Chapter Forty-Two

Forty-Two

Maurice drove a cherry-red MINI Cooper, which was surprising. I guess I'd figured he'd have more of a macho ride, which was probably sexist of me. But practically speaking, I found it hard to believe this tiny car could contain his imposing frame. It couldn't have been comfortable for him. He had the driver's seat pushed back all the way, and even then he seemed bent at an odd angle. I wanted to ask if the car came with a chiropractor, but I didn't want to insult him.

As I got in the passenger seat, Maurice turned the radio on—a Willie Nelson station on Sirius. "This is my empty-nester car," he said, Willie's sweet voice enveloping us. He grabbed a bottle of water from a basket he had hanging from the door and took a big swig. "I bought it after my youngest moved out—she's in nursing school. I always wanted a MINI, so I figured what the hell."

"It's a great car," I said.

"I don't care if it's too small for me—it's got zip," he said. "Meanwhile, my wife is five-foot-nothing and she drives a Kia Carnival. It just goes to show…something, I guess."

"People don't always conform to one's expectations?"

"Sure, that works," he said. "Anyway, this MINI gets great mileage, so we can stop once on the way there and then we won't have to stop again the whole way home."

"Excellent," I said.

He offered me a bottle of water. I took it and leaned back, feeling the warmth of the seat heater and inhaling that new-car smell. There was a lot less traffic now, and before we knew it, we were out of town, the car humming along Route 114, Willie working his magic. I sipped my water, thinking about Sky in that motel room with Dylan. I wondered if she was holding him captive or if he was there willingly, whether he was blissfully unaware of the police investigation or devouring every news report. Did he miss his mother as much as she missed him? I wondered that, too, and then Maurice asked me a question I couldn't quite hear over the music.

Turning toward him, I asked him to repeat what he said. He switched the volume down and asked the question again. "Why do you think Dylan didn't do the shootings?"

"Because he didn't have the motive."

Maurice shrugged. "That jerk does a hell of a lot of things without a motive."

"Yeah, good point," I said, turning my body back to face the front. "But is he smart enough to pull off both shootings—or even one of them—without getting caught?"

"Could be luck," he said.

"I don't know," I said. "It's hard for me to go with that narrative when somebody with brains and motive is sitting right there in front of us."

"Who?"

I turned and looked at him, thinking about what my dad had said. Messy personal life, but a good cop . The thought must have crossed his mind already. "Sky," I said.

His face went still. "Come on," he said. "You're joking, right?"

Guess it didn't. "I'm dead serious, Maurice."

"Come on," he said again.

I told him about the powder found in Trevor Weiss's jacket—the highly addictive alkaloid I believed Sky had sneaked into Gonzo's new formula—then I told him about everything I believed she did to keep word of that formula from getting out, from the deep-faked audio messages, to killing Trevor and getting someone to shoot her, to her crying on cue when talking about her shooting, effectively removing her from suspicion. The whole time I offered up this theory, Maurice's features didn't move. He glared at the window like some humorless despot—to the point that I no longer felt like elaborating. "Anyway," I said. "I could be wrong."

"You are wrong." He said it through his teeth.

Yikes, I thought.

We were getting near the ocean now, and there was a storm brewing, swirls of wet snowflakes in the air, a strong wind whipping the scrubby trees. At the side of the road there was a gas station, and Maurice pulled up. "Gotta fill 'er up," he said.

"Hey, Maurice?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry if I offended you. It's just a theory."

His face softened. "I understand," he said. "I just know Sky better than you do."

"That's right," I said. "You do."

He got out of the car, moved to the tank. My phone rang. I looked at the screen. Dad . I answered it.

"I remembered!" he said.

"What?"

"You told me to call when I remembered what Maurice Dupree took from the evidence locker. The thing that got him kicked off the force."

"Right," I said quietly, my eyes on Maurice at the tank, sticking his card in the slot, then removing it. Plucking his phone out of his pocket and putting it to his ear. "What was it?"

"You're never going to believe this, because…Man, he's a good guy. But what a dumb thing to do."

Maurice ended whatever short call he'd made and dropped the phone back in his pocket. Then he began filling the tank.

"What was it, Dad?"

"It was a compact," he said. "A ladies' compact made from Bakelite, I think. It was some relic from the forties. But the thing about it was, it was monogrammed. Same initials as his mistress. SF. I even remember her name. Seraphina Farley. Reminded me of a Dickens character. No one else would have taken it but Maurice. No one else had a girlfriend or a wife with those initials."

My mouth went dry. I stared at Maurice, leaning against the car.

"Of course, he got bumped off the force for that. But a lot of the guys were sad. They kept in touch with him. Last I'd heard, he'd gotten the mistress pregnant. He was offered a job in security at one of those casinos in Connecticut, so he relocated his family there. But sometimes he'd tell his wife he was going to a conference in Massachusetts, just so he could visit the mistress and the baby. Sweet guy. Tried to do right by people. But, boy, what a messy life." He chuckled. "I don't think his wife ever found out."

My heart pounded. I said, "Call Lee Farrell, Dad. The Dunes. Marblehead."

"Wait, what, Sunny?" he said.

But I couldn't answer. I could only stare at Maurice, who had opened the passenger-side door. He was holding a gun. I wasn't positive, but it looked a lot like the gun Dylan had held on me back in July. Dylan's gun, taken from his apartment by Elspeth. Picked up by either Sky or Maurice, used to kill Trevor and shoot Sky. Maurice looked so much more comfortable holding it than Dylan had looked.

Maurice, Sky's father.

I could hear my dad asking what was going on as I ended the call, but all I could think of were those two pictures on Sky's desk—the old one of her pregnant mother, and the one of her work friends in the Common. She framed that photo because of Maurice. Those were framed pictures of her parents. I put my hands up. Maurice grabbed my phone, turned off the power, and tossed it into the trash can that stood between the pumps. It came to me then—that last question, answered.

"She trusted you. You knew where to aim," I whispered. "You're the one who shot Sky."

Maurice raised the gun, pressing the cold barrel against my forehead. "Get out of the car," he said.