Chapter 8

Somehow, we made it out of the library. I'd expected outrage, clutching hands, cries of "Murderer!" But aside from a few dirty looks, most people had seemed more interested in Pippi's new podcast and patronage platform. When Millie and I emerged into the night, the crowds of tourists had already dried up, and the shops were shuttered, and the town was cold and dark. A few stars showed out to the west. Fog was moving in, and the air was wet against my face.

"It's a misunderstanding," Millie said. "She got it wrong somehow."

I nodded.

"Fox and Indira will know what to do. You'll see."

"Right," I said.

"Dash, are you okay?"

No, I wanted to say. I'm about to be arrested, and I've got a lunatic master of self-promotion who's going to make sure I go to prison for a murder she very well could have committed.

But Will Gower wouldn't have said that; he would have said something dry, something wry, something that would have made Millie roll her eyes but, at the same time, reassured her that he had everything in hand. I wasn't Will Gower, as tonight's disastrous confrontation had proven, but in this moment Dashiell Dane and Will Gower weren't that far apart. Because Dashiell Dane wouldn't say something like that either. Dashiell Dawson Dane was much more likely to say exactly what I said next: "Oh sure. Fine."

Millie frowned and gave me a considering look.

"Really," I said and managed a smile. "Thank you for—" Uh, accusing someone of murder in public and escalating a terrifying confrontation didn't really sound right, so I settled for "—the help tonight."

"You don't look like you're fine. You look like when my mom and I are talking and then my mom gets a headache and then my mom says she needs to lie down for a while."

There was a lot to unpack in that sentence; weirdly, it made it easier to let out a little laugh. "No, really. I think I'm just a little shaken up from—I mean, I don't understand." I wrestled down a secondary wave of panic and managed to say, "You're right. It's got to be some sort of mistake."

"We'll figure it out."

That made my eyes mist. I nodded. "I think I'd better call it. I've done enough damage for one night."

It looked like Millie might ask another question, but instead, with a flash of a smile, she hugged me. "See you tomorrow, Dash," she said and darted off toward her car.

When I got to the Jeep, there was a familiar envelope under windshield wipers. I didn't even bother opening it; now that I wasn't in such a rush, I spotted the fire hydrant. And the red curb. And the sign that said NO PARKING.

At least they hadn't towed the Jeep, I thought as I got in and started the engine. That was a win, right?

I started back toward Hemlock House, but my mind wasn't really on the route. I kept thinking back to Pippi's performance. How flashy it had been. How quickly she'd adapted. She hadn't liked it that I'd known Vivienne had plagiarized Café Capers. But was it a secret worth killing over? After that performance, I certainly didn't trust Pippi, but she seemed more focused on self-aggrandizement and profiting off a tragedy than, well, murderous.

And how in the world could I be Vivienne's sole heir? What did that even mean? I had an idea of what the estate must be worth—the intellectual property alone would be worth millions, not to mention whatever other assets Vivienne had. And owner of Hemlock House? That didn't make any sense. How could the county recorder of records have me listed as the new owner when Vivienne had only died two days ago? Didn't everything have to go through probate?

It didn't matter; that was the stopping point in my brain. None of it really mattered because I was never going to inherit anything. The slayer rule, it was called. You can't inherit from a person you killed. That's the kind of thing you knew if you were a mystery writer. Which raised a tickle at the back of my brain—why would I kill Vivienne if I knew about the slayer rule? I suppose law enforcement would assume I had believed I would never be caught, but still, it seemed like—well, my writer brain said it seemed like a plot hole.

And then it hit me: someone was framing me. I hadn't put it to myself in those words yet. Hadn't thought it out all the way. But as soon as it came to me, I understood: I was being framed. Vivienne's death the night I arrived, that wasn't a coincidence or bad luck. The sheriff finding that secret passage—that wasn't his savvy detecting skills. And now this, the fact that I was somehow Vivienne's heir and the owner of Hemlock House. Someone was making sure I took the fall for Vivienne's murder.

The crunch of gravel jerked me out of my thoughts, and I came back to myself as the Jeep veered off the road. Fortunately, the streets were empty. I yanked the wheel and straightened out my course, but I was shaking so badly that the Jeep swerved back and forth. Somehow, I managed to come to a stop on the shoulder. I killed the engine. And then I pressed my hands against my thighs, sucking in deep breaths, as panic burned a bright wick up to the center of my brain.

