by Amy Stuart
“Seeing them all together like this,” Clare says. “It really does feel like a revelation.”
“It’s a lot to take in.” Somers points to Stacey’s photo. “This case has been on my desk for a long time. I hate unsolved cases, particularly ones involving young women. So if you remember anything that might be related to them, I’d appreciate you telling me. Telling us.”
Roland releases a long exhale. “I don’t know anything about Stacey. She wasn’t from Lune Bay. Kendall? She just wanted to party. She wasn’t interested in being a doctor. Her father might have come a bit unglued. He’s been around here a few times, now that I think of it. His kid probably just took off to get out from under him.”
“Right,” Somers says.
The door opens and a family enters, scanning the restaurant and then smiling at Roland when they spot him.
“Listen,” Roland says. “We’re about to open. I’ve got to get to work. But you’re welcome back anytime.”
Somers closes the file. Clare collects the frame and returns to the stairwell to rehang it. She sets the back of her hand to her too-warm cheek. It’s totally plausible, Clare thinks, that Roland’s is simply the epicenter of Lune Bay, a place for young people to break into the workforce. She straightens the frame on the wall and leans in close. A coincidence. But there is something in the way Austin stands next to Roland, one man in a sharp suit and the younger one in a uniform dirtied by the toils of his work. It seems to Clare that they are edged just slightly closer together than everyone else in the photo, the way friends might be. Clare shifts her gaze between the two smiling men. It might all be a coincidence, Clare thinks, or it could be pieces of this puzzle falling into place.
The taxi pulls away and Clare stands in front of a modern white oceanfront house, all stucco and glass. Tight quarters, Austin called it. This is not tight quarters. Clare hears movement inside before the large steel door clicks open. Austin wears shorts and a T-shirt, bare feet. Behind him the house is all white on the inside too, the moon lighting a path on the ocean out the far window.
“Clare O’Kearney,” he says. “I’m glad you came.”
“Is this your house?” Clare asks.
“I called to see about posting bail, but someone beat me to it. And yes, it’s my house.”
He steps aside to allow Clare in. She follows him to the living room. He gestures for her to take a seat on the same oversize couch he does. Clare chooses a small chair across from him instead. Only once she’s seated does she notice the figure on the deck, a woman lying outstretched on a lounge chair, wrapped in a blanket. Kavita.
“What’s she doing here?” Clare asks.
“She goes where Charlotte goes,” Austin says. “She’s been crashing here too. And after last night, she needed a soft landing.”
“Whoever said chivalry was dead?” Clare waves grandly at the space, the ocean out the window. “This is some pad for a freelance journalist.”
Austin smiles. “Like I told you. My brother. Extremely rich.”
“I googled your rich brother,” Clare says. “I couldn’t find much about him. I couldn’t find him at all, actually.”
“He’s my half-brother, detective. We have different last names. His father is from Brazil. We look nothing alike. Hey, I’ll give you his business card. You can call him directly and set up a time to interrogate him.” Austin pulls his phone from his pocket and calls up a photograph to show her. “See?”
Clare leans to examine the photo. Austin and his brother stand arm in arm on a beach, both in wet suits, surfboards propped next to them, his brother taller, olive-skinned, more filled out. Far better-looking, Clare thinks. When Austin stands and moves past her, Clare hangs back.
“I’m going to say hi to Kavita,” she calls to him. “Is that okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” he hollers back before disappearing into the kitchen.
Clare strains to pull the sliding door open. Kavita doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge her at all. Only when Clare takes a seat in the lounger next to hers does Kavita glance over and lift the wineglass she holds in cheers. Beyond the deck is a rocky shore. The ocean is calm tonight, the waves lapping instead of crashing, the moon a perfect crescent over the water.
“Are you okay?” Clare asks.
“Fine. You?”
“I’m fine. It’s been a long day. Where’s Charlotte?”
“Downstairs. Sleeping.”
“Are you safe here?”
