If at first you dont dec.., p.22
If At First You Don't Deceive, page 22
Beck winced. "Been there and done that."
"The storm came on rather suddenly. One minute, I'm stocking the bookshelves, and the next, Patty is hurrying me out the door to, as they say, batten down the hatches. I thought she might have been over-dramatizing it, but, clearly, she was not. I've never experienced anything like it." My knees are still sore from falling on the ice and then from falling again as I ran in terror from Andy. I can't mention any of my harrowing few minutes to Beck because all of it leads to the thorn.
Beck pushes his thumb and forefinger together. "I was this close to walking over to your house to check on you, but I didn't want you to think that I worried you couldn't handle it. It's kind of a rite of passage to be able to survive your first big storm on the island."
"Patty called it a test of my mettle. Either way, I feel I should get some sort of merit badge or trophy."
"Let's see what we can do about that." Beck leans back. "How did it go with the envelope? You don't have to provide any details, but you looked pretty freaked out about it."
"I was and I still am. Let's just say, it wasn't a beautiful Christmas card."
Beck's expression turns to concern. "Do you want to talk about it?"
I shake my head. "Someday, I might even show it to you. I'm not sure what to make of it, but he's being far more persistent than I hoped. I thought I'd break free and that he'd be out celebrating my disappearance, frankly. I know people stalk their partners, but that's usually out of an obsession, an unreasonable infatuation or love for the other person. Colton hates me and I hate him … intensely. I can't explain any of it."
"I saw a short few minutes about his disappearance yesterday, before the power went out. He's still missing." Beck's gaze drops, and I sense there's more to it.
"Beck?"
"They mentioned that his wife has not been seen for a week and a half. Your real name is Everly?" he asks quietly.
I nod.
"It suits you. I'm sorry you have to be someone else. I'm sorry he made it so bad for you that you had to disappear. But I'm not sorry that you landed here."
"Me neither."
Beck and I spend the next hour, long past my lunch break, talking about growing up, family issues, taste in music and even dream destinations. The fried chicken lives up to its hype, but I'm still more of a mashed potato girl. All the while that we talk and laugh and smile flirtatiously at each other, I remind myself not to jump in with both feet and no swim floaties on my arms. I've done exactly that before, and I ended up nearly drowning. Everything about the last year with Colton was so nightmarish, so depressing, that drowning would have been better.
Beck and I are finishing the cups of coffee we ordered. A few tables are still full, but most of the lunch crowd has cleared out, and Flo is taking a much-earned break at her counter with a plate of food.
"You really outdid yourself today, Flo," someone calls from the back.
She lifts the coffee cup in a silent toast to herself, then returns her focus to the news.
"I hate to end this lunch date, but I guess we should get back to work," Beck says.
"I suppose all good things must come to an end. This was a nice lunch break, one of the best I've had in a long while."
"Same here," Beck says. The thorn hasn't poked at me once through the meal, but it comes out of nowhere to make me flinch.
"Everything all right?" he asks. "Coffee too hot?"
"No, the coffee is fine. I just thought of some things I left unfinished at the library." It's a lie, but I have no intention of obliterating our nice lunch date with Andy's confession. It turns out I didn't need to bring up Piper's death to put a cataclysmic end to the date.
"That looks like our Ella," Flo says. She's pointing at the television. The chyron across the bottom of the newscast reads "missing tech entrepreneur found dead." The next ribbon spills out more alarming news. "Wife of victim, Everly West, is person of interest." My photo splashes across the screen. It's small and the television is far from high definition. Flo turns my way for a second. "Have you killed any husbands lately?" she asks and everyone in the diner laughs. Everyone but Beck and me.
I can feel the blood rushing away from my head. I discreetly grip the edge of the table to steady myself. The news report has switched to a feel-good story about a local food bank.
Beck pulls out his wallet and puts the money on the table. He knows enough about my past to know it's no laughing matter. "Let's get you out of here."
