I scroll through the contacts on his phone until I find Seton’s name.
“Haviland,” she says when she answers, her breathing heavy. “On our way.”
“It’s Charlie,” I whisper. “Gilcrest’s been shot. He’s hurt badly and needs transport off the mountain. He’s about a hundred yards from the summit, near the cabin, right off the path.”
“We’ll be there soon,” Seton says. “Ten minutes.”
I fold Gilcrest’s hand over the phone and put it to his ear. “Keep talking. Make sure Seton knows where you are. And whatever you do, don’t close your eyes.”
Ahead, up the path, a light flickers inside the hunting cabin. There, in an open window, sits Freya, her auburn hair tied in a ponytail, a gag in her mouth.
I hear Freya’s voice in my ear, Gina Shock’s, too, and imagine them both at that whiteboard, talking to the CBI team:Follow the evidence.
There’s Seton’s advice, too:Go with the simplest explanation.
Who discouraged Freya from buying the house at Burkehaven? Who wanted her to return to New York and dismiss the life she’s tried to forge here? Who’s known Freya for decades and had access to every aspect of her life, her every move? And who, unlike my brother, wasn’t a teenager when Freya played Brenda Jackson onEternal Flame?
Only one person ticks those boxes, and it’s not Gilcrest, and it’s certainly not my brother.
“Tell Seton to be very quiet when she gets here,” I say to Gilcrest. “If she isn’t, Paul will kill Freya.”
Chapter Forty-Two
I leave Gilcrest with the phone and crawl through underbrush. The cabin sits twenty yards away, nestled in trees, across an expanse of granite. My hand brushes a stone large enough to fit in my palm, and I grab hold of it. I ease over the rough surface until I press my back to the cabin’s timber walls and slide beneath the open window. Inside, Freya sits, bound to a chair with silver duct tape, a kerosene lantern burning beside her, her face bruised. Paul paces in front of her.
“Duncan wanted to control you,” he says. “He has, ever since you met him. Hosting true crime? Singing in a local dive? You’re so much better than that.” Paul stops himself. “But I fixed it. And I’ll fix what comes next, too.”
I rise slowly over the sill. What looks like Gilcrest’s gun sits beside the kerosene lamp on a wooden table. Paul’s back is to me, but Freya’s eyes flick my way. Paul spins around as I duck and scramble to the back of the house. Footsteps pound across the cabin floor, and light from the kerosene lamp spills into the night. “Duncan?” Paul calls. “Did you come for more? I’ll shoot you again if that’s what it takes.”
He moves toward the corner of the cabin, the light traveling with him, the gun in hand, his shadow extending across the stony plateau. I keep to the dark, retreating as he pursues.
“Come out, come out,” Paul says. “Be a man.”
I stop at the next corner, the stone clenched in my palm. I’ll get one chance, and one chance only. Will Paul hesitate long enough when he sees that it’s me? Will he care?
He stops and turns, retracing his steps into the cabin. “What did you see?” he asks Freya.
Tape rips from her mouth, and it takes a moment before she answers. I imagine her testing her jaw and stalling for whatever time she can.
“Water,” she says, her voice raspy.
“Who’s here?”
“Put the gun down,” Freya says. “Then water. More than a sip. After that, maybe I’ll talk.”
A few seconds later, I hear her gulping. Finally, she says, “Where’s Duncan?”
“Dead. I shot him with his own gun.”
Freya gasps. “Oh, Paul. Why?” she says.
“For you,” Paul shouts. “He was stringing you along. Couldn’t you see that? He had you trapped here.”
I take my place beneath the window and peer over the frame. Freya’s eyes are red and swollen, but this time she doesn’t make the mistake of looking my way.
“This is for the best,” Paul says, his voice soft. He holds a tissue to Freya’s nose. “There you go. That must feel better. But Duncan’s not worth these tears.”
Freya closes her eyes. “You’re right,” she says.