Kavita rolls her eyes. “Austin is totally harmless. He’s an idiot, but he wouldn’t hurt me.”
They sit in silence for a moment. Clare stands and moves to the railing. About a quarter mile to the south, a glass house appears cantilevered over the water. The main floor lights are on. It glows yellow against the cliff it hangs from. Clare points to it.
“Is that Zoe and Malcolm’s house?”
“Yep,” Kavita says.
“The lights are on.”
“Charlotte has them on timers. They come on about seven and go off at midnight.”
Clare leans over the railing and studies the house. There is no movement inside it, no sign of life, but from this vantage you could watch entire scenes play out should anyone be home. Malcolm and Zoe’s lives unfolding for you like a film.
“Why don’t you and Charlotte stay there?” Clare asks.
“She refuses,” Kavita says. “I don’t blame her.”
Clare returns to the lounger and sits again, drawing in a deep breath. There is something different about the ocean air. It’s fuller, heavier, easier to inhale. Next to her, Kavita’s eyes are closed, wisps of her dark hair lifted by the breeze.
“Did you know that guy from last night?” Clare asks. “He said he knew you.”
“Yeah. Kind of. He’s a cop. I’ve seen him around a few times.”
“Around?”
Kavita adjusts her position on the lounger and wraps the blanket tighter.
“He was a minor fixture when I worked at Roland’s. One of the regulars. Loved to harass the waitresses.”
“Roland allowed that?”
“Let’s just say that Roland benefited from having some of Lune Bay’s finest on his side.” Kavita sips her wine again. “Do you want a drink?”
“No thanks,” Clare says. “I was at Roland’s just now, actually. I saw a picture of you on the wall. With Austin. And Kendall Bentley and Stacey Norton too. You knew them?”
“I’m not really in the mood for an inquisition, Clare. I’ve had a rough day.”
“Fair enough.” Clare swings her legs so she too is laid out on her lounger. “But listen to me, Kavita. I’m trying to get to the bottom of things here. Of the Westman family’s dealings. I know you’re trying to move on, and you may not want to talk about it. But I think you can help me. And I’d like to think that helping me might ultimately help you. Charlotte too. If we found some real answers, I think it could help Charlotte.”
Kavita chews on her lip, considering.
“Zoe Westman, for example,” Clare continues. “She took over her father’s business after he died. And I don’t think it was all aboveboard. Do you know anything about that?”
“I don’t want to talk to the cops about this,” Kavita says. “Germain or anyone else.”
“Okay.”
Why no cops? Clare wants to ask. But she thinks of the scene last night, Kavita incapacitated and passed around by that circle of men. He’s a cop. Kavita doesn’t want to speak to the police. Of course she doesn’t. Clare bends her knees and hugs them to her chest to ward off a chill from the cool air.
“Zoe came to me once,” Kavita says. “Maybe a year after her dad died. I was still working at Roland’s. I was a mess. Could barely drag myself out of bed. I’d dropped out of school by then, and Zoe knew it. She told me there was a politician coming to town. This environmentalist senator whose big passion was preserving oceanfront land. Roland owned the plot next to the restaurant. It was ripe for development, and the Westman group was r
ight in there, but then there was some debate about whether it should be turned into protected parkland instead. And this senator was coming to town to survey the scene. He was this wool sweater, family-man grandfather type, but rumor had it, he had a thing for younger women. Zoe asked me if I’d be interested in showing him around Lune Bay. Playing the friendly hostess.” Kavita laughs. “Hostess is an interesting euphemism. I knew exactly what she meant.”
“What did she mean?” Clare asks.
“Everyone at Roland’s knew. Zoe would befriend waitresses, and after a while, they’d quit. Stacey and Kendall were two such examples. I ran into Stacey once, about six months after she quit. She was all dressed up. Really fancy clothes. She looked beautiful, but kind of strung out too. She told me I should take Zoe up on any offer she made me. That I could make more money than I ever dreamed. Then she disappeared. Kendall did too. Both kind of under the radar. Like by the time anyone realized we hadn’t heard from them, they’d already been gone for a while.”
