If Carson had his way, I’d still be a shut-in. And that was what I needed, at first—to be sheltered while I worked through my mental state and emotions. What it all meant. He’d handled everything from the shopping to our finances while I recovered. But more than a year had passed. I’d undergone countless hours of counseling and worked through the trauma step-by-step. Carson couldn’t seriously believe I’d be willing to hide forever. What was he doing for all those months if not helping me move on?

“Look,” I said, because I couldn’t stand his silence or the immense disappointment it conveyed. “I’m taking some statements over here, that’s all. This missing guy will probably turn up. Tim’s sure of it.”

“Tim,” Carson repeated. “You’re there with Tim.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Of course I am.”

There was a long pause before Carson muttered something I couldn’t quite hear. “Listen to me, all right? This is serious. Be careful. Be aware of what you’re experiencing, Shay. If you notice any kind of stress reaction, any familiar signs of—”

“I’ll call you,” I said, unwilling to hear the laundry list of symptoms yet again. “I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Okay,” he said. “Stay safe.”

I knew he wanted to help—he was the only one who could, who truly understood. But sometimes when Carson talked about my condition, the seeds of fear and doubt already planted in my mind took me back to the dark place I started in—and once there I had a hell of a time leaving without him. As I pocketed my phone I felt the memories rush forward, a psychological assault that forced my chin to my chest and turned my legs to goo.

I was on the floor of the cellar where the smell of fried meat lingered, hugging my knees to my chest. I watched it happen. Waited for my training to kick in. Knew it never would. There was blood on my hands and a dead man on the floor, his name a sizzling brand on my heart next to the others. Jay Lopez. Becca. Lanie. Jess.

The wind lifted the ends of my hair, and I turned to face the Sinclair’s house once more. The pain those names inflicted was as fresh as ever, but I forced myself to repeat them. Jay. Becca. Lanie. Jess. I chanted them like a mantra under my breath until they blended seamlessly into one long, lilting gasp. Only then did I add another.

Bram. Bram. Bram.

EIGHT

I would have settled for a grilled cheese and a glass of water. Philip Norton was cooking a feast. It was nowhere near ready when I got back inside, but I was glad for the extra time. As Tim entertained the guests-slash-witnesses with stories of how the islands got their names—this one after the British Overseas Territory where Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled, that one for General James Wolfe when the area was under British rule—I spotted my chance to substantiate some of Flynn’s hand-to-God account.