After a while, I got control of myself again. I thought about how this would sound when I told people about it, about how tonight would be something to laugh about—Pippi's staginess, her barefaced avarice, God, the podcast. But tonight, turning into a story didn't help all that much. I thought about Will Gower and what he'd do. For most of my life, I'd lived and breathed and dreamed with Will Gower. Will Gower's world-weary eye, taking in the foibles of the people he met. Will Gower's unflinching compassion, in spite of the world's darkness. Will Gower, who was never afraid. Never afraid to fail. Never afraid to let himself get hurt.

And I was not Will Gower.

Before I knew what I was doing, I reached for my phone and called Hugo. It only rang once before my brain caught up with my body. Then I punched the screen to end the call.

I had just wanted to hear a familiar voice, I told myself.

The phone vibrated in my hand, and Hugo's name appeared on the screen. I dismissed the call. The phone vibrated again a moment later with a voicemail. I didn't want to listen to it. He'd be kind. He'd understand. He'd listen. He'd be Hugo. And, because he was Hugo, he'd call again if he didn't hear back from me. So, I texted him: Sorry about that. And then, to prevent any further idiocy, I pocketed the phone.

The worst of the shaking had stopped, although I could feel my own unsteadiness. Something I could use in my writing, I thought. Something I could use to make Will Gower's descriptions more vivid. Every muscle weak. A bone-deep exhaustion. And an awareness that I was holding myself together with spit and twine. I stared out the windshield. I thought about the long drive through the dark tunnel of the spruce forest. I thought about the winding fog belt. I thought about the dark house on the sea cliffs, and the dark halls, and the dark room, and I thought about all the shadows moving inside Hemlock House.

My eyes refocused on the building ahead of me. Until now, I'd been focused on stopping the Jeep—and not freaking out—and so I hadn't registered what was right in front of me. The neon signage read THE OTTER SLIDE, and a pride flag drooped in the wet air. A bar, my brain said. Perfect.

Before I could consider if this was a good idea, I yanked the key from the ignition and got out of the Jeep. The bar itself was a single-story building with a built-up roof and shiplap siding. The large front windows had been blacked out at some point, which I took to be either a really good sign or a really bad one, depending on where the night was headed. Bud Light banners hung on the walls, in case you hadn't figured out what kind of place it was—and admittedly, a name like the Otter Slide conjured up all sorts of possibilities. In other places, the walls were papered with sun-faded ads for Miller, Corona, and, one I hadn't heard of before, Rock Top Brewing.

When I stepped inside, it looked…normal. A long bar took up one side of the room, with stools and taps and shelves lined with bottles. Track lighting lit the bar itself, but the rest of the space was pleasantly murky under pendant lights with gold and green glass. A handful of white guys were playing pool. An older woman who looked Native American was reading a book in a booth. Two kids—I mean, honestly, they must have barely turned twenty-one—were playing a pinball machine that looked like you were trying to shoot the balls up Darth Vader's nose. Of his mask, I mean. The smell of fried onions and malt hung in the air, and the music sounded like classic rock, although not too loud. I don't know why that surprised me, and then I did—a part of me had been expecting sea shanties. But the thing I couldn't help focusing on was that everywhere—everywhere—were stuffed animals. Little ones. Beanie Babies, and Beanie Baby knockoffs, and ones that were clearly from Japan. A little gay bear was nestled into a bowl that had clearly been designed for bar mix. A unicorn straddled one of the pendant lights. And an otter, of course, sat with legs splayed next to the top-shelf hooch.

I made my way over to the bar and took a stool, and a few seconds later, a woman drifted over to me. She looked like she was the only one working the bar tonight, and she had one of those energetic faces, tan from being outdoors and starting to collect a few lines, that was attractive without being beautiful. "Welcome to the Otter Slide," she said. "What can I get you?"

"A gimlet," I said.

"You don't hear that one too often. Coming right up."

She drifted back down the bar, mixed the drink, and brought it back. "Long day?"

I shook my head.

Like good bartenders everywhere, she knew when to leave someone with their drink. "Anything else I can get you?"

I needed food, but that took too much brain power, so I shook my head.

"Call me if you need anything," she said. "Name's Seely."

