little as he climbed the steep path to the rocky point where the Whiskey Beach lighthouse speared up into the gloom.
Fog swirled, clawing up a little higher here, muffling his footsteps, turning the lashing of water against rock into an echoing drumbeat.
Spoiled the view, too, he realized when he’d reached the lighthouse. Maybe he’d make a hike back if the next day came clear, on his way back to Boston.
Decision made, he realized. A job could bore you. A client could piss you off. An investigation could hit a dead end. But when you combined all three in one? It was time to cut your losses.
He shouldn’t have popped off at the client the way he did, he admitted. But Jesus, what a bone-headed move.
He turned at the sound of footsteps, saw the client step through the fog.
“You put me in a hell of a spot,” Duncan began. “We need to get this sorted out.”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Well, we can call bygones on that if you—”
He didn’t see the gun. As with the footsteps, the fog muffled the shots so they sounded low, thick, odd. They puzzled him in that instant of shocking pain.
He never reached for his own gun; it never occurred to him.
He fell, eyes wide, mouth working. But the words were only gurgles. He heard, as if from a great distance, his killer’s voice.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
He didn’t feel hands searching, taking his phone, his recorder, his keys, his weapon.
But he felt cold—biting, numbing cold. And unspeakable pain through it as his body was dragged to the edge over rocky ground.
For an instant he thought he was flying, wind rushing cool over his face. Then the thundering water swallowed him as he hit the rocks below.
Not supposed to be like this. Too late, much too late to turn back. Moving forward was the only choice. No more mistakes. No more hiring detectives—anyone—who couldn’t be trusted, who couldn’t be loyal.
Do what needed to be done until it was done.
Maybe they’d suspect Landon had killed the detective, as they had with Lindsay.
But Landon had killed Lindsay.
Who else could have? Would have?
Maybe Landon would pay for Lindsay through Duncan. Sometimes justice was serpentine.
For now, the most important thing was to clear out the detective’s room, take everything that could possibly connect them. And the same needed to be done in Duncan’s office, at his home.
A lot of work.
Best get started.
When Eli came downstairs in the morning he checked the living room. The throw he’d tucked around Abra when she conked out on the sofa lay artfully spread over the back. And, he noted, her boots weren’t by the front door.
Better, he thought. Much less awkward after that unexpected and uncomfortable moment between them the night before. Better that he had the house to himself again.
More or less, he thought when he smelled coffee—saw the fresh pot—and the Post-it.
Did the woman have stock in the company? A never-ending supply?
Omelet in warming drawer. Don’t forget to turn it off. Fresh fruit in fridge.
Thanks for letting me stay on the couch.
I’ll check in later. CALL Vinnie!
“All right, all right. Jesus, do you mind if I have coffee first, see if I have a few brain cells to fire up?”
He poured coffee, added his dollop of cream and rubbed the insistent knots at the back of his neck. He’d call Vinnie; he didn’t need to be reminded. He just wanted a minute before dealing with cops and questions. Again.
And maybe he didn’t want a damn omelet. Who asked her to make a damn omelet? he thought as he yanked the warming drawer open.
Maybe he just wanted . . . Damn, it looked really good.
He scowled at it, then took it out, grabbed a fork. And ate it while wandering to the window. Somehow, however stupid, it felt less like caving if he ate standing up.
Balancing the plate, he went outside, onto the terrace.
Brisk but not brutal today, he noted. And that brisk breeze blew the world clear again. Sun, surf, sand, sparkle—it eased some of the knots.
He watched a couple walking on the beach, hand in hand. Some people, he thought, were made for companionship, for coupling. He could envy them. He’d made such a mess of his only serious attempt he’d only escaped divorce through murder.
What did that say about him?
He took another bite of omelet as the strolling couple stopped to embrace.