I swing out of bed and instinctively reach for my phone before remembering that it’s with the police. I slip on my shoes, reviewing the conversation with Reid on the dock, and then careening to my visits to the Landing these last few weeks. More pieces snap into place, and if they mean what I think they mean, I got part of the story wrong—the most important part. And with it, the other threads unravel, too.
Downtown Hero is dark except for that single streetlamp Freya and I kissed beneath two weeks ago. I park the yellow Volvo on the street outside the Landing and run up a set of stairs to the apartments above. I pound at a door until a light comes on and footsteps patter my way.
“I’d given up hope,” Blancy says as he opens the door, shirtless and toned in a pair of boxer briefs, his white hair standing on end. “Oh,” he says. “Charlie. Did Reid send you?”
Every time I’ve seen Blancy this summer, he’s asked after Reid. Even this morning, when I visited Mrs. Haviland, Blancy told me to ask Reid to give him a call, that he owed him.
“Reid was with you the other night,” I say.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Blancy says. “Reid’s here a lot of nights. Or he was. But if he’s not into it anymore, he can tell me himself.”
“He was in your apartment when the fire started at Burkehaven.”
“What about it?” Blancy says.
“The two of you,” I say. “You’re dating.”
“Datingmight be pushing it, but if you want the details, you should ask your brother. What was going on at your place tonight, anyway? Why all the cops?”
By morning, Blancy will know Reid’s dead. Right now, I need his focus. “It was nothing,” I say.
“If it was nothing, I’ll say good night. I’m freezing.”
Blancy moves to shut the door, but I block it with my knee. “The night of the fire, did Reid leave? Even for a little bit?”
“Not till we heard the fire engines heading toward Burkehaven. Then he took off, and I’ve barely seen him since.”
“Did you tell anyone else he was here?” I ask.
“No one’s asked,” Blancy says, folding his arms over his slim chest. “Reid and I have had a thing since high school. Only when he’s here in the summer and not off with his fancy friends. It isn’t serious. He knows to come by, and that my door’s usually open. Remind him when you see him. It gets lonely in this apartment. Besides, your brother’s sexy as hell. You can tell him I said that, too.”
I’m halfway down the stairs before Blancy calls after me. “I thought you’d come about my text. I sent you one earlier tonight.”
“I lost my phone.”
“Ponytail and glasses was here earlier, lurking by the dumpster when I took out the trash. Scared the shit out of me. I told him you’ve been looking for him.”
“He didn’t come into the bar?” I ask.
Blancy shakes his head.
“Where was Mrs. Haviland?”
“Andrea?” Blancy asks. “Where do you think? She was in the kitchen, like she is every night. Ponytail told me to tell you he was visiting an old friend.”
I kill the lights on my father’s Volvo and park on the side of the road, then make my way through the dark, along the tree-lined driveway toward Burkehaven Farm. The house is pitch black. In the distance, a coyote howls.
I’m worried. Paul should have been at Idlewood earlier tonight as soon as we found Reid’s body, as soon as the cops descended on the island. He should have run interference and made himself known. He’d have heard the sirens, seen the lights, and followed them. Unless something—or someone—kept him from coming.
Someone such as my father.
I test the door to the converted barn. It slides open without a sound. Inside, as my eyes adjust to the dark, the contours of the kitchen come into shape, revealing signs of a struggle: barstools toppled over, dishes smashed. I whisper Paul’s name and root in the kitchen drawers until I find a flashlight. I aim the beam around the room and find a chef’s knife. The blade is smeared in blood.
What happened here? I take a poker from beside the fireplace and edge up the ancient staircase to the second floor, the treads creaking beneath my weight. Paul’s bedroom is empty, the bed made. I check the guest rooms, all of which appear as if no one’s been in them in months. Back downstairs, I ease open the bathroom door, flip on the lights, and splash water on my face. Reid rehabbed this part of Burkehaven Farm five years ago. As part of the rehab, he added this bathroom and decorated it in stainless steel and pure white.
I wipe my face dry.
Whether I trust Gilcrest or not, this investigation is for the police now. As I flip off the light, my eye catches something on the floor. I turn the light back on and get down on my hands and knees, where a tiny circle of blue stands out against the white tile. It’s the blue of Freya’s nail polish. The polish used on her windshield this afternoon. The polish smeared on the paper towels Maggie found in the woods.
