“Call me if you finish earlier. As soon as I have the truck, I’m taking off for New York and my beloved co-op. Paul was right—at least in the city there are people wherever you go.” Freya looks at Gilcrest. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles. “And plenty of assholes to date.”
“Don’t do this,” Gilcrest says.
“I’ll see you around, Duncan. You, too, Harold.”
Freya retreats to the farmhouse. Fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky, and the fog that swept in with the storm hems us in. Gilcrest stares after Freya, his expression cold. I imagine he’s seeing two versions of his future laid out in front of him—the one he wanted with Freya, and the one he has now. “I just got off the phone with the FBI,” he says. “They’re sending an agent, and I’ll be taking lead on the stalking case. You’re free to go, Chief. Take Mr. Kilgore with you so I don’t have to look at him anymore.”
“I’llbe taking the lead,” Seton says. “Tell your contact at the FBI we’ll coordinate from the station.”
“Back off, Chief,” Gilcrest says.
“You’re the one who needs to back off,Detective,” Seton says. “Get in your car and drive away.”
Gilcrest makes a move toward the farmhouse, but Seton blocks his path. “Freya puts up a good front,” she says, “but she’s scared out of her mind. If you care about her, that’s what you should remember.”
“I love her,” Gilcrest says, the words catching in his throat.
“Then stay as far from the investigation as you can. You aren’t objective.”
The detective takes another step toward the house. “Duncan,” Seton says. “Stop. Be smart.”
For a moment, it seems as though Gilcrest might try to force his way past her. He gives one last look toward the front door, then gets in his car and leaves. Seton waits until he’s driven out of sight before sending a text. “That was to Paul,” she says. “I told him to call me if Gilcrest shows up again. Jealousy makes people batshit crazy.”
“This whole situation makes me feel helpless,” I say.
“You feel helpless?” Seton says. “Imagine how Freya’s felt all these years, and multiply that helpless feeling by infinity. Get out of here, Charlie, and don’t come back.”
She watches, arms folded, standing guard, as I drive away in the Volvo and rain splatters the windshield.
Nothing will happen to Freya. Not tonight.
When I arrive at the turnoff by the bungalow, I pull to the side of the road while the rain pounds at the roof of the Volvo. I delete text messages from Reid, Seton, Paul, and Gilcrest, all expressing some variation ofWhat did you do?about the podcast trailer. I delete the messages from Julian, too, where he rationalizes posting the trailer without telling me first. When I come to a message from Mrs. Haviland that reads??Call me when you get this??, I nearly delete it. Something stops me, though, and I click on her name.
“Charlie,” she says, “you made it onto the Hero Board. Vote’s split on whether or not to run you out of town.”
“Which side are you on?” I ask.
“You can stick around, for now,” Mrs. Haviland says. “You asked me to look at the books for Reid Construction. Wait till I tell you what I found. I really should have been a forensic accountant.”
After we hang up, I make another call. Thirty minutes later, I park beside a construction site in Finstock, where rain falls in sheets across mounds of earth. Idle equipment dots a recently cleared landscape, and a sign advertises a new outdoor mall and residence. Placards advertise a rival construction firm.
Rain soaks through my clothing as I make my way to where a cement foundation and cinder blocks mark the perimeter of what will eventually be a big-box store.
As I emerge on the other side, footsteps squelch through mud. I swipe wet hair from my eyes and spin to face Vance Moodey.
Chapter Thirty-Five
When I return to the lake, the rain has passed, and the sun casts a golden glow across Idlewood Cove. On the dock, Reid stretches before his evening swim. I leave the Volvo and cross the footbridge, through the blueberry bushes, over the exposed roots and granite, as though I’m in a dream. At the house, I go through the motions of mixing a pitcher of martinis and setting snacks on a tray, before heading toward the dock to join my brother.
It’s happy hour.
And we might as well drink.
Reid turns at the sound of my footsteps. He sits on the dock, one leg twisted over the other. “We’re celebrating?” he asks. “After today?”
I pour myself a cocktail and balance on the arm of an Adirondack chair, letting the icy gin linger on my tongue. Beside me, the boat tugs at its lines, thumping in rhythm as the wake sloshes at the dock. This is the time before: before words that can’t be unsaid are spoken, and theories become reality; before I step through another door.
I strain a second martini and rest it on the edge of the dock. “You shouldn’t swim alone.”