I nod. "Don't make it look weird though." I look up at him as he stands and offers me his hand. "Did you hear what she said?"
Beck is confused.
"Flo—she called me our Ella." With everything we just learned from the television screen, it sticks out more than anything. I'm part of the community. I belong here. It figures that Colton, even in death, has come along to ruin the moment.
Beck looks down with a sympathetic smile. "It's probably a record. But it's all you, Ella. They know a good person when they see one."
"Except for the whole person of interest thing," I whisper as I take his hand.
We both plaster on big smiles and wave as we walk out the door. I stumble forward in shock as the cold air hits us. Beck catches me.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
I look at him and shake my head. "He's dead. The man who has done everything in his power to destroy me is dead. I'd be doing a little happy dance right here in the slushy snow if I wasn't also their person of interest." I gasp. "Does that mean suspect? That means he was murdered. Someone killed Colton West. I know one thing for sure. It wasn't me."
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
It is impossible to concentrate on my job, and I'm relieved when Patty decides to close up for the rest of the afternoon and, in fact, until after New Year's. I pull on my winter gear, say goodbye to Patty and head out. If there was ever a time I needed a phone or computer it's now. There are so many things ricocheting around my brain, I can't focus on any one thing. I need more clarity about Colton's death.
Beck has opened the tavern for the afternoon. I walk inside. He looks up and smiles when he sees me. His reaction makes my heart thump a little faster. There are a few people at the bar drinking beers and a couple more huddled by the fire with their pints.
I reach the counter.
"How's it going?" Beck asks. Only the two of us know that the question runs far deeper than the usual one people ask in greeting.
"I heard rumor that you have a computer that I can rent for an hour."
"He charges too much," the older man at the counter says. I think his name is Burt or Bernie. I'm still learning. "If you go over to the school, you might catch Chuck in the schoolhouse. I saw him heading there earlier. He said he was going to take down the holiday decorations so the kids wouldn't be reminded that Christmas was over when they got back."
I smile. "Thanks for the tip, but I'm in a hurry so I don't mind paying."
Beck is scowling at Burt or Bernie as he motions for me to follow him to the back room. "I figured I'd see you. I'm sure you can find more about the murder online." Beck looks at me. "You realize you have one hell of an alibi if the cops come looking for you. You've been on this island since before his disappearance."
"Shit. Do you think they'll come looking for me? I guess they might. I hadn't thought about an alibi but you're right. There's no way they can charge me. What doesn't make sense is the timeline on any of this. All this time, I thought Colton was paying Jenna to gaslight me with memories from—" I stop. It's so hard to explain things when I have to leave out an important chunk of the story. I shake my head in frustration and restart. "I thought Colton was missing because he was deep in a plan to destroy me. If he's been dead this whole time, then my theory goes right out the window. I'm so mad I didn't get to talk to Jenna before she left the island. Someone was paying her to cause me distress." My gaze drifts to the computer desk. I'm anxious to get online.
"Let me log you on. And, uh, no charge. I had to start charging because everyone here is too cheap to get their own computer and pay for service. I had people in and out of this room all day and then there were arguments and people bringing kitchen timers to let others know that their time was up. It was not pretty. Charging by the hour stopped all the problems at once." He types in his password, and just like that I'm part of the modern world again. I'm amazed how much I haven't missed it, at least until now.
"I'll leave you alone." Beck walks out.
I type in "Colton West's death," and a lot of new, relevant entries pop up. I open the first one. "The police are investigating the murder of Colton West, tech entrepreneur and CEO of Data Star. The company has recently become the subject of a federal investigation into unethical use of data. West disappeared two days after the investigation was announced. His employees reported him missing when he didn't show up for work, and he was no longer answering his phone. West's wife, Everly West, disappeared several days earlier, but her disappearance was never reported to the police. She is now a person of interest and a search is underway."
I laugh dryly. "Gee, Colton never reported me missing. What a surprise."
