“Keep an eye on things,” Tim said.
“Right,” said Norton. “In case it’s the butler in the kitchen with the knife.” His entire head went fuchsia. “My God, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Tim. “Nerves. Happens to everyone when cops are around.”
Norton nodded. “Thanks for your help with this. It’s a hell of a thing. We’re all glad you’re here.”
We’ll see how long that lasts, I thought as I watched Norton walk to the kitchen and made my way down the hall. In my ten years working as a detective I’d only been popular with one suspect, and that case nearly got me killed.
I wasn’t in the habit of calling Carson from work. I didn’t want to remind him what I was doing, and he didn’t want to be reminded. At the same time, it was clear Tim and I were going to be occupied on the island for hours. The least I could do was let him know where I was.
I pushed open the front door, savored the cold air on my skin, and dialed. Carson, when he answered, sounded distracted. I could hear him typing on his laptop while an industrial cappuccino machine hissed and spit in the background. He was at the coffee shop again, and not likely to be chipper. My timing couldn’t have been worse.
When he first brought up the idea of leaving the city, I was as worried about him as about myself. What did Jefferson County have to offer a man like Dr. Carson Gates? What would he do in a little village upstate after the stellar career he’d built in the city? The money he’d been making in Queens was good, the work important. It satisfied him, and that satisfied me—after all, his work was what brought us together. We owed a lot to his job. Yet he didn’t hesitate to leave it for me.
Over time I warmed to the idea of him opening his own practice in Alexandria Bay. I imagined I would visit him when he was between patients and we’d share a tuna fish sandwich at his spotless glass desk. Three months into our new life, though, there was still no desk, no office. He was ironing out the details, constantly visiting potential locations. He was arranging meetings with local physicians to lay the groundwork for referrals. He liked that part of the process. But I could tell he was getting impatient, especially on the days he didn’t have somewhere to go. That’s when he’d head to the coffee shop around the corner from our short-term rental to send e-mails. The place was dingy and crowded, the coffee burned, but it was better than our apartment, which was well below Carson’s standards. Whenever I suggested finding someplace better, he reminded me setting up a new business while planning a wedding takes major cash. To do it all right, we had to save a little now. We’d be glad we did later, he explained, once we were settled into a big, contemporary house on Swan Bay.
“Busy, hon?” I asked, turning my shoulder to the wind. Way down by the boathouse below me, whitecapped waves smacked the island’s stone wall. Tim was right. The weather was getting worse.
“Always,” said Carson. “But I’m glad you called. What is it we agreed on for dinner? I’ll take a trip to the market.”
“Fish.”
“Right. Fish.” I could sense him deliberating over sauces—remoulade, dill and lemon, or mustard cream? Cooking was Carson’s passion. “We should eat on the early side, yeah?”
“Oh,” I began. “I—”
Carson groaned. “Please tell me you’re not going to your parents’ place again.”
“No, no,” I said quickly. “But I’m not sure when I’ll be home. I’m . . . kind of on a case.”
The patter of his keyboard fell away. All I heard now was the cackle of a female patron and the steady thump of coffee-shop indie pop.
I’ve never had a problem keeping casework at the office when the workday is done. I hear doctors are the same way, especially the ones who treat sick kids or disassemble dead bodies. Bring that shit home and it’ll invade your world like a cancer, spreading unchecked until it consumes everyone you love. The darker your workday, the tighter its grip on your heart. For that reason, I didn’t want to tell Carson too much.
“It’s a missing person situation on one of the islands,” I said. “It’s weird, but nothing major yet. May take a while, though.”
“A disappearance.” His awe ballooned into disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking, Shay.”
“Hon, I’m fine.”
“What island?”
“Tern.”
I was curious to see whether he’d heard of the owners like Tim had. If Carson knew Tern Island, he didn’t let on. Instead, he said, “You’re not fine. Fine is not what you are. You’re not ready for this, not even close.” I could picture him at his coffee-shop table with a finger pressed against his temple, massaging the skin in slow circles like he did when he was stressed. Carson took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Shay. When you went behind my back and applied for this job, I humored you.”
“Humored me? You were furious.” I’d never seen Carson so mad as when I told him I was going back to work. He’d likened my decision to a kamikaze mission. We fought that night for the first time ever, didn’t talk at all the next day.
“I wasn’t furious, I was worried. It was a huge decision, Shay. You should have run it by me first.”
“I knew what you’d say.”
“Doesn’t that tell you something, babe? If it’s dangerous—not just to you, but to everyone around you—why do it?”
“Because,” I said, not liking how much I sounded like a pissy kid, “this is my career. It’s what I do.” It was the same argument I’d been making for months, and Carson was no closer to understanding. I needed to get back to what I loved. I needed to know if I could.
If Carson had his way, I’d still be a shut-in. And that was what I needed, at first—to be sheltered while I worked through my mental state and emotions. What it all meant. He’d handled everything from the shopping to our finances while I recovered. But more than a year had passed. I’d undergone countless hours of counseling and worked through the trauma step-by-step. Carson couldn’t seriously believe I’d be willing to hide forever. What was he doing for all those months if not helping me move on?
“Look,” I said, because I couldn’t stand his silence or the immense disappointment it conveyed. “I’m taking some statements over here, that’s all. This missing guy will probably turn up. Tim’s sure of it.”
“Tim,” Carson repeated. “You’re there with Tim.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Of course I am.”
There was a long pause before Carson muttered something I couldn’t quite hear. “Listen to me, all right? This is serious. Be careful. Be aware of what you’re experiencing, Shay. If you notice any kind of stress reaction, any familiar signs of—”