Finally…finally…that cool, finely muscled exterior begins to crack. Exactly what I’ve been waiting for.

“I could have you arrested,” James snarls. “You’re out of line, and way out of your jurisdiction, Selznick.”

I hold out my wrists. “Oh, that would be great. Do it! I could use a vacation. Better a nice, warm jail cell than a cold and bitter trooper station, believe me.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No! I want you to arrest me, Detective. Even better, should I try and resist? Would that make it more fun for you? Or do you only get your jollies when it’s a young girl struggling for her life?”

Now James’s thoughts are as clear as a two-story neon sign: I VERY MUCH WANT TO RIP OFF YOUR HEAD AND PLACEKICK IT INTO THE SEA.

And for a minute, I think he’s actually going to do it. I sit there mentally plotting some countermoves in case this cop decides to pounce on me. I would never forgive myself if the grand adventure that is my life were to come to a sudden end in a stupid wicker chair.

But James recovers his senses, takes a deep breath, and then turns his back on me. He walks away—away from the surf. I stay seated but turn around and watch him carefully. You’re going to do it, aren’t you? You’re not going to be able to resist. The weight of it is too much.

And then he does—he glances back one last time.

Not at me.

But at the sandy beach, where I’m now certain we’re going to find Paige Ryerson’s body very soon.

When James is gone, I call Quinn to update him on everything.

“Mark my words,” I say, “it’s the cop.”

“Just last night you were convinced it was the lifeguard,” Quinn replies.

“Well, now I’m telling you it’s Nigel the cop. Maybe the lifeguard was involved. Maybe they’re partnered up on it. But the cop is definitely guilty. Not only was he the last person to see Paige alive, but he was staring at the sand like he expected her to come crawling up out of her own grave to point an accusing finger at him. He’s gonna crack, Quinn. And I want to be there when he does.”

“I’m glad you’re so certain.”

I listen for a few more seconds, waiting for something. Anything. Praise? A complaint? Something I missed, maybe? Quinn likes to watch you weave a beautiful tapestry and then yank it out from under your feet with a single question.

But then I hear something weird. Like an echo. Crashing surf behind me, but also crashing surf coming from over the cell phone connection.

“Quinn…uh, where are you?”

Chapter 17

QUINN

As Matthew Quinn raises his hand, a waiter, clad in shorts, approaches. Quinn wordlessly gestures down to a pair of empty glasses with moisture beaded on the sides. Then he makes a peace sign. The waiter nods and whisks away the empties.

“I’ll see you this evening, Theo,” Quinn says, then disconnects the call and turns to face Jana. “I presumed you wanted another cocktail?”