I nodded, and Seely left me to my drink. I'm not sure I like gimlets, for the record. I mean, I like them well enough to drink them. But what I really like is the…resonance, I guess. The echo. Philip Marlowe drinks gimlets. There's a whole scene of him drinking gimlets, and the first time I read it, I had no idea what it meant. But the sound of it, the way the phrase gimlet eyes had hung around the back of my head, the feeling of rightness—that this was a drink for cynical men in a cynical world—had stuck with me. Sometimes the lime made my teeth ache, though, in case anyone's wondering.

I had one gimlet. I had another. I ordered a third. My face felt flushed and my body loose, and I kept taking off my glasses and blinking to clear my eyes, even though a distant part of me was fairly certain my eyes weren't the problem. I knew I should definitely eat something, but the thought of making a decision—any decision—at this point seemed impossible. I thought about Vivienne, and Pippi, and the thrill in my mother's voice when she asked, They arrested you? I thought about Will Gower and the dark streets he walked alone. I thought about the impossible fact that I owned Hemlock House, and that I was Vivienne's heir. It had to be a mistake. In fact, I was going to tell the sheriff it was a mistake. I was going to tell him right now.

After dropping some cash on the bar, I stood. Or tried to. The bar slipped away. And the floor slipped away. I grabbed the stool, but the stool slipped too, and I would have taken it with me as I fell except a pair of strong hands caught me. They steadied me. The eyes that met mine were a rich, earthy bronze I'd only seen once before.

"Whoa," Deputy Bobby said. "You okay?"

"Whoa," I said, fighting a giggle. "Like a horse."

"Uh huh." He considered me for another moment. "Did you have something to drink, Mr. Dane?"

"My name is Dash. I told you to call me Dash." I wrested myself free of his grip—well, I tried to. It felt more like him politely releasing me, with one hand still hovering close in case I started to go over again. I straightened as best I could. I had a few inches on him, which was good. "I own Hemlock House. Did you know that?"

Something I couldn't read crossed his face. He said, "Why don't we sit down?"

"And everyone thinks I killed Vivienne. Everyone. Even you."

"I—"

"And you gave me—" I fumbled in my pocket because I was sure I had one on me somewhere. "—parking tickets!"

"Mr. Dane—"

"Lots of parking tickets! And that's rude!"

"Why don't we—"

"And I didn't kill anyone!"

Even through the gimlet haze, I was aware of my volume, my words carrying over the sound of "Another Brick in the Wall." People turned to look. Conversations faltered. Seely stood at the bar, watching us.

Deputy Bobby waved at her. Then he wrapped one of those strong hands around my arm and said, "I don't think you want to be yelling about something like that in public."

"Maybe I do. Maybe I want to tell everyone."

"Do you?"

The beat of the song pounded in time with the ache in my head. I dropped my gaze and mumbled, "No."

"We're going to sit down," Deputy Bobby said. "And you're going to drink some water and have something to eat."

It didn't seem like a question, so I let Deputy Bobby lead me over to an empty booth. He told me not to go anywhere, which was funny since the floor was definitely too slippery for me to get out of here on my own. I wasn't sure how long he was gone, but I heard him before I saw him.

"He's not my responsibility," Deputy Bobby was saying in the low voice of someone trying not to be overheard—and trying not to argue. "I'm just going to make sure he gets home safely."

The only answer was a sigh.

"I'm sorry," Deputy Bobby said.

The voice that answered was male, and something about the pitch sounded gay. "I know. You're always sorry."

Deputy Bobby didn't say anything to that, but his silence was impressively loud. He slid into the booth a moment later and set a glass of water and a basket of fries in front of me. Then another man slid in next to him. He was gorgeous; that was the only word for him. Pink-cheeked and pouty lipped, with flaxen hair in a disheveled side part and eyes the color of morning. He was also dressed for a night out: a cropped graphic tee that showed a sexy devil in a reclining pose; an expensive-looking bracelet, with an even more expensive-looking necklace; and I was fairly sure I'd glimpsed leather pants that I never in my life could have pulled off. I took another look at Deputy Bobby and realized he wasn't in his khaki uniform—he was wearing a colorful print button-up with the sleeves cuffed at the elbow. He had nice arms, I realized. A moment later, I realized I was staring, and they were staring at me staring, and I wondered how many more gimlets it would take to kill me.

"Hi," the newcomer said. "I'm West."

"I'm Dash," I said. "Sorry."

