In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

  PRAISE FOR IN THE DARK

  “White (The Dark Bones) employs kaleidoscopic perspectives in this tense modern adaptation of Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. White’s structural sleight of hand as she shifts between narrators and timelines keeps the suspense high . . . Christie fans will find this taut, clever thriller to be a worthy homage to the original.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “White excels at the chilling romantic thriller.”

  —The Amazon Book Review

  “In the Dark is a brilliantly constructed Swiss watch of a thriller, containing both a chilling locked-room mystery reminiscent of Agatha Christie and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and a detective story that would make Harry Bosch proud. Do yourself a favor and find some uninterrupted reading time, because you won’t want to put this book down.”

  —Jason Pinter, bestselling author of the Henry Parker series

  PRAISE FOR LORETH ANNE WHITE

  “A masterfully written, gritty, suspenseful thriller with a tough, resourceful protagonist that hooked me and kept me guessing until the very end. Think CJ Box and Craig Johnson. Loreth Anne White’s The Dark Bones is that good.”

  —Robert Dugoni, New York Times bestselling author of The Eighth Sister

  “Secrets, lies, and betrayal converge in this heart-pounding thriller that features a love story as fascinating as the mystery itself.”

  —Iris Johansen, New York Times bestselling author of Smokescreen

  “A riveting, atmospheric suspense novel about the cost of betrayal and the power of redemption, The Dark Bones grips the reader from the first page to the pulse-pounding conclusion.”

  —Kylie Brant, Amazon bestselling author of Pretty Girls Dancing

  “Loreth Anne White has set the gold standard for the genre.”

  —Debra Webb, USA Today bestselling author

  “Loreth Anne White has a talent for setting and mood. The Dark Bones hooked me from the start. A chilling and emotional read.”

  —T.R. Ragan, author of Her Last Day

  “A must read, A Dark Lure is gritty, dark romantic suspense at its best. A damaged yet resilient heroine, a deeply conflicted cop, and a truly terrifying villain collide in a stunning conclusion that will leave you breathless.”

  —Melinda Leigh, Wall Street Journal and Amazon bestselling author

  OTHER MONTLAKE TITLES BY LORETH ANNE WHITE

  In the Dark

  The Dark Bones

  A Dark Lure

  In the Barren Ground

  In the Waning Light

  The Slow Burn of Silence

  Angie Pallorino Novels

  The Drowned Girls

  The Lullaby Girl

  The Girl in the Moss

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Cheakamus House Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542019699

  ISBN-10: 1542019699

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  For Jay and Melanie and their piece of paradise, which inspired this story.

  CONTENTS

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THEN LOZZA

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THE WATCHER

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THE WATCHER

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THE WATCHER

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN ELLIE

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN ELLIE

  THEN LOZZA

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THEN LOZZA

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  NOW ELLIE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE MURDER TRIAL

  I believe you believe what you saw, but what you saw is not what you think.

  —Harry Houdini

  Now, February. Supreme Court, New South Wales.

  I see the crowd as soon as the sedan hired by my legal team turns onto the street. Galvanized by the sight of our black Audi, the mob surges forward. Police struggle to hold the agitators back. I see mouths open wide, yelling. Cameras. Reporters. Microphones. Faces red and hot in the Sydney summer sun. I can’t hear them, though. The air-conditioned interior of our car is cool and smooth and silent, but as we near the courthouse, I’m able to discern the text on the placards being waved at us. At me.

  KILLER!

  JUSTICE FOR MARTIN!

  LOCK HER UP

  I feel like Alice slipped through the looking glass. Off with her head then . . . This cannot be happening. This cannot be real. I press my palms firmly onto my thighs, terrified by the ferocity that my trial has unleashed. I try to keep my face expressionless, as per my legal team’s coaching. But a man slams the front page of this morning’s City Herald against the window near my head. I flinch. My heart beats faster at the sight of the angry black letters that march across the top of the page.

  ACCUSED OF KILLING HUSBAND: CRESSWELL-SMITH MURDER TRIAL BEGINS

  Below the headline is a photo of me.

  Next to my photo is an image of Martin. A graphic artist has created a slash that jags between our faces—like a rip through the page, symbolic of the deadly rift between us. My eyes burn. Inside my belly I begin to shake. He looks so vital in the photo. So alive. I loved him once. I loved him with all my heart.

  A female cop in a pale-blue short-sleeve shirt and bulletproof vest, her face ruddy beneath her cap, yanks the man away from the car. I feel the first flicker of real panic.

