“You’re not answering the question,” I say.
“I didn’t hear a question.”
“Did my mother talk to you about changing her will?”
Paul glances to where Gilcrest has begun the final ascent toward us. He lowers his voice. “Your mother wanted Idlewood protected against anything that might happen in the future, but stop asking about this, Charlie. If we’re lucky, Gilcrest and his team will make an arrest soon. Andrea Haviland should have been in jail weeks ago. There’s a good case against her, and she had plenty of opportunity to kill your mother and start the fire. I should have made a bigger deal of what happened with those security cameras, but I let false loyalty sway me. If I had, maybe your mother would be alive.”
“Mrs. Haviland rode into Burkehavenafterthe fire began. It’s on tape.”
“And she knew that camera was in place because she made sure it was there when she destroyed the other ones. Then she killed your mother, moved her car into the woods, set the fire, got in her boat, and drove into the cove at the one angle she knew the camera would capture. It’s pretty simple.”
It’s not simple, and it’s hardly thesimplestexplanation. “What happened between you and Andrea Haviland, anyway?” I ask. “Why do you hate her so much? You loaned her money, but there has to be more to the story.”
“Charlie Kilgore,” Gilcrest calls out, his breath ragged from the hike, “you’re always one step ahead of me.”
“I fronted her a few thousand dollars, nothing more,” Paul says, his voice low, his tone a warning.
He wants me to leave this alone.
Chapter Thirty
“What’s that about a loan, Charlie?” Gilcrest says to me as he completes the climb up the hill, the lake extending to the horizon behind him. “Is Seton hitting you up for money again?”
Paul catches my eye. “It’s nothing, Duncan,” he says. “Charlie’s taking a loan against his mother’s estate to pay his hospital bills while I get things settled. Perfectly standard.”
“Must be nice to have a well to draw from,” Gilcrest says.
I brush past the detective without answering. “I’ll see you around, Paul,” I say.
“By the way, thanks for the lead,” Gilcrest calls after me. “I was over at Moodey Lumber this morning. Vance told me what he could about your mother.”
I turn, taking a few steps backward over the uneven ground. Gilcrest looms a few feet above me, hair tousled, hips thrust forward with practiced ease, testosterone exuding from his very essence. He’s letting me know Freya reported on our day together and anything I tell her will get back to him one way or another. “You’re playing good cop,” I say.
“I am a good cop,” Gilcrest says. “How’s the aim? Have you managed to hit the target yet?”
“I’ll let you know,” I say.
Gilcrest is also making sure I understand he’s in control.
I leave the detective with Paul and descend through the field. At my car, I send a text to Freya:??Meet me in our spot.??
An hour later, Freya emerges from the hiking trail onto the shooting range. She carries the two rifles slung over her shoulder. Ginger trots along beside her. The dog growls and wags her tail when she sees me, as though she doesn’t know whether to attack. “Release,” Freya says, making the decision for her.
I roll onto the ground and wrestle with the dog while Freya heads into the field to set up aluminum cans as targets. When she returns, I take the bag of treats from my coat pocket.
“Make her earn it,” Freya says.
I palm one of the treats. Ginger’s haunches hit the ground, and then she swallows the biscuit in one bite.
“Good girl,” I say, scratching her behind the ears. “I’ll get you to trust me. Maybe we can be friends.”
“More like frenemies,” Freya says, loading one of the rifles, then attaching the line to Ginger’s collar before firing into the range.
“No cigarette?” I ask.
“I think I quit,” Freya says, leaning the rifle against the stone wall. “I’ve earned it.”
I get up from the ground. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to greet Freya—a peck on the cheek or a quick hug or something more—so I offer a hand.