I open another article that seems to offer more details on Colton's death. The photos of him, alive and well, are not nearly as distressing as they used to be. I sit back and take a deep breath as I stare at his picture. He's walking out of the building where Data Star is located. Colton had that kind of handsome, polished appeal that looks good in expensive men's clothing catalogues. He's dead. Colton is dead. I dreamt of his death many times and in so many ways, but I never did anything about it. Thank goodness I never told anyone about those thoughts. I'd really have some explaining to do. Beck is right. I have a rock-solid alibi.
I read the article. It mentions that the coroner thought West had been dead for five to seven days. Investigators matched his time of death to the day he disappeared. The rest of the details are shocking and confusing and not what I expect. "West was found naked with wrists bound behind his back. Details are not being released due to ongoing investigation by the police, but there is some indication that West was involved in sexually submissive role-play before he died. His remains were found by hikers in the Los Angeles National Forest. A recent rainstorm had uncovered his shallow grave." The article is somewhat vague, but I'm sure that has more to do with the police not releasing details than the reporter's lack of research. Submissive role-play? I laugh again. Was it his mistress? Was she just as crazy as him? I did overhear some creepy, tawdry phone calls that suggested the relationship was anything but wholesome.
The barroom is getting louder as more people stop in for an afternoon beer. As much as I want to continue being social, I need some time to myself this afternoon. I look forward to the walk home to clear my head.
I close out of the articles and head back through the bar.
"Hey, Ella," someone calls.
I do a general smile and wave and mouth thanks to Beck. He's busy at the tap filling mugs. "Come by later," he says.
I nod and step out into the frigid late afternoon air. More clouds seem to be congregating off-shore, and they don't look terribly friendly. I pull my beanie lower to protect my ears, shove my gloved hands in my pockets and head toward home. I'm staring down at the path, not wanting to land on ice, when a shadow falls over me. I stop suddenly, but it takes my shoes a few inches to come to a halt. It's the last person I want to see on a day like this.
Frank Fitzpatrick is standing directly in my path. The hood of his black sweatshirt is pulled up over his head. I'm layered like I'm on an excursion in Antarctica, and the man who grew up on Winborne, the man who spent his whole life in the glacial precipitation and freezing temperatures, is wearing grease-covered jeans and a simple cotton sweatshirt, the kind I might have worn on a cool night in California. His greasy hands are covered in a myriad of cuts, scrapes and scars.
My heartrate didn't surge to its usual hypersonic speed. Knowing Colton is no longer walking this earth has lessened my anxiety. Not that Frank Fitzpatrick standing in front of me with a menacing glare isn't poking at my panic button.
"My brother said he drank cocoa with you." It's not the first thing I expected him to say, and it catches me off guard.
"Uh, yes. He's a nice man. I was struggling gathering firewood during that terrible storm. I'm afraid I'm not used to bad weather and building fires. I was thankful for his help, so I invited him in for cocoa." I spoke airily, but it wouldn't take much to hear the nervousness in my tone.
Frank's menacing gaze is one of the scariest I've ever seen, and that's saying a lot considering the gaze that met me over the dinner table each night for the last year.
"My brother—he's not right in the head. He makes up stories. He has a wild imagination. He had an accident when he was little—" He stops there, apparently deciding not to divulge any more dirty laundry than necessary. "Anyhow, you don't need to invite him in for cocoa. I'll tell him not to bother you again."
"He was no bother," I say quickly. His harsh gaze tells me it's not up for discussion.
Frank pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. He continues to scowl at me through the veil of smoke. "Seems to me the two of you don't have a damn thing in common. What did you talk about?"
I'm entirely unprepared for the line of questioning. "Talk about?" I repeat to give myself more time. "Your brother mostly drank his cocoa. He's quiet. We did talk about his art. He's very talented."
His scowl shrinks down to a suspicious squint. Smoke is curling up from his nostrils. "How do you know about his art?"