"Eat some fries," Deputy Bobby said.

"I'm going to tell everyone I met you," West said.

Deputy Bobby made a quick, pained face that vanished almost immediately.

"The girls are going to be so jealous."

"Um," I said, "yay?"

That seemed like my cue that talking was not, at present, my strong suit, so I jammed some fries in my mouth. They were hot, but not too hot. Salty, but not too salty. Crispy until all of a sudden you got to the delicious fluffiness of the potato inside. I moaned.

West burst out laughing.

"The fries are very good here," Deputy Bobby said with a grin.

"They're not that good," West said through his laughter. "If they tasted like that, I wouldn't need a boyfriend."

I took a drink of water and said, "This is a gay bar."

"It's gay-friendly," Deputy Bobby said. "Hastings Rock is too small for a proper gay bar."

West rolled his eyes. "It's a gay bar in everything but name. They even have a drag brunch once a month."

"Lots of locals drink here," Deputy Bobby said. "The drinks are reasonably priced, there aren't too many tourists, and the vibe is chill."

The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them: "Did Deputy Bobby say the vibe is chill?"

West laughed again. "Deputy Bobby. Oh my God, like a cartoon or something."

And then, because the gimlets had only worsened my natural tendency to stick my foot in my mouth, I said, "Why are you in a gay bar?"

West started laughing so hard that Deputy Bobby actually gave him a look. But it didn't slow West down at all, and finally Deputy Bobby turned back to me and said, "Well, I'm gay. West is my boyfriend."

"Why are you in a gay bar?" West asked through tears of laughter.

"All right," Deputy Bobby said.

The heat in my face had nothing to do with the gimlets now, but weirdly, I actually felt better about the gaffe because…well, because I thought I'd felt something. Just a little. And it was nice to know I hadn't been wrong. And I liked it, too, when West kept laughing and Deputy Bobby gave me a crooked smile. Like we were both in on it together, whatever it was. Dealing with West maybe. Like we were on the same side.

"Oh my God, there's Jeremy," West said. "I'm gonna go dance. Nice to meet you, Dash."

He was gone in a heartbeat. And I'd been right about the leather pants.

The music had changed. I thought maybe this song was by The Doors, but I couldn't name it. Deputy Bobby sat there, watching me. And I sat there, uncomfortably aware of being watched. The silence between us stretched out. The shirt fit him perfectly across the shoulders. Broad shoulders. It was tight enough to hint at the definition of his chest.

"Eat," Deputy Bobby said. "You need something in your stomach besides—what were you drinking?"

"Gimlets."

He made a face and nudged the fries toward me.

So, I ate. And I drank water. And Seely brought me a hamburger, which was, honest to God, the best thing I've ever eaten in my whole life. I started to feel more like myself, which meant both tremendously embarrassed and extremely headachey.

I was about two bites away from finishing the hamburger when I said, "Thank you."

Deputy Bobby smiled. "You're welcome."

"Did I really look that bad?"

His laugh was low and easy, and he shook his head. "I was going to leave you alone. It looked like you wanted your privacy." That wry grin surfaced again. "And parking tickets tend to make things awkward."

I groaned.

"There was a fire hydrant."

"I know, I know."

"But I was going to get us more drinks when you got a little unsteady—"

"You mean when I fell. Drunkenly. Into your arms."

Now that last part—that wasn't supposed to be there. But Deputy Bobby only laughed again.

"I promise I'm alright," I said. "You don't have to play babysitter." I tried to stop there, but I couldn't help myself. "You're ruining your date with West. I guess technically I'm ruining it."

"It's not a date when you live together; he wanted to go out, so we went out. And West understands."

But I wasn't sure about that. I'd heard West's sigh. I'd heard the defensiveness in Deputy Bobby's voice when he hadn't known I was listening.

I wasn't prepared for the directness of the question, for the honesty behind it, the sincerity. "Are you all right?"

My eyes stung. I tried to nod, but somehow I ended up shaking my head instead. "Yes," I said. "No. I don't know."

He waited. Then he said, "That mostly covers it. Want to talk about it?"

"No. God, no." I tore the edge off the remaining piece of lettuce on my burger, and the words burst out of me. "If I were halfway decent as a mystery writer, I'd be able to figure this out, you know."

