet."

"You haven't heard Millie after she's worked a morning shift at Chipper and had unlimited access to the espresso. Peace and quiet it is not."

"Especially if it's a good town, with good people. Especially if they've got friends who care about them and want them to be happy. Especially if everyone wants them to stay."

"I want to loop back to the part about me being talented."

"Funny. I wanted to talk some more about how I feel about you almost getting yourself killed so you could trick Vivienne into a confession."

"Never mind. I decided I'm fine with letting the conversation move forward."

But it didn't. It stalled right then, and Deputy Bobby was looking at me with those eyes like burnished bronze, and I couldn't hear the ocean anymore, couldn't hear the gulls, couldn't hear the breeze that ruffled his hair.

"I brought you something," he said. "In case you decide to stay."

"Oh yeah?" (I'm a writer, ladies and gentlemen. Words are my stock-in-trade.)

He headed for his car, and over his shoulder, he tossed back, "I put it in the coach house. It's for your own good, Mr. Dane."

"I prefer Dash."

That goofy grin exploded as he swung himself up into the Pilot. "I know."

And then he shut the door, and a moment later, he was driving away.

I went to the coach house.

There was a familiar-looking envelope on the windshield of the Jeep: another ticket from Deputy Bobby. Only, when I opened it, it wasn't a ticket. It was a warning for expired tags. And then, in handwriting that was quickly becoming familiar, I can't give you a ticket because it's parked on private property. Please, for the love of God, help me out here.

But that wasn't the gift. The gift was a bike.

It was a cute little fixed-gear with a blue frame, clearly used, and my guess was that it had been Deputy Bobby's, or maybe West's. He'd tied a bow on it with white ribbon, and if Deputy Bobby wasn't actually a straight boy, that incredibly terrible bow made me think you'd have to squint to tell the difference. I realized I was smiling, and I couldn't seem to wipe it off my face.

The rap of knuckles on wood broke the moment. Behind me, Keme leaned through the doorway, his expression expectant. He tilted his head back toward the house and our game.

"Actually—" I gave the bike another look. "—I think I'm going to finish unpacking."