Ivy’s expression was awful, and after a single glance that showed the depth of her fear, she continued without me.

“Get your hand off me,” I exclaimed, voice loud with misplaced anger as I yanked away from his grip. “I’m a professional, not some distraught girlfriend.” Well, I was that too, but I knew how to act at a crime scene. “You never would have found him if not for me. He might need my help, or are you admitting you manipulated me, knowing he was dead already?”

Edden’s face creased up in the bright light, and it made him look old. Behind him Ford sat leaning against the front of the car. I wondered what his range for reading emotions was. I hoped it was less than the twenty feet that separated us now.

“If he’s dead…” Edden said.

“I can handle myself!” I shouted, the fear that he was right making me reckless. “I’m going in there! It’s not a crime scene until we know there’s a crime, so get a grip!”

Ivy had reached the boat and swung up the four-foot height to the deck in an enviable motion. I jogged to catch up, my swollen eye hurting from under the complexion charm and my foot throbbing. “Kisten?” I shouted, hoping for his voice. “Kisten, you here?”

From the corner of my sight, Ford remained leaning against the car, his head bowed.

Feeling awkward, I levered myself up onto the deck. Different muscles protested, and I got from my knees to my feet, tossing my hair out of my eyes. Ivy was already below the deck. Jenks still hadn’t shown, and I didn’t know if that was good or bad. I shivered at the dampness of the dew-wet deck, trying to remember being here. Nothing. Nothing at all.

The boat hardly moved with my weight, and I half slid to the cockpit door, grasping for handholds. “Ivy?” I called as I went belowdecks, fear winding between my soul and reason when she didn’t answer. The silence ate away at my hope like bitter acid, drop by drop, breath by breath. If Kisten was conscious, he would have answered. If he was undead, he would be dead from the sun unless he had made it to the warehouse. Either option was bad.

It was quiet as I passed through the kitchen, only the sounds of my heartbeat and a plane high overhead. Ivy would have said something if she’d found him. The smear of blood on the high window looking out over the far shore shook me. A handprint.

“Kisten?” I whispered, but I knew it wasn’t his. And it wasn’t mine. It was his killer’s.

The tears pricked. I couldn’t remember anything. Why in hell had I done this to myself?