“Kendall’s father has been looking for her. He filed a missing persons report years ago.”
“I know he did.”
“So did you take Zoe up on her offer?”
Kavita grimaces. “God, no. But after that, working at Roland’s became kind of untenable. I can’t even put my finger on it. It was like Roland knew I’d said no to Zoe. I mean, the senator came to town and a week later he announced that he supported the development. I’m sure Zoe found some hostess to wrangle him. Roland got to sell the land, and condos went up. But after that, I seemed to get the worst shifts on the schedule, or none at all. And truth be told, I was slipping by then anyway.”
Slipping. Clare knows exactly what Kavita means. She too can remember the slip, those moments where you catch yourself just before taking whatever drug is on order in that moment; and those very words come to you: I’m slipping. But for Clare, it was easy enough to convince herself that she could stop. That she would stop, just not right at that particular moment. She can picture Kavita bent over to snort a line in The Cabin Bar bathroom last night.
“You could get help, you know,” Clare says.
“Help for what?”
“The drugs.”
“Did you ever get help?” Kavita asks.
“I’m sorry?”
Kavita taps at the bend of her arm. “Scars,” she says. “You’ve got plenty of them. I spotted them last night.”
Even though she wears a sweater, Clare instinctively crosses her arms. The scars are indeed there: Tiny pinpricks of white tissue in the crooks of her elbows. Track marks that have faded but will never disappear. Clare’s been good, clean. But it will always live within her, she knows, these scars a reminder, her signal to keep her distance from any path that might lead her astray.
“What about Charlotte?” Clare asks. “She’s got a daughter. She won’t regain any custody if she keeps using.”
“She’s never getting her daughter back,” Kavita says. “The kid is ten. She lives on the far coast with her father and his new family. Charlotte’s got this dream scenario where she gets custody again, but give me a break. She’s a stranger to that little girl.”
“That’s tough,” Clare says. “I get why she’s angry.”
“Charlotte isn’t a bad person. She’s just damaged.”
“You two are close.” Clare shifts on the lounger. “Like, close.”
Kavita laughs. “Oh my God. Look at you, dancing around it like some kind of prude.”
“I don’t want to pry.”
“There’s no secret,” Kavita says. “I’ve never been into guys. Some people have phases, but I never did. By the time I was nine, I knew I liked girls. Maybe it’s just a phase for Charlotte. Lord knows she’s had her share of phases.”
“Did she have any other relationships after her husband left?”
“She told me once about a guy she dated. I can’t remember his name. Maybe she never told me his name. She said they kept the relationship a secret. And I guess he eventually dropped her.”
A wind knocks over an empty planter at the edge of the deck. Clare twists and scans the house. She can see Austin in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone. Kavita takes another sip of her drink. When Clare’s phone dings, she digs it from her jeans to find an unread email from a numbered address, a large file attached. Clare goes to swipe it away as junk until she notices the file name. JW @ Rolands. And then a date. The date, Clare recognizes at once, of Jack Westman’s death. A video file. Clare clicks to open it.
Her phone says,
Cannot read this file type.
“Fuck.”
“What’s up?” Kavita asks.
“Nothing. Hey, are you hungry?”
“A little.”
“Why don’t I see what I can rummage up inside?”
Clare stands. She inhales the salt air again, eyes back to her phone.
It can’t be, she thinks. This file. It can’t be what she thinks it is.
Despite the ocean out the window, the airiness, this house is stark and cold. Clare closes the sliding door behind her and focuses on her phone again, working to open the video. No luck.
“Come here!” Austin calls from the kitchen.
Clare obeys, entering and taking a seat on one of the counter stools across from him. Austin fiddles with a corkscrew.
“Is there a video of the shooting?” Clare asks him.
“What?” Austin says, yanking the cork free from the bottle. “Jack Westman’s shooting?”