Deputy Bobby started to smile. He must have realized I wasn't joking, though, because the expression faded. "There's a difference between telling a story about a homicide and actually investigating one. That might not be a popular opinion around here, but it's true."

"Vivienne did it. Pippi's going to do it—well, I mean, it'll be a travesty and a miscarriage of justice, but she'll still make a ton of money off of it and become an overnight celebrity. My parents could do it. And I can't even decide if Will Gower is going to have a campy, flirtatious secretary with an on-again-off-again romance or if he's going to be a brooding lone wolf whose only emotional connection is the kid he plays chess with."

He frowned. "Is that a friend of yours?"

"And do you know what the worst part is? If my parents were here, they'd already have figured the whole thing out."

"Are your parents police officers?"

"What? No, they're writers. But they would have. They're both unbelievably smart. They'd love this. The whole thing would be a romp for them. They'd get into all sorts of shenanigans and figure it all out in a few hours and have a great time. Me, on the other hand? I chased down one lead—one!—and somehow it made me look even guiltier!" I had to blink to clear my eyes, and I took a drink to try to loosen the strain in my voice. "It would be nice, just once, if I weren't such a disappointment. Not that they can be bothered to be disappointed. They'd have to take an interest to be disappointed. Hey, maybe that'll be a bright spot about prison. Mom and Dad will love visiting because they'll have so many questions about shanks and shivs and toilet wine."

In the wake of the words, I felt hollow. My joints ached. My head was throbbing. The food, which had tasted so good going down, now sat in a greasy lump in my stomach. Deputy Bobby was staring at me with a look I'd once seen on a tourist when a seagull had screamed right in his face.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That was a lot, and I shouldn't have—I'm really sorry."

I slid out of the booth, managed to find some more cash to throw on the table for the fries and burger, and fled.

The wet air had finally thickened into a drizzle, and my glasses were immediately useless. I started off for the Jeep. I was still a little unsteady from the gimlets, and the gravel sloshed underfoot, making every step a balancing act. I shouldn't have run out of the bar. I shouldn't have left at all. I should have stayed, laughed off my own words, robbed the moment of that vital charge of emotion that had left me exposed and vulnerable. I should have found a way to turn it all into a story. To turn it into a joke.

Gravel crunched again behind me, and I glanced back. A dark shape approached through the drizzle, and with my glasses wet, I couldn't make out anything but a shape.

"You aren't driving yourself home," Deputy Bobby said. He came closer, and I could make out the shape of his face. "Not unless you want to add a DUI on top of all those parking tickets."

"I wasn't—" But, of course, I was. And then I tried "I'm not—"

"Keys."

"But West—"

He held out his hand.

I wiped my glasses and got a blurry look at his face. I was starting to suspect Deputy Bobby didn't get mad or excited or out of sorts. I was starting to think Deputy Bobby operated at a baseline of unflappable, earnest seriousness, and for some reason, it made me think of Hugo, charming, beautiful Hugo, who was always exactly whoever you wanted him to be. I fished out my keys.

Deputy Bobby walked me to the passenger side, ignoring me when I insisted I was fine, and he helped me up into the Jeep. He went around and got behind the wheel. The Jeep started up, and he took a moment to check the wipers and the lights, and then the tires bit into the gravel, and we merged onto the road.

I leaned my cheek against the glass. My breath fogged it, and on the other side, rainwater beaded like jewels. Not long, and the forest closed around us. I couldn't smell the trees, though. I smelled my wet clothes, my wet hair. And something else. A hint of something that curled up in my belly and smoldered.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I didn't mean to unload on you like that."

"If you want to talk about it, we can talk about it," Deputy Bobby said. "If you don't, we won't."

"That is way too simple," I said.

He laughed.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

"I changed my mind."

His grin was a white slice in the night.

Maybe it was the gimlets. Maybe it was the burger and fries. Maybe it was simply that I was lonely, and for the second time, Deputy Bobby was giving me a ride home. I smiled back, and the smile surprised me. He was a stranger. And the rational part of my brain knew that he worked for the sheriff, that his current professional focus was proving that I killed Vivienne and making sure I went to prison for a long time. But it didn't feel like that.

I was, however, a notoriously bad judge of—I almost said men, but that made it sound like this, whatever it was, was something different. Bad at relationships, maybe. Although that didn't sound much better. Bad at peopling? That came close. I forced myself to sit up, to shake off whatever it was I was feeling, and to remember who he was and who I was and what exactly was going on (even though I wasn't entirely clear on that last part myself).