  Our driver slows. Uniformed officers battle to restrain the jostling onlookers as traffic cones are removed so we can park. People line the stairs all the way up to the Supreme Court entrance. At the top of the stairs, more reporters wait with mikes. One of them stands out—a woman in a bloodred jacket. She’s
tall and her white-blonde hair gleams in the fierce February sun. Melody Watts. I recognize her from the nightly Sydney news. A flock of cockatoos takes flight into the sky behind her, flashes of white and yellow darting up between the buildings into a bright-blue yonder. A sign, I think. Because I cannot go to prison. I will be free. Like those birds soaring up, up, and away into the sunshine. My lawyers have got this. They’ll convince the jury of reasonable doubt. They’re the best in the business, and they come with the price tag to prove it. We’re going to win this.

  I am a victim.

  I’m fragile.

  I’m not a killer.

  This is the persona I must project. I must convince the jury of twelve that this is who I am. I need to put on the performance of my life.

  And yes, it will be a show. Because that’s what all these people have come for. Theater. Everyone is here for the spectacle that is a salacious Supreme Court murder trial with international implications. And I’m the star. I’m the one who has apparently disrupted the natural order of things, and when natural order is upended, it rattles the human psyche. These folks all want to stare at me now. The car accident. The freak. The evil. They want to see me punished and locked away so they can tuck their children safely into their beds at night and pretend this isn’t normal. They want to see for themselves what I look like so that if—in the future—they spy someone just like me coming down the street toward them, they will know, and they will cross to the other side of the street to avoid the Monster before it comes too close, where it can brush against them, infect them, beguile and bewitch them.

  I glance at Peter Lorrington, my barrister, who sits beside me in his regal black robe and crisp white court bib. His judicial wig rests upon his knee. He has earbuds in his ears. He’s watching a live news clip on his phone. I replay in my mind his earlier words.

  “Murder consists of two elements—the intention of the accused, and the act. The prosecution must prove both to the jury. Both that you intended to kill Martin, and that you did in fact kill him. The prosecution is missing the key element of that equation. And remember this—anything can happen in a jury trial. Anything. At the end of the day, all we need is to show reasonable doubt. We can do that.”

  Lorrington’s strategy is to both undercut the police investigation and deliver to the court an alternate narrative of events that matches the forensic evidence. A story where I did not murder Martin. A story where the cops screwed up. It will be his story versus the prosecutor’s story. That’s ultimately what a jury trial is—a battle of two narratives. A fight for the very heart and emotions of the jurors. Lorrington said that, after all, a jury trial hinges on emotion more than logic.

  I’m a victim. I was framed. I’m not a killer.

  Deep breath. Assume identity . . .

  Victim.

  I smooth my damp palms over my tan linen skirt. The tan of neutrality. Like my flat, nude-colored shoes. Neutral. My blouse is simple, white. The white of innocence. I adjust my pretty horn-rimmed glasses. They say hardworking. My hair has been cut. No polish on my nails. I could be a librarian. I could be your sister, your mother. Your girlfriend. I could be you. Demure. Gentle. Empathetic. Sensitive. Wronged. So very wronged—framed, in fact.

  I’ve played this character well and often throughout my life. I can do it again. I’m adept at masks. An expert, really. I learned from one of the best. My husband. The deceased. Martin Cresswell-Smith.

  The car comes to a stop. Thump, thump, thump goes my heart.

  Lorrington takes out his headphones and turns up the volume on his phone so I can hear. It’s the reporter outside, the one at the top of the stairs—Melody Watts. Her Australian accent is blunt.

  “. . . the accused is arriving now with her barrister and solicitor.”

  Camera angles change, and suddenly we’re looking back down at our car. The effect is surreal. Melody Watts is saying, “Mrs. Cresswell-Smith has been out on bail since her arraignment just over a year ago. Bail was set at one point five million. At the time Magistrate Robert Lindsay found the Crown’s case against the accused was ‘not weak,’ but he ultimately determined its strength was outweighed by a number of factors, including Mrs. Cresswell-Smith’s need to prepare for trial with her legal team, plus her lack of criminal history in New South Wales. He said”—Melody Watts consults her notebook for the exact quote—“‘While murder is the most serious offense, refusal of bail is not to be deemed as a punishment, as there is still a presumption of innocence in the bail act.’” She looks up at the camera, and the sun catches the whiteness of her teeth. “Mrs. Cresswell-Smith was not deemed to be a danger to the community, and she surrendered her passport.”

  Lorrington puts on his wig and adjusts his robe. Suddenly my mouth is bone dry.

  We exit the car.

  Humidity slams me like a wall. Sound is suddenly explosive. The crowd jostles, chatters, jeers, taunts. Mobile phones are held high, recording, snapping photos. Press cameras zoom in with monstrous telephoto lenses. My barrister touches my elbow gently and escorts me up the steps, his robe billowing out behind him. The journalists clamor forward, mikes reaching out. They’re after blood. Which will boost ratings in an era of dying media, and their desperation is ugly.

