In Strange Woods - Claire Cray Page 0,3

his eyes widened. “Holy shit, dude!”

James recoiled, bewildered.

“You’re not Beau,” the clerk exclaimed, looking back and forth between the license and James’s face. “What are you, his cousin or somethin’?”

“I’m sorry, whose cousin?”

“Beau, dude!” The clerk sputtered out a disbelieving laugh. “You don’t know Beau? You look exactly like him.”

“Oh.” Great. A local doppelgänger. James swallowed a sigh, reaching out to take his license back. “No, sorry.”

“That’s crazy, man! I thought I was gettin’ punked!” Brendan shook his head with an incredulous laugh and finally started ringing up the whiskey. “New York City, huh? What brings you to town?”

“Just passing through.”

“Dude, you should stick around until Beau comes back. He’s kinda…” The clerk held a hand up to shield his mouth from imaginary eavesdroppers. “Layin’ low right now, if you know what I mean.”

“Not really,” James said, realizing that the first woman on the seafront must have thought he was Beau, too, when she made that remark about the cops. A fugitive doppelgänger, then. Perfect. “Is he on the run?”

“Nah, never mind.” Brendan slid the bottle of whiskey into a brown paper bag and plunked it down on the counter. “I’m Brendan, by the way. How long you in town for?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, hey, man, if you need anything, you know where to find me. Man, I can’t get over it. You guys could be twins!”

“Okay.” James picked up the brown bag and turned away. “Thanks.”

“Take it easy, James!” Brendan called after him.

James paused outside the Mini Mart with his brown bag in hand, frowning vaguely up at the dark sky and then looking up the street toward the Sea Witch. Not ready to go back indoors, he returned to the seafront and strolled across the highway to stand by the wall overlooking the ocean.

The water was black all the way to the horizon, except right here at the shore, where the waves churned and whipped themselves into a restless froth. The sea was higher than it had been earlier, pounding the rocks so violently that the sidewalk was spattered with seafoam.

James leaned against the barricade, looking down at the rugged black outcropping below. It was a treacherous little landscape, the waves teeming and raging through human-sized crevices, tunnels and holes. He wondered how often people jumped the wall and climbed down for a closer look. It wouldn’t be difficult at all. Nor was it difficult to imagine stepping into one of those openings in the rocks, getting sucked down and battered to death by the tempest.

A wave slammed against the seawall directly below him, making him jump back just in time to avoid getting sprayed. He turned and walked over to his car to take shelter and have a drink.

The doors locked with a clunk and he slouched down in the driver’s seat, unscrewing the bottle of Jim Beam to take a long swig.

Shit. What was he doing here? Even if he managed to get away from the press and the investigation and the busybodies, there was no escaping the actual problem. No erasing the fact that someone had crept into his family’s home, beaten Robin to death with a fireplace poker, butchered Bryce with a hatchet while he slept in bed, and slit Grace’s throat in the bath. No unseeing the crime scene photos cruelly sent to him by internet trolls. No amount of ocean air could blow all that away.

But whiskey could drown it out for a while. One hot swallow after another, he focused on the heat and sting of the liquor coursing into his body, coaxing his buzz toward a full-on stupor.

Two hours later he was still slouched behind the wheel, his brain spinning sluggishly in his skull. Holding the nearly empty bottle up in front of his face, he blinked hard as it whirled in overlapping fragments, like it was at the other end of a kaleidoscope.

Aw, fuck. Drank too much. Way too much.

A wave splattered the windshield, and he took one more swig before tossing the bottle aside. Finding it increasingly difficult to think in words or phrases, he latched onto the explosive sounds of the surf. It seemed to be calling him. Maybe a cold splash of water would do him good.

Yeah. Cold water. He groped for the door handle.

Cold, salty water. That would do the trick.

Chapter 2: Dumb

Hunter pulled his truck into one of the slanted parking spaces along the Brooks sea wall and turned off the ignition, cutting off Bobbie Gentry in the middle of ‘Ode to Billie Joe’