by A. J. Banner
PRAISE FOR A. J. BANNER
#1 Amazon, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly bestseller
“A. J. Banner sets up her mystery perfectly.”
—National Post
“Banner’s ability to maintain tension while teasing out the truth . . . keep[s] readers engaged.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A. J. Banner is a truly gifted storyteller!”
—Wendy Walker, USA Today bestselling author of All Is Not Forgotten
OTHER BOOKS BY A. J. BANNER
The Good Neighbor
The Twilight Wife
After Nightfall
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 © 2019 by Anjali Writes LLC
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 Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542004237 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542004233 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542042888 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542042887 (paperback)
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
First edition
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
I am running through the woods in the waning moonlight, splatters of blood on my hands, the wind whipping in from the sea. Tall firs bend and sway, branches crackling, breaking in the gale. I am lost but must keep moving. I once knew these trails, could find my way with my eyes closed, but that was long ago. The forest has twisted and grown, the shadows no longer familiar. My feet are dragging, pain squeezing my ribs, a throbbing in my skull.
The path splits here, the left track climbing upslope, the right plunging into darkness. I must choose a direction—it’s life or death. The sum of my choices has brought me here. Every decision I’ve made, every suspicion I’ve nurtured or ignored, has led me into danger.
I choose the path to the left, uphill—I don’t remember this route. Thorns snag my jeans, slowing me down. I see it now, a faint beacon of light blinking in a distant window.
I follow the glow, but it fades from view, then reappears brighter. The oxygen clots in my lungs, each breath an effort. Thudding footfalls approach behind me, catching up, then the trail bursts open, dumping me into the garden. I’ve come full circle, back home again.
Ahead of me, the Victorian rises against the inky sky. I’m so close, almost there, stumbling past sunflowers bowing in a gust of air, the tangled privet hedge, the reflecting garden pond. At the edges of my vision, I see the lights in the backyard cottage, the bulbs ablaze, their radiance reflected in the many sashed windows.
No stopping now, but all the strength is draining from my limbs. Fragmented scenes flit through my mind—fog swirling beneath an antique streetlamp, deadly nightshade berries gleaming in the rain, the Juliet flower erupting into poisonous bloom.
The footfalls thump right behind me. The breathing, the swiping of boots through the grass. Someone beyond the cottage is calling my name. “Elise! Elise, stop!”
I’m too slow—it’s too late. I am falling into the grass. The garden fades at its edges, disappearing, all hope dissolving into the night.
CHAPTER ONE
Three days earlier
On the ferry ride home, I was not yet planning to kill anyone. I was still full of hope, eager to land on Chinook Island, although the rocking boat made me queasy, pitching and rolling on the churning waters of Rosario Strait. I tried to focus on a seagull riding an updraft alongside my window, its feathers ruffling in the breeze. Our first wedding anniversary is tomorrow, I thought to the bird. What do you think of that?
The seagull called out sharply, seeming to cry, Congrats! It was a male Thayer’s gull, I guessed, gray and white with a spot of orange on its bill. Kieran would know for sure. He’d turned me on to bird-watching, bought me my first pair of binoculars.
I would bring them on our next sailing adventure, a weekend tour of the islands. We could leave earlier than planned, as I’d cut short my stay in Seattle by one day to surprise him.
I’d met with my financial adviser, as I’d promised I would. What had been mine was now also Kieran’s. I’d also shopped for lavish anniversary gifts, and I’d stopped by the herbal fair to pick up supplies for my shop, all the while daydreaming, playing back the night before I’d left, when a September storm had pummeled the island, and Kieran and I had lain in the warmth of our bed, limbs entwined. I couldn’t wait to get home.
I kept scrolling through pictures of him on my phone. Rugged features, startling blue eyes, and windswept russet hair. He’d gained a little weight around the middle, which only made him more attractive to me, more human. There he was, sailing his yacht in a summer breeze, helping me blow out thirty-six candles on my birthday cake, singing to me in a video in that smooth baritone. A little off-key, but charming. He loved to kiss the palm of my hand, then all the way up my arm, and the morning I’d left for the city, he’d slipped a heart-shaped greeting card into my purse: Here’s to a lifetime together.
