The sound of the gunshot in the hall was tremendous. There was a moment of silence, and then all hell broke loose. Flynn’s body hit the hardwood with a mighty thud. There were cries and wails. Tim, on the floor next to him, shouted orders. His hands were already streaked with blood such a vibrant shade of red it hurt my eyes.

Without thinking, I ran. Down the hall.

Out the front door.

Into the storm.

TWENTY-TWO

Flynn was dead, I was sure of it. I was trained to make a shot count. The bullet had ripped through the man’s thick chest, just as I’d intended.

Flynn’s a suspect, I told myself. He’s dangerous. I had no choice.

You have no proof he killed Jasper. You don’t even know if Jasper’s dead.

I had no destination. All I wanted was to escape from the house, and everyone in it. Outside, a row of exterior lights illuminated a winding pathway to the steep stairs that led down to the water, a vast black hole at the base of the hill. That’s where I headed, taking the slick steps two at a time and praying my boots would find traction on the rocky treads. Without my raincoat, which still hung in the mudroom, Camilla’s shirt was soaked through in seconds. The way it clung to my skin made me want to scream.

Far below me a wave crashed against the stone wall and exploded with a sound like thunder. McIntyre was wrong to trust me with this job. Why didn’t I just listen to Carson? I should have known I couldn’t trust myself after I drew my weapon on Ned. I saw a killer in every face, a motive in every story. I wasn’t just a mess, I was a menace. What made me think I could recover from what Bram did to me? He’d rearranged my instincts and emotions like a kid tossing a puzzle in the air and laughing as the pieces rained down around him. He might as well have killed me in that cellar. The person I used to be—competent, steadfast, true—was dead.

By the time I got to the boathouse, my face was numb and the bandage on my hand was drenched. I stopped to unwrap the gauze. The last layer had fused itself to my seeping skin, but I ripped it off anyway. Savored the intensity of the pain.

The shirt came off next. I tore it open, struggled out, and threw the ball of wet fabric onto the rocks. I wanted to rid myself of everything belonging to the Sinclairs, but it wasn’t as easy as ditching Norton’s bandage and Camilla’s borrowed clothes. Just like Bram, they’d found a way inside my head. My only escape from the madness was to get off Tern Island.

The boathouse was dark. Even through the rain I picked up the rank smell of rotted fish abandoned by minks that couldn’t be trapped. I didn’t have the keys to the police boat and couldn’t have driven it if I did, but I didn’t think about any of that when, standing in my wet bra, I groped at the rough interior wall for the light.