“But.” Patty paused, her tongue darting out to lick at her lip, a nervous gesture she’d done enough times to work away at the blue gloss there. “He was really investigating that night. Those kids’ deaths. Monroe Bell and Asher Lowe. And Mia, of course. You could tell by the way he wouldn’t get really interested until someone brought them up.”

And with that, all the pieces from the day began to slot themselves together, starting with Mia recognizing Twist. If he’d been investigating the suicide pact, it made sense that he’d try to scope her out first. Why hadn’t he talked to her at all, though?

Because. Because. Part of Izzy shied away from the thought, but she couldn’t. Because he thought Mia had killed the others.

“Only the kooks think an artist went crazy and killed Monroe and Asher,” Izzy said, slowly. Patty was a hawk, watching the question form behind Izzy’s lips. “So what does everyone else think happened at the lighthouse?”

The quick flick of Patty’s eyes in Mia’s direction confirmed the theory. “That girl has scars from that night.”

Maybe that was true. But that girl was alive. The same couldn’t be said about Asher Lowe and Monroe Bell.

And now the reporter who, if Patty were to be believed, had apparently been investigating those deaths had turned up in the bay, without ID, looking for all the world like a suicide.

Her thoughts from earlier circled back. If it was a homicide, the killer was either very lucky or very smart. They knew how to hide evidence.

She thought about how Mia had torn across the meadow toward the woods, how Izzy had found her, silent and still, eerie almost, her face pale in the thin light provided by Izzy’s phone. How she hadn’t really met Izzy’s eyes until they’d been back to civilization, how her hand had shaken when she’d stripped off her gloves.

That was what guilt looked like.

Izzy didn’t want to let herself start questioning Mia—trust and loyalty were the foundations of a solid partnership, and it was dangerous to create cracks in that for no reason. But what did Izzy really know about the woman? Not much.

Mia always kept to herself, dodging out on station happy hours and softball leagues. Izzy admired her quiet competence, but beyond the very basic facts, the woman was a mystery.

That didn’t have to mean anything. A lot of people liked their privacy, liked separating their personal lives from their jobs. But little moments from the day stood out in sharp relief under the harsh light of this new information.

That pause in the hallway, Mia’s eyes latching onto that photograph. The quick acceptance of Sammy’s suicide theory. The tic Mia had of stroking her thumb over her left wrist. The dip in her voice when mentioning the lighthouse.