It hits me that I shouldn't know anything about his art. The sketch in the book was tucked inside there for years, and the drawings at the rock are not public knowledge either. "Oh, uh, Patty"—I point my thumb back over my shoulder—"I work for her in the library. Your brother brought her a fish, and she mentioned that Andy is a terrific artist. She told me he painted her sign."
Frank stares at me as he takes another long drag on his cigarette. He even manages to make the mundane task of smoking look menacing.
I hunch up my shoulders. "It's been nice talking to you." About as nice as being sprayed by a skunk, I want to add, but don't. "But I'm freezing out here. I need to get home and start a fire." I walk toward him. I'm not entirely sure he'll get out of my way, but when I'm about two feet from him, he lowers the cigarette, taps off the ashes and steps aside.
I force a smile and hurry toward the cottage. Is Andy thick enough to tell his brother, Frank, that he confessed their terrible secret to the new lady on the island? It's obvious he told Frank about the visit and the cocoa. Frank seems to know. Why else would he have prefaced the entire, uncomfortable chat by telling me not to believe anything Andy says? A tangle with Frank Fitzpatrick is the last thing I need right now.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I reach my front stoop. I look back over my shoulder to make sure Frank didn't follow me, then I unlock the door and slip inside. How do I manage to make so much trouble for myself? I'm holding onto a hugely impactful secret, one that will either bring relief or more grief to Beck, and now I've attracted the unwanted attention of Frank Fitzpatrick, the one person on the island I'd be more than happy to avoid forever. Will he be watching my every move now? Did I rid myself of the constant fear of having Colton show up only to now worry that Frank will step out from the shadows to confront me?
I didn't leave the radiator on, so I start the fire first thing. I stay wrapped in my big coat and beanie until the room heats up. I make a pot of coffee. I'm having a hard time wiping the icky feeling left behind by the encounter with Frank, then something else occurs to me.
I walk to the bedroom and pull the envelope with the photo out from the nightstand drawer. There is no return address, but there is a postmark, mostly smudged black ink. The photograph went through a Los Angeles post office, something I already knew, making me certain that Colton mailed it. But the date it went through the office is December 21, and according to the news reports, several days after Colton's murder. Unless he found a way to harass me from the world beyond, someone else mailed the photo.
I suck in a deep breath. It's filled with the smoky, earthy smell of the new fire. Suddenly, the cottage is getting too hot. I pull off my coat and hat, pour myself a cup of coffee and sit down to stare at the dancing flames. I can't believe I'm thinking this, but my life would be much easier if Colton was still alive. I wouldn't be a person of interest, and I'd know for certain that he is the one behind the gaslighting. But if not him—Who. The. Fuck?
CHAPTER
THIRTY
I didn't leave the cottage for the rest of the night. After a dinner of peanut butter on toast and crackers, I changed into pajamas and thick socks and plopped myself in front of the fire to read myself to sleep. But sleep didn't come until well into the night. The unpleasant run-in with Frank Fitzpatrick wasn't my only reason for sheltering in place. My latest discovery, that someone else was out in the world trying to torture me with the past, left me reeling.
Plenty of light seeps past the curtains. I glance at the clock. It's past ten. My stomach is roaring for breakfast, and my head is begging for coffee. I'm too tired and lazy to start another fire, so I give the radiator a swift kick. I've learned exactly where to hit it so that it only takes one try with little to no toe pain.
The kitchen faucet comes with its own distinct noises. It burbles and rumbles and rattles as I fill the coffeepot. I'm tempted to walk to the diner for some real breakfast. My peanut butter toast meals are starting to bore me. Beck will want to know why I never showed up at the tavern. I could drop in and see him, let him know what's going on. The plan to adventure out is just starting to gel in my head when I'm startled by a loud, urgent knock on the door. This time my heart takes off at a run. What if it's Frank back to threaten me with his silent stares and cryptic warnings? What if it's the new mystery villain, the person who sent the photo?