"How are you going to get home?"

"West will pick me up."

I remembered, again, the sound of West's sigh, the tone of Deputy Bobby's voice. "I'm sorry if, uh, I caused a problem."

"You didn't cause a problem." The Jeep wasn't exactly a quiet vehicle, and for a while, driving through the dark, the sound of the engine and the wind and the tires swallowed everything up. And then, with a hint of that tone I remembered, he added, "Honestly, he's probably having a better time without me."

"I'm sorry," I said again.

"Don't be."

The headlights splashed over ferns and moss and stone that was dark with water. The rain was still hovering at a drizzle, and the windshield wipers scraped back and forth. I hadn't realized how cold I'd been, but now the heat was loosening up my body. Everything was starting to feel far off. That spectacularly awful scene at the library, which actually had only been an hour or so ago, seemed like a dream. Well, a nightmare.

"I didn't kill her and steal her house," I said.

"You told me."

"I'm adding the part about the house. And about being her sole heir."

He made a noise that could have meant anything.

"Did you already know that part," I asked, "or am I giving you even more reasons to build a case against me?"

"Are you asking me to comment on an ongoing investigation?"

"Yes. I want you to tell me everything and then help me destroy the evidence."

Another of those grins. They were surprisingly goofy on someone who looked so serious most of the time.

"Is that a no?" I asked.

"Not tonight."

"No, that's more second date material." The words were out of my mouth (in true Dashiell fashion) before I could stop them, and then I let out a horrified, "I didn't mean that!"

Deputy Bobby burst out laughing.

"Oh my God," I said.

"It's fine. I knew what you meant."

That was good, because I didn't. But all I could come up with was "You need to arrest me now. You need to arrest me and throw me in jail and not let me talk to real people ever again because I'm clearly a menace to society."

He made that noise again, the one with a million possible meanings.

"This is entrapment," I told him. "That's what this is. I should call my lawyer."

"You should have a lawyer," he said, the playfulness dropping away. "That was smart; that was the right thing to do."

I opened my mouth to—what? Thank him for being supportive of me fighting a murder charge? But then a connection flashed in my brain, and I said, "The lawyer. I should call that lawyer!"

"What—"

"Higgins or Hitchens or Huggins—Huggins!" I took out my phone with the vague idea of doing a search for his information. "I have to talk to him. He'll know—I mean, he's Vivienne's lawyer, right? He'll know about the will and about the deed to Hemlock House. He'll be able to explain that it's a big misunderstanding. There was a mistake somehow. Something went wrong."

Deputy Bobby gave me a look, and now his mouth was a firm line, his expression closed off.

"What?" I said. "You don't think I should?"

He was quiet for what felt like a long time. The roar of the Jeep filled my head until I couldn't hear anything else. Then he said, "I think you're within your rights to talk to Mr. Huggins. In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't contacted you yet; as the executor of Vivienne's trust, he'll be in regular contact with you for a while, actually, since he'll be helping you with the transfer of assets."

"Then what's with the look?"

Another of those stretched-out silences came. Then, adjusting his hands on the steering wheel, he said, "It's a little late to call him tonight, don't you think?"

It was after nine, which yes, was probably late enough that Mr. Huggins wouldn't appreciate a phone call. But that hadn't been what Deputy Bobby had been about to say.

"If he knows how this happened—this mix-up, I mean—then maybe he can help us figure out who killed Vivienne." I wasn't sure how that us had slipped into my sentence, but there it was. "I'm going to call him first thing in the morning."

We turned in at the massive gates to Hemlock House. Above us, the manor was a dark bulk against the sky, and I thought again about the dark halls and dark rooms and dark secrets of that big, brooding house. As Deputy Bobby started up the hill, his attention appeared to be fixed on the drive, but his voice was tight when he said, "Mr. Dane, I'm going to say this as politely as I know how."

"That's never a good start."

"It would be best for you—and I truly mean that—to let the sheriff's office handle this investigation. Asking questions, stirring people up, that's not going to help you. In fact, it's making you look like you have something to hide."

"Trying to prove I'm innocent means I look guilty? Is that what you're telling me?"

Tension stiffened his jaw.

"Because everyone is entitled to a defense. And frankly, I don't care how it makes me look."