  “Mrs. Cresswell-Smith, did you kill your husband?”

  “Did you do it? Did you kill Martin?”

  A searing flash of memory blinds me and I almost stumble. Blood. Martin’s. The fishing knife . . . the fury in Martin’s eyes. The bitter bile of betrayal in my throat.

  “How long had you been planning his murder?”

  Anger expands like a hot balloon inside me. My pulse races. My raw hatred for Martin pushes against my carefully constructed emotional walls. I fist my hands tightly at my sides and clench my teeth as I ascend the stairs flanked by my legal team in their flowing black robes.

  “Innocent until proven guilty!” yells a large woman.

  “Bitch! Black widow bitch!”

  Rage explodes and shatters my facade into a million shimmering shards and I’m filled with a vileness of fury that makes me want to inflict bodily harm. I swing around, opening my mouth around a ferocious retort.

  A camera clicks in my face.

  Fuck.

  My lawyer grabs my arm. “Do not engage,” he hisses in my ear. “Do not look at the cameras. Do not smile. Do not say anything.”

  But it’s done. The cameraman who yelled the disgusting insult has baited me. He captured my tight, twisted face, the ferocity in my eyes.

  I’m shaking with adrenaline now. Sweat prickles across my lip. Moisture dampens my armpits.

  “Justice for Martin! Justice for the Cresswell-Smith family!”

  And suddenly I see them near the doors. Martin’s parents. His sister stands on one side of the couple, his brother on the other. Shock stalls me as I meet his brother’s gaze. The genetic echo is startling. It’s as though Martin is standing right there, looking down at me from the courthouse doors, judging me, admonishing me from beyond the grave. Martin would look exactly like his brother in a few more years if . . . he were alive. The idea carves a hollow into my stomach.

  How does this even happen to someone?

  When did it begin?

  Did it start with our move to Jarrawarra Bay, when the spotted gums burst into blossom and the flying foxes came?

  No, it started well before that . . .

  Watch the shells closely, Ellie, I say in my head, channeling my father’s voice, clarifying my focus. Because life is a shell game, and in a shell game only the tosser wins. Never the mark. You’re either the tosser or the loser.

  I plan on being the tosser in this confidence trick. Slowly I glance up at the imposing building that houses the wheels of justice. I imagine the faces of the jury across from me.

  You’re all going to let me walk out of here. Because I’m going to sell you my story.

  Just watch me.

  THEN

  LOZZA

  Over one year ago, November 18.
Agnes Basin, New South Wales.

  The Jarrawarra Bay police boat carved a smooth V into the dark water of the Agnes River. Senior Constable Laurel “Lozza” Bianchi stood on the starboard side of the boat with Constable Gregg Abbott. She watched the deepening shadows among the mangrove trees tangled along the north bank. There were four on board. Constable Mac McGonigle was skippering them under direction from Barney Jackson, the old crabber who’d found the body and made the triple-zero call.

  The late afternoon pressed down heavy with humidity. The air tasted fetid on Lozza’s lips. Everything lay eerily silent, apart from the growl of their engines and the occasional soft thuck against the hull as they hit and sliced through one of the big jellyfish that floated with the tidal currents toward the sea. The jellyfish were the size of volleyballs and trailed frilled tentacles barbed with venomous stingers.

  Smaller saltwater channels fed off the tidal river, twisting like a labyrinth into the heart of the mangrove flats. Lozza knew the silty channel bottoms teemed with mud crabs whose shells could grow as broad as a man’s head. Both omnivorous and cannibalistic, the muddies were aggressive scavengers with claws powerful enough to crush shells. And snap fingers. Whatever awaited them deep in the dank shadows of the estuary would not have been left untouched by those muddies.

  They passed a listing old jetty. Rotting pilings stuck out of the water. Shags perched atop the pilings, hanging their black wings out to their sides to dry as they watched the police launch pass.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Gregg glanced up. “Think the storm will blow in?” he asked.

  Lozza followed his gaze. Two fish eagles wheeled high above towering eucalypts, the raptors silhouetted against streaks of clouds turning violent vermillion and orange as the sun slid toward the horizon.

  “Hell knows,” she said quietly. “But it’ll be dark soon. It would help to get a look at that floater while there’s still some light.”

  “Bloody foxes will fly as soon as that sun slides behind those trees,” Gregg said. “At least they aren’t as bad here as south of Jarra.”

  As if summoned by her partner’s mention, a colony of giant fruit bats exploded out of the eucalypt canopy and swarmed in a shrieking cacophony into the sky. Almost simultaneously, cockatoos and lorikeets began to screech. The earth seemed to exhale and shift, and a slight breeze stirred. The mood on the river changed.