We were in.
Under United States law there are two degrees of murder, but those aren’t the only ways to classify a killing. There’s voluntary manslaughter, like a crime of passion, and involuntary manslaughter, like what I thought I faced after shooting Flynn. When I’d accepted McIntyre’s job offer in the tiny town of Alexandria Bay, I hadn’t thought Tim and I would ever do more than investigate a break-in at the local dive bar. Like he said, violent crime wasn’t common in these parts.
Over the past few months I’d convinced myself what happened with Bram was irrelevant, nobody’s business but my own. My past was separate from my present reality. You might even say it was an island. There was no need to tell Tim about Bram, because Bram was one in a million. It was a convenient excuse that allowed me to keep my misery to myself.
But the islands in the St. Lawrence River weren’t immune to sin.
Abella Beaudry lay sprawled on the black-and-white checkerboard tile floor. In the too-bright light from the vanity fixture her face was violet, eyes bloated and blank. The rope that killed her was still looped around her throat, and the ring it left was deep and red and raw. Her wounds were fresh, but lethal. There was no saving the girl. Dressed in her pajamas, staggered by the loss of her soon-to-be fiancé, she’d followed this twisted family upstairs to her death.
Ned crouched next to her body mumbling garbled half words as if he were trapped in a nightmare, talking in his sleep. Tim got down next to him and put a hand on Ned’s shoulder. The act woke him from his trance.
“Wait in the hall,” I told Ned. “Don’t go anywhere. You understand?”
“No,” Ned whimpered. “No, no, no.”
“Go, Ned,” Tim said softly when the man didn’t move. Only then did Ned stand and walk zombie-like out the door.
“Son of a bitch.” Tim’s open palm smacked the tile floor so hard I swear I felt the sting. I was too hot, too cold, too everything as I leaned in close to Abella and touched her still-warm arm.
“Look at her fingers,” I said. “Rope burns there, too. Someone snuck up on her from behind.” I pictured her clawing at the rope as it tightened around her neck. My legs felt wobbly.
“They came up here to change. We were only gone a few minutes. That means . . .”
“Someone’s been waiting for their chance to get to her. Norton was downstairs. Flynn, too. But . . .”
“Yeah. But,” said Tim. “And what about Ned? Miles, Bebe, Jade . . .” He blinked at me. “I shouldn’t have left. No matter what, I should have stayed. Jesus, of all the stupid things to do.” He clasped his head in his hands. “This is on me.”
“No. She wanted to tell me something. She tried, but I didn’t let her. I never went back to find her. Abella was afraid of Jasper’s family—I saw it during lunch. She and Jasper had an argument last night. I think he told her something that worried her, or she figured it out for herself. All she wanted was to get away from them. And I left her here alone.”
I drew in a shaky breath. People kept dying. I couldn’t keep them alive. I didn’t stab those three women in New York. It wasn’t me who took a coil of rope from the Sinclairs’ shed and wound it tight around Abella’s neck. But it might as well have been.
Beyond the bathroom door, I could sense the murderer’s body relax. Keen eyes swept the hall, lingering on the others’ faces. This is easy, the killer thought with glee. Easier and easier. Child’s play. There was no question about it anymore. Abella’s murder confirmed what I’d known in my heart to be true. Jasper was dead, and his murderer had killed again. I’d provided a crucial ingredient without which the perpetrator’s formula could never have proved toxic. I provided opportunity.
And the killer took it.
TWENTY-FOUR
In the parlor, the scene was otherworldly. Firelight gave the air a Christmasy glimmer, and the room was so hot we all had a ruddy glow. This time I didn’t argue about the drinks. It hardly mattered now. Wineglasses were claimed, grips tightened. The atmosphere might have been festive, were it not for two bedraggled investigators and a woman’s lifeless body on the upstairs bathroom floor.
I took a breath to calm my jangled nerves and scrutinized the others’ faces, hunting for a clue. In mystery novels, the up-all-night-under-the-covers kind I used to love, guilty people don’t give themselves away until the end. Real-life criminals are rarely that clever. Over the years, criminologists studying serial killers identified several traits the bad guys tend to share. They can be manipulative, egotistical, charming . . . but underneath it all, they’re human. Their palms moisten and their necks go red. They reveal nervous ticks they didn’t even know they had.
I used to rely on these kinds of tells to suss out criminals. I was good at it with everyone except for Bram, when it counted most. As I examined our suspects’ faces, I felt just as inept. All of them looked guilty to me. Each had his or her own breed of suspicious mannerisms, from Flynn’s barefaced disinterest to Bebe’s over-the-top expression of horror and Ned’s sudden weak-kneed demeanor, an about-face from how he’d been in the parlor when he threatened Bebe and Flynn. Miles buttoned his shirt with unsteady hands, maintaining a respectable level of distress. Red-eyed, Jade shuddered and yawned uncontrollably into her fist, but as genuine as her nerve-numbing exhaustion appeared to be, I didn’t totally buy it. Even Camilla had that oddly timed full face of makeup (had she reapplied lipstick after her nap?) to keep me on my toes. Among all our witnesses, Abella was the only one I felt sure I understood. She’d been constant in her normalcy.
No wonder she was gone.
“I have some very upsetting news,” Tim said.
“Don’t tell me we’ve run out of booze.” Flynn reached for the scotch and topped off his glass.
A muscle shifted in Tim’s jaw. “It was strangulation. Abella Beaudry is dead.”
Reporting a death is never easy. It’s the part of the job every investigator hates. There’s a wide spectrum of misery in the reactions you get from friends and next of kin, and though we always try not to, we absorb some of their pain. Tim didn’t need to feign heartbreak to keep up the everyman act. All day he’d defended these people. And they’d failed him in the worst way.
They had to know what was up before Tim opened his mouth to speak. Abella no longer sat among them. They were all aware that Ned went into that bathroom to check on his friend and came back out alone. But when Tim said what he said, Camilla let out a small cry anyway. Jade’s scream had brought her back downstairs, but her energy was fading, the air around her flat. “That poor girl,” she croaked. “That innocent young thing.”
Flynn threw back the scotch in his glass in one gulp. “Innocent, my ass. She hung herself. Phil, can I get a light?”