“Is that true?” I asked Norton, thinking back to my interview with Ned. “Did Miles sleep in the library last night?”

Norton’s head was bowed over the platter again. Leisurely, he looked up. “That’s right. All set here.” He grabbed a handful of cloth napkins from a drawer, hoisted up the platter of appetizers, and pasted on a smile.

“You all can go back to the parlor,” I said. “And don’t worry. Wellington and I are perfectly capable of keeping you safe tonight. The rest of our team will be here before you know it, and then we’ll get you back to shore.”

“Really?” said Miles, letting his eyes drift to the window, where the rain slapped at the glass.

“On their way,” I lied, watching Miles, Jade, and Norton go. Then I took out my phone.

I was starting to understand, and this new awareness made me fear for our safety even more. I was getting close. Closing in.

But there was still something I needed to do.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I called Carson. In the kitchen. In the middle of an investigation. But I didn’t do it for me. My personal life was irrelevant, my engagement immaterial. I was on a case I’d fucked up bad, determined to stanch the bleeding. And as astonishing as it was at the time, there was a chance Carson had intel I needed in order to make things right.

“Shay, thank God, do you know what time it is? I’ve been waiting for hours, do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

“I talked to Maureen.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I also spoke with Maureen McIntyre. I had to know you were okay.”

“And suggest I was mentally ill?”

“Now listen to me. You left me no choice.”

“Why, Carson? Because I didn’t stay home like a good little girl? Because I wanted my career back and expected my fiancé to support me?”

“We’ve been over this a million times. You’re not ready!”

“And you’ll keep saying that forever, no matter what I think, while you make sure I continue to feel like a failure. You were never going to help me recoup my career. From day one you’ve been plotting to keep me at home. What was your plan, exactly—to get me fired? Tell all of Jefferson County I’ve got PTSD so there’s nowhere left for me to go?”

“I’m trying to protect you.” As hard as he worked to regulate it, I could hear the faintest trace of insecurity in Carson’s voice. “You aren’t in your right mind. What is it, flashbacks? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re experiencing a sense of disassociation, like you’re outside your body, losing touch with reality. Of course you are, in an environment like that—and that’s just the beginning. This is exactly why I need you to come home.”

He was doing it again, trying to make me distrust myself. As he spoke I imagined him in his high-priced glasses and novelty socks, clenching his jaw just enough to convey discontent. Flexing his foot to tap his toe in the irregular rhythm he knew made me jumpy. Every word Carson spoke, every movement he made, was carefully crafted to send a message. I wondered if he’d used the same tactics on Tim all those years ago.