“Yes,” Clare says, her cheeks hot.
“God. No. I don’t think so. A reporter can only dream.”
“Are you sure?”
Austin’s eyes narrow. “Why are you asking?”
“Douglas mentioned it,” she says, a lie. “But we know he’s a conspiracy theorist, so…”
When Austin offers her a glass of wine, Clare waves it away. She must weigh her options. She could share the video with Austin now; surely he’d have the tools on hand to open the file. But Clare doesn’t know what the video will depict. She can’t be guaranteed it has anything to do with Jack Westman. She must keep it to herself.
“You have quite the view of the Westman house,” she says.
He grins. “Isn’t that something? A real selling point for this lowly reporter.”
“Not sure an oceanfront mansion qualifies you as ‘lowly.’ ”
There is scorn in Clare’s voice, and Austin detects it. She swipes her phone to retrieve her photos, then holds it aloft so Austin can see the photograph she’d taken at Roland’s. He squints at it, still smiling, unbothered.
“I can explain that,” he says.
“You never told me you worked at Roland’s.”
“You never asked.”
“I think I did. Either way, I’m asking now.”
“Okay, okay,” Austin says. “I was a busboy. Literally the worst job imaginable. One day I was cleaning glasses at the end of a shift and I got to talking to Jack Westman about cars. He was sitting at the bar. Closing time didn’t apply to him. He hired me on the spot to be his driver. I figured driving was a much better job than hauling dirty dishes. Soon enough, I was driving him to these warehouses, and these guys would come out and they’d all be talking in a circle. I’d be sitting there dead sure that the whole scene was going to turn into a Tarantino movie. I’d catch a stray bullet and my brain would end up all over the headrest. I got anxious. I wasn’t sleeping well. As luck would have it, my brother made his first ten million around the same time. And he’s generous. So I quit.”
“You were telling me your life story at the bar yesterday,” Clare says. “That’s a pretty key detail to leave out.”
“Have you ever left anything out of a story, Clare?” Austin laughs. “I think you have. I know you have, actually.”
Something in his tone tugs at Clare. Her stomach flips. Austin tries to nudge the wineglass her way again. Clare accepts it, then pushes it aside. She cannot drink it. Sh
e won’t cave tonight.
“I offered to take you home last night,” Austin says. “Share a cab. I like to think I’m a decent-looking guy. I thought we had something, you know? It might have been nice.”
“Jesus, Austin.”
“I’m just saying. It feels one-sided, this relationship. Unrequited.”
“Fuck you.”
“Ouch!” Austin sips his wine, the glass oversize for his grip. “You needn’t be so harsh, Clare.”
“You filmed what happened last night with Kavita and sent the video out.”
“Of course I did. This is the viral age, Clare. That shit was gold.”
“You screwed me,” Clare says.
“How? I made you famous.”
“You know my work relies on anonymity. You took that from me.”
“Oh, come on.”
When Austin reaches to pinch a strand of her hair, Clare recoils sharply.
“Here’s the thing,” Austin says. “I got home last night and turned off my phone. I never turn off my phone. But the notifications from the video post were insane. I was getting so many that my phone was literally too hot to touch. I jerked awake in the middle of the night, and I was all sweaty and thirsty. I hate that. I was in my bathroom chugging water, thinking about Kavita down the hall. I know she and Charlotte have this thing, this lesbian dabble or something, but she’s right down the hall and I know she’d be too hopped up to remember anything.”
How Clare wants to punch Austin now, to throttle him.
“You better not have touched her,” she hisses.
“Relax,” he says. “I wouldn’t do that. My mother raised me right. But what I did do was fire up my laptop and get to work.” Austin plucks his phone from the counter and swipes at its screen. “There’s this reverse search you can do. You know, where you take a photo of someone, or in your case a screenshot from a video, and you drop it into a search engine? And any other lookalike pictures out there on the internet will pop up.”
Clare feels the blood drain from her face. Austin angles his phone to allow Clare to see the screen.