"Did you consider—"

"Yes, I did consider the possibility that you and the rest of the sheriff's office might be good at your jobs. I think you probably are. But it's my life. I'm the one on the hook for this murder, and as far as I can tell, the sheriff doesn't seem interested in looking at anyone else. You'll have to excuse me if I try to save my own neck; I'm sorry if that doesn't look good to the rest of Hastings Rock."

"I was going to say, did you consider that if you find the person who killed Vivienne, they might decide to act against you?"

"Like what?" I asked. I tried to laugh, but it fell flat. "Kill me."

"Whoever killed her, they're ruthless and determined, and they're not going to play nice if you show up and start asking questions they don't like."

"I don't understand. First, I tell you I'm going to talk to the lawyer about this weird inheritance, and you jump straight to—" I blamed the gimlets, because it didn't land until right then. "Wait, you think Mr. Huggins killed her?"

"I didn't say that."

"You think he's involved, though. You think that's how this happened."

"I think," Deputy Bobby said as he parked the Jeep in front of the house, "you should have your lawyer contact Mr. Huggins and let the two of them sort out the estate and inheritance. That's a perfectly rational thing to do. It's also, in this case, the safe thing to do."

The drizzle had stopped. The wipers stuttered once over dry glass, and Deputy Bobby turned them off. Then he killed the engine. The headlights went dark, and all of a sudden it was just the two of us in the Jeep, with the sound of the waves and the sound of branches heavy with water moving in the wind and the sound of his breathing.

"Go inside," he said, passing me my keys, "and get some sleep."

I thought I should say something, but I didn't know what, so I said, "Thanks for the ride."

"You need to leave this alone. For your own safety. Do you hear me?"

"Yes."

Exasperation made his voice pitchy. "What does that mean?"

"It means I heard you."

"But you're not going to stop. You're going to keep doing whatever you want."

Breakers threw themselves against the sea cliffs.

"All right," he said, unbuckling himself. He got out of the Jeep. "I tried."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"I'm sorry I upset you."

He shut the door. Hard.

I climbed out of the Jeep, and Deputy Bobby was already walking down the drive. "Come inside and wait for West."

He kept walking.

"There's no shoulder on that road. You can't walk into Hastings Rock."

But he didn't stop. And he didn't look back.

I stood there until I couldn't see him anymore. The keys bit into my hand. The wind cut through my T-shirt and shorts. Huddled against the cold, hugging myself, I told myself to go inside. My head was pounding again. I needed sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.

Who do you think you are? The question popped into my head too late, after Deputy Bobby had dissolved into the rain-swept night. What right do you have to tell me what to do, or what's safe, or how I should act when an entire town thinks I murdered their neighbor? How dare you act like that? And how dare you walk off? That's childish. It's worse than childish. We were having a conversation.

Go inside, I told myself. It's cold and wet out here, and he's gone, and what are you even doing?

But I didn't go inside. Instead, I walked around the house (it was a big house, and it was a long walk) until I reached the cliffs. I cleaned the mist from my glasses again. There was enough ambient light that the ocean looked like something sewn out of glitter, restlessly moving. I stared down, trying to remember where I'd seen Vivienne. I looked up to her room, to the balcony from where she had fallen. I looked back down again. I remembered the scarlet bobbing in the gray-green water. My face and arms were wet from the mist. Whatever had been roiling inside me, it drained out slowly, and then I only felt tired. I turned to go back into the house.

And then I saw it—a flash of white among the stunted hemlock that grew between the house and the cliff. I looked at it for what felt like a long time. I wiped the wetness from my face again. And then, picking a path carefully along the rocky edge, I pushed through the hemlock toward that white blaze. I stopped and stared.

It was a sneaker. Attached to a denim-clad leg. I turned on the flashlight on my phone, and it gave a pallid light that brushed back a little of the gloom. From deeper under the hemlock, Mr. Huggins stared back at me. He was dead. I started to step back, but something glinted in his hand, and I leaned closer for a better look.

It was a bracelet. And it was mine.

No indecision this time; I darted forward and plucked it from his hand, and then I scrambled to safety.

My bracelet. Mine. And it had been in his hand. If anyone else had found him—

I shut down that line of thought. But as I placed a call to 911, I couldn't stop the words from slipping out of my mouth: "You have got to be kidding me."