Momentary silence. I’m missing body language and shared glances. But I hear it in her voice. The I really hope you didn’t fuck up in it.

“We’ll discuss this later.” The mayor’s voice comes out tight, closer.

I leap back from the door right in time, perch precariously onto the arm of a chair, play at having been casually waiting.

“Mayor Bergen, hello!”

I receive a grunt of acknowledgment, but beyond that the mayor doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He’s too keyed up, fists clenched at his sides as he thunders down the hall. An image comes to life in my mind. Those hands, that pent-up anger, unleashed upon a struggling Natalie at the edge of pool. Playing on a loop, like in the room downstairs, this time fully realized, vivid, and real.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ben’s blocking the door when I get home.

“We need to talk,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument. I follow him to Maura’s office like a child about to be scolded. She’s nowhere to be seen, and he explains without my needing to ask. “She’s at the hospital, visiting Suzanne. And you’ve been avoiding me all day. Why?”

I have to tell him. No matter if he thinks I’ve lost it; I go through the whole theory about Grace, revenge, how he might be next on her list. Shell-shocked, he lowers himself carefully onto a chair. I brace myself for the impact, but it doesn’t come.

“That makes sense,” he says instead. “The thing with Suzanne has been bugging me all day. She’s a good driver. Brakes don’t easily fail—not that often.”

“And I was supposed to be in the car. Grace knew.”

Ben pulls out his phone with a frown. “I know this is going to sound bizarre, but have you considered that maybe Grace is the one who killed Caroline? She doesn’t have a clear motive, but copycatting the murder with Natalie could have been a statement. Maybe she wants to be caught. Take all the glory, finally.”

“Grace does have a motive. Maybe,” I venture, thinking about Clark Sawyer. “Caroline’s date to homecoming was Grace’s future husband. Maybe she was jealous. But come on, Ben—do you really think a fifteen-year-old girl would have the strength to strangle a larger, older, stronger person?”

He fiddles with his phone again. “I don’t want to show you this, but it may be important.” He unlocks his phone, then types and swipes until he thrusts it at me, a picture of an official document on the screen. “This whole thing got me curious, so I did a little digging at my grandpa’s. Found this. You’ll have to zoom in.”

I do, and I gasp. “This is Caroline Quinn’s medical examiner report. This wasn’t in her police file.”