Harper tried to speed up, but her feet sank into the soft sand. It was like running in a dream. “Wait!” she called, but the man kept moving.
Behind her, she could hear Bonnie’s labored breathing and occasional curses as she struggled to follow her. The sand grew deeper as they neared the dunes. With every step they sank to the ankle. By the time Harper reached the footbridge she was sweating and breathless.
The man was nowhere to be seen. On the other side, a row of grand houses with tall corner columns and wide, wraparound balconies stood imperiously. It was Admiral’s Row.
They must have walked right by it earlier but she hadn’t looked up.
A sandy footpath angled past the tall hedges. It was empty as far as Harper could see.
“Harper, what is going on?” Bonnie had reached the steps, red-faced and panting.
“It’s nothing. I saw someone I have to talk to.” Harper was already in motion, hurrying down the ramp on the other side. “I have to find him. Stay here.”
The path from the beach to Admiral’s Row sloped gently upward. At first it was packed sand, but as it neared the street, it was roughly paved. She passed the curved gate into number 6 without slowing.
Her lungs were burning. Her hair clung to the sweat on her cheeks as she followed the narrow sidewalk between the houses until she emerged into the lane.
There, she stopped so abruptly Bonnie nearly ran into her.
More TV vans had parked at the grassy edge of the short lane. Several had their engines running. One satellite dish was raised, and Harper saw an unfamiliar reporter talking to the camera, holding a microphone to his mouth as he gestured at the white house behind him. Other reporters were standing in a cluster between the vans, talking and looking at their phones.
There was no sign at all of the gray-haired man.
“Who are we looking for?” Bonnie asked, breathlessly.
Harper gave the gathered faces one last, searching look and gave up, turning to her.
“It was him,” she said. “The man who called me.”
Bonnie’s eyebrows drew together. “Which man?”
“The man.” Harper’s voice sharpened with frustration. “The one who told me about Martin Dowell.”
Bonnie looked baffled. “How do you even know what he looks like? You’ve only talked on the phone.”
She’d never told Bonnie about that moment outside her apartment last year. She’d never told anyone except Luke.
“I saw him once,” she said. “Just for a second. Standing outside my place on Jones Street the day he called me.”
Bonnie stared. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was never certain it was really him. But I just saw the same man again and it can’t be a coincidence. He’s looking for me.” Again she scoured the lane for any sign of him. “He was standing on the footbridge, watching us walk down the beach. We have to find him.”
“Okay.…” Bonnie still didn’t sound entirely convinced, but she was going with it. “What does he look like?”
“He’s tall, over six feet. Maybe fifty-five years old. Gray hair. He was wearing a leather jacket.” Harper gestured at her shoulders. “He had a mustache…” Her voice faded as she tried to recall whether the man she’d just seen really had any facial hair. He’d been too far away, and her view of him too fleeting. Her mind might already be filling in the gaps.
There was no time for this. “Come on,” she said, motioning impatiently for Bonnie to follow.
The two of them half ran down the narrow lane. It was nearly midday, but thick clouds held back the February sun, casting the street in gloom.
There was no sign of him as they ran by the nursing home and followed the street around a bend. Here the houses were smaller, with neat gravel driveways beneath huge trees with branches that touched across the road.
Finally, the road ended, intersecting with another winding street lined with bungalows.
Harper turned left and right, uncertain which way to go now. Everything looked perfectly normal. A woman in a long cardigan was walking a Boston terrier. A guy in his twenties jogged past in skintight shorts, eyes hidden behind wraparound sunglasses.
There was no point in going farther. They’d just be randomly searching the island for a man who didn’t want to be found.
She’d lost him.
18
Harper stared down the road. “I can’t believe I let him get away.”
The two of them stood on the sidewalk, as the woman with the dog walked by without giving them a glance.
“Maybe it wasn’t him,” Bonnie suggested.
Harper thought about what she’d seen—the way the man paused to look at her, the recognition on his face. His smooth, controlled retreat.
“It was him.” Swearing under her breath, she kicked the root of an oak tree hard enough to make her foot ache. “I’m sorry to drag you here for nothing.”
The two of them turned and trudged back the way they’d come.
“What happened the first time you saw him?” Bonnie gave her a puzzled look.
Slowly at first, and then faster, Harper told her about that day. A killer had come to her door and she’d knocked him unconscious with a baseball bat. Only the police arriving and taking the bat from her had kept him alive.
She’d been standing on the porch, still in shock when she saw the man across the street, eyes as steady as the horizon. Unfazed by what he’d just seen her do.
A tour bus rattled by, blocking him from her sight. When it passed, he’d disappeared. Just like today.
“So much was going on back then, I was never completely certain I hadn’t imagined him,” she confessed. “Besides, there was no way to make sure it was him—I just felt it. Like I did today.”
Bonnie nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “Who do you think he is?”
Harper answered without hesitation. “Someone involved in the case. State police, maybe. Or FBI.”
They were passing the nursing home now. She could see the TV vans ahead.
“You’ll find him.” Bonnie looked thoughtful. “Maybe he didn’t want to talk to you today because you weren’t alone.”
It was a good point. He wasn’t exactly an extrovert.
At least now Harper knew he was still alive. Still out there. And closer than she’d realized.
For the first time, Bonnie noticed the TV vans. As she took in the satellite dishes, and the station emblems, she took in a breath. “Oh my God, is this where Xavier Rayne lived?”
Harper tilted her head at number 6. “The one at the end.” As she did, she noticed there were three cars parked outside: The old-model Jeep and the convertible sports car had been there every time she’d visited. The third car was a black Toyota Prius. That one she hadn’t seen before. Thinking she’d make note of its license number, she felt in her pockets for her notepad, but she’d forgotten to pick one up when she left the house. The absence made her feel naked.
“I need paper,” she muttered, mostly to herself.
“You can borrow some of mine.” The voice came from behind them.
Jon Graff walked up and held out a battered notebook. She stepped back, instinctively.