“Okay, Shana,” he said, out of earshot of the others, “start talking.”
I was determined to be professional about the situation. Everything Tim had said about Carson could wait. I wasn’t prepared to make a call about our killer, but I had some ideas. “It’s all about the money,” I told him. “Flynn and Bebe don’t have any, but Jasper does, and he’s in line to get more when Camilla’s gone. If Jasper’s not around to take it, there’s a good chance it goes to them.
“That explains Jasper’s disappearance, and Abella’s, too. She either knew who killed him or why. Something happened over the course of the day that tipped her off, because she hadn’t caught on this morning when I interviewed her, I’m sure of that. That’s why she wanted to talk to me. She had a lead on the killer, based on some behavior she saw in here, or some realization she had about her argument with Jasper. And the killer knew it.
“Now, who can we eliminate?” I went on. “Camilla, for one. She’s way too weak, and she’s got no motive. As for Jade . . . Jade’s trouble, and I’d be willing to bet she’s furious with Jasper and the girlfriend who took him from her. Could she move Jasper’s body? No—at least not alone—but she may not be entirely blameless.”
“That all sounds pretty reasonable,” Tim said, interrupting me. “A second round of interviews could get us closer, remove a couple more people from the equation. But this isn’t why I brought you out here.”
It took a second for me to catch on. “What,” I said. “Now?” I sounded like Bebe in the library, trapped and desperate to wriggle away, but I couldn’t help it. “Shouldn’t I be calling McIntyre?”
Tim glanced back at the parlor. We were shoulder to shoulder with clear sight lines, just a few feet from the door, but even that amount of distance from our suspects made me deeply uncomfortable, and I could tell Tim shared my apprehension. “You know how I feel about this case,” he said. “I never tried to hide it. I believed we’d find Jasper alive. I don’t anymore.” His gaze moved up the stairs toward the crime scenes, the second room we’d locked to preserve what we could. “These people are dangerous. Whatever’s going on with you, you need to tell me. I have to know you’re capable of doing this.”
No way, I thought. Not now, not like this. “The deception, the lies,” I said, “it’s what I’ve been trying to warn you about all day. The trapper’s in the clear, and there’s nobody but us on the island. The killer’s right there, in that room. So maybe this isn’t the time for a chat. Look, when we get back to the station later I’ll spring for a coffee—the good stuff, not office crap—and spill my guts, okay? All you need right now is my assurance I can make it another hour until help comes, and you’ve got that. I swear, Tim, I’m fine.”
And I was. An hour, I could do. Minutes from now this depraved, perverted family would be in my past.
“You’re new to these parts. I get that,” he said. “But you can’t seriously still think the cavalry’s coming.”
“What? But you said—”
“You want them knowing we’re on our own indefinitely? I sure don’t. Call McIntyre, by all means. Tell her what happened. Maybe skip the part about shooting Flynn. But understand, it’s just you and me out here tonight, on an island with one skilled killer—maybe more—who won’t hesitate to slit our throats. They have the numbers.” The trace of alarm in Tim’s eyes belied the steadiness of his voice. “They might hate each other, but who do you think they’ll side with if it comes down to family or the cops? These people are angry and scared. They’ll turn on us in a heartbeat, and as you demonstrated earlier, you’re a lousy shot. We’ve got to have trust, Shane. I have to be able to rely on you a hundred and fifty percent, because you were right, okay? It’s us against them. So tell me why you freaked out back there so we can make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Us against them. Hearing my own words thrown back at me had a paralyzing, hornet-sting effect. No one was coming. It was just us.
I’d never seen Tim take a firm stance on anything—the man hated making decisions, would happily defer to someone else on everything from his sandwich order to where to park the car—and here he was making the biggest demand of all. It was the ultimate trust exercise, and I didn’t know if I could do it. Tim would judge me. Who wouldn’t? No amount of compassion can turn off that mean little instinct. It’s inborn, even in guys like Tim, who claim people are fundamentally good. Once he knew the truth, he’d understand how badly I’d failed, and he’d never look at me the same way again.
“It’ll change things. The way you see me. It won’t be the same.”
“You don’t know that. Give me a chance.”
There was another possibility, I thought as I regarded him. Maybe Tim and I didn’t see eye to eye about Jasper because I was looking through a filthy lens. My point of view was tainted by what happened with Bram—but Tim’s wasn’t. Tim was still pure. If I could explain myself, maybe we could help each other. Solve this case together, the way we were supposed to.
I listened to the angry moan of the wind as it grappled with branches that wouldn’t give in. I took a breath and felt my throat sting in a way that was terribly familiar.
“A year and a half ago, I was abducted.” The words hung in the air like black smoke with no visible source. Part of me wished they would scare him away, but Tim didn’t move. Behind me in the parlor I heard a hard clink as the mouth of a wine bottle met the rim of a glass. The sound shot up my spine, but I focused on Tim’s eyes and pushed onward.
“The guy who did it stabbed three women and then came after me,” I said.
“I should have been his fourth.”
TWENTY-FIVE
I woke up reeking of beer. Ran my hands down my body in search of pain. The room was dark with a seam of light visible under the door. I crawled to it and rattled the handle. Locked.
Then came Bram. He carried an oil-soaked sack of takeout, set it on the dirty cement floor, and flicked on the light. From his messenger bag he pulled a water bottle that dripped with condensation. My mouth was cotton-dry and tasted vile. I wanted that water so bad I could feel it splash over my tongue and numb my teeth, but one at a time the memories scrambled to the surface. Our banter. The drinks. He’d drugged me. Bram drugged them all.
“You hungry?” he said, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The smell wafting from the paper bag provoked a gut-twisting reaction in me, a feeling dangerously close to carnal. He knew I’d be starving and had picked the most fragrant dishes he could think of, so the part of my brain wired for survival would compel me to eat. What if he’d drugged the food, too?