Tim Wellington stepped past me into the doorway of the boathouse. I knew what he was doing. Setting my flight into motion was his way of proving I could trust him on his word. But he didn’t understand what he was asking of me.

With no effort at all, Tim located the switch I’d failed to find and the interior of the barnlike building was bathed in light. All the while he held my gaze. That meant I was first to see what lay beyond him in the slips. He watched in confusion as my face twisted in horror. Only then did he turn around to see it for himself.

The boathouse was empty. Our police boat, and the Sinclairs’ skiff, were gone.

Tim thrust his hair out of his eyes. “What the . . . did you—”

“No! So who . . .” Under my skin my blood felt like water, fast flowing and cold. “Someone was here, on the island. The trapper?”

Tim’s eyes darted from the hydraulic door to the brass cleats on the decking. Norton had used them to tie up both boats earlier. Now they were bare. “No. The door’s closed. Norton said there’s no remote. Someone opened it from the inside, and closed it the same way. Whoever got rid of the boats was already here on the island.”

All day long we’d been stranded on Tern, but this? This was different. A deliberate attempt to rob us of what little power we had. To trap us all. And here we stood while our suspects wandered freely out of sight.

In unison, we turned our wet and sallow faces to the hill.

TWENTY-THREE

Tim took the stairs at a run, and I followed. Halfway up, I slipped and cracked my kneecap against a stone tread, but I got back to my feet and, muddy and sore, limped after him. I tried not to dwell on where we were going, or that there was no chance of escape. No time for those thoughts now.

When we got to the porch, Tim stopped. The front door stood wide open, the hall empty. The entryway floor was plastered with wet leaves, and the mess almost felt like as much of an affront as the bloodstains on Jasper’s bedsheets. Like the people inside it, the house’s pretense of perfection was in ruin.

The scream reached me in stages, carried by the wind. This time when I drew my gun the act was deliberate. I had no qualms about putting my finger on the trigger, or the pain it caused. Tim motioned with his weapon, and I shadowed him down the hall.

The house was eerily silent. Tim made for the library while I went right, to the parlor. That’s where I found Flynn.

Twenty minutes. That’s how long we were gone. In that time someone had thrown another log on the fire and Flynn had positioned himself next to it with a glass of scotch, now nearly empty, in his hand. He was shirtless, his hairy chest on display, and I could see the bandage on his upper arm was soaked with blood. Somehow he’d managed to secure a cigarette. Maybe he bummed it from Jade. It was tucked neatly behind his ear. He was alone.