It wasn’t that I was reluctant to wed this handsome and successful catch, just that everything was moving fast. I’d already pushed back the date once because of the move, so Carson was more eager than ever to “tie the knot and get on with our lives.” For him, the big day couldn’t come soon enough. As I deleted a message promising to reveal my bridezilla ranking on a scale of one to ten, he brushed my cheek with his hand and asked if I’d thought about inviting Tim to the wedding.
“Hon,” I said. He’d brought up the idea twice already. In fairness to Carson, I couldn’t stall any longer. “I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. I know you’d like him there. The thing is, it’s awkward.”
“Why would you think that?”
“It just is.” I flipped my hand on the kitchen table and the diamond on my engagement ring, an obscenely large cushion cut I’d drop in a box on the dresser before leaving for work, struck the wood. A spark of pain whizzed up my arm like a shock. “For one thing, we barely know each other.”
“All the more reason for him to come.”
“For another, we can’t invite him and not McIntyre and the rest of the troop.”
“Timmy’s your partner. It’s different.”
“BCI investigators don’t have partners,” I said, though I saw his point. Compared with Tim, the time I’d spent with the other investigators was negligible. “Timmy,” I repeated with a half smile. “Did he really let you call him that?”
I thought I’d seen blue eyes before I met Carson, but his were next level. Shards of sky and slate twinkled and flashed at me when he smiled in response. “We used to be best friends, Shay. I helped him blow out the candles at his fifth birthday party. After the summer we learned to water-ski? When he sprained his wrist? I took notes for him in class for a month. I was there when Timmy set fire to a porta potty at a construction site in town and landed himself in jail.” Carson scratched his salt-and-pepper goatee and laughed. “I thought his dad was going to lose his mind.”
“When I told you we were going to be working together, you said you hadn’t talked in years. All that stuff you just described happened a long time ago. Be honest,” I said. “Do you have anything in common now other than being from the same town?”
“Sure we do,” Carson said. “We have you.” He tilted his head and studied me. “Okay, so we’re not exactly besties. But let’s look at this another way. You’ve got some random grandma on the guest list who you met in a kung fu class you stopped taking six months ago.”
“Karate,” I said, “and Sueanne’s in her fifties. She doesn’t have grandkids yet.”
“I stand corrected. Tim’s local, and we both know him. Inviting him makes sense. So what’s this really about?”
Carson was always analyzing, always two steps ahead. Watching him think reminded me of riding the subway. To pass the time and hone my investigative skills, I used to observe the other commuters and try to read their body language, their minds. I’ll never know if I was right, but it was a fun challenge. With Carson, there was no point even trying. When he looked at me, my fiancé could have been devising a new name for my condition, considering disclosing his darkest secret, deciding whether to have a second bagel, or all of the above. That fascinated me, and it never got old.
“Work is work. This is personal,” I said. “I don’t feel comfortable blurring the lines.”
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“Thirteen months.” As if I needed reminding.
“Thirteen months since it happened.” He used his thumb to remove a smear of cream cheese from his plate. Carson had mild OCD, which I thought was ironic given his profession—or maybe it made perfect sense. He couldn’t stand it when things were a mess. “Thirteen months since I found you, and every day I worry—every single day. And now, at last, you’re going to be my wife.” He glanced at my hand, at the ring, and paused. “It’s my job to protect you. It’s why you hired me.” He waited for me to laugh, but the joke was old and inaccurate. I never hired Carson; he was assigned to me. “I love you, you know that,” he said. “So sue me if I want to make damn sure the guy I used to cut school with, and who now spends ten hours a day by your side, isn’t another deranged piece of shit.”
My vision blurred and the room turned white. We had a rule: Don’t talk about Bram. We’d long since picked apart what happened between me and him. I’d rehashed my time in that cellar until my throat was raw. The day Carson finally suggested we shift the conversation from Bram to me in an effort to help me heal, I was ecstatic. And here he was comparing my colleague to the man who stabbed those women. Becca. Lanie. Jess.
I took a breath and willed my palpitations to diminish. Carson’s worried about me. That’s all. For a second I considered telling him he didn’t need to be, because I didn’t expect to be with Tim for long. I was sure McIntyre would still change her mind and drop me. When we first got to A-Bay I didn’t unpack my clothes for weeks; why bother, when I wouldn’t be staying? If I blew my chances at the only detective gig around, we’d have to relocate, no question. My apathy toward living out of boxes had driven Carson crazy. He wanted me settled in his hometown. The whole point was to leave New York—and what happened there—behind. Carson would feel better knowing I’d be his again, all his, very soon.
I could have put his mind at ease, but I didn’t. I decided against it, because what if—what if—I was wrong? What if I was a better investigator now than ever? What if Carson was mistaken about my going back to work?
What if I was healed?
We stared at each other across the table. Sometimes, when I got tired of revisiting the worst experience of my life and projected my frustration onto him, I told myself his eyes were too close together. The color made up for that. They were the clear, cool pool I always found relief in when I needed to loosen my muscles and mind.
Carson slid back his chair far enough for me to see his socks. He’d picked Bob Ross today, the painter’s face and iconic puffy hair encircled by the words Happy Clouds. The socks made me smile. “You’re gonna be late,” Carson said. “We’ll talk about it over dinner. Let’s just do takeout. I’ll pick up some Thai food.”
“Not Thai,” I said. “Anything but that.”
“Fish, then,” he said as he kissed the crown of my head and strode off to the bathroom down the hall. The place where his lips met my scalp felt as bright and hot as a flame.
* * *
—
Lunch on Tern Island was more refined than my breakfast with Carson by a mile, but there was just as much tension in the air, and just as much unrest. Aside from Camilla, who was still trying her best to be a perfect hostess, everyone stared unsmiling at their plates.