The ferry slowed as we approached the island, Chinook Harbor emerging from the mist, the downtown strip of shops nestled against a hilly, forested background. In the protected bay, a variety of boats bobbed along a grid of floating docks. Kieran’s yacht, the Knot on Call, was tied to the outermost slip, undulating gently on the waves. Fog shimmered in the air, lending the scene a mystical aura.
All along the waterfront, quaint boutiques huddled together in the autumn chill. From Chinook Pizza in its redbrick building to the shops in historic Victorians, the town had always felt like home. I loved the hidden alleys leading to backstreet cafés and art galleries, prime attractions for tourists.
I could always identify them, the tourists on the boat. Today, the first escapees were arriving from the city for a long weekend away. They looked ragged and world-weary. As the ferry neared the dock, they gathered at the salt-speckled windows, snapping photos on their phones.
Mostly for their benefit, the captain announced over the loudspeaker: “We are now arriving at Chinook Island. All passengers must disembark the vessel.” This was the end of the line for the rusty ferry, before it would power up again and limp back to Anacortes, the launch point on the mainland to the San Juan Islands.
I descended the metal stai
rs to the car deck and got into my Honda just as the boat thudded against the dock. It took a minute for the ferry workers to secure the lines and lower the ramp over the water. When a woman in a yellow uniform summoned us forward, I started the car and followed the other vehicles off the boat.
As I drove past my favorite haunts on Waterfront Road—the Egret Bookstore, Orca Gifts, the Salmon Café—I could feel the languid island atmosphere seeping into me. In hanging baskets, petunias and geraniums still bloomed in a rainbow of vibrant colors.
The Sweet Dreams bakery rolled by, and I smiled at the memory of Kieran and me at the little window table, “our” table, where we’d first met nearly three years ago, just before my mother’s initial diagnosis. We’d dated on and off after that, when I’d returned to visit her—it hadn’t seemed weird to go out with her doctor. But when her condition worsened, the tumors spreading fast, I broke things off with him. He’d gotten way too serious, and I was so worried about my mother.
Then she suddenly passed away—from a stroke unrelated to her cancer—and I returned to the island, distraught. Kieran offered his shoulder, helped me arrange her memorial service, and the rest was history. I adored everything about him now, from his casual whistling to the silly faces he made at babies.
He hadn’t yet returned my texts this morning, but he was probably busy with appointments. This time of year, patients came down with more coughs and colds. I imagined him flitting in and out of exam rooms, his white coat flapping behind him.
As though on cue, a text pinged on my phone, but not from him. It was from my ex-husband, Brandon. I’m in town for a project. Meet up for coffee? Not a chance, I thought with a prick of irritation. Prick being the operative word to describe him. He’d allowed me to endure painful fertility treatments for weeks, when the problem had been his all along. The death knell for our four-year marriage: he’d kept his low sperm count hidden from me until I’d found the medical report in his coat pocket. Too bad he still lived in Seattle, still built homes on the island. He seemed destined to keep turning up.
To purge him from my mind, I pulled over and hit speed dial for Kieran’s cell phone. I knew I was bothering him, but I needed to hear his voice. He answered immediately. “Hey, beautiful. I miss you.”
“Hey, Dr. Lund,” I said, relief spreading through me.
“So the meeting with the adviser went well?”
“Yes, and—”
“Ready to trade in the Honda for an upgrade?”
“I’ll drive this old thing until it dies.”
“That’s my wife.” His voice dropped to a purr. “I can’t wait to hold you.”
I grinned, riding a flush of pleasure. “I love you,” I said. Barely a mile from the clinic, it was all I could do not to drive there and announce my early return.
“I love you more.”
I hung up, my heart buoyant as I drove the last two miles to Lost Bluff Lane. Our elegant blue Victorian, my childhood home, was the second of only three widely spaced houses on a quiet cul-de-sac. The bungalow on the corner was empty, for sale, and our neighbor, Chantal Gittner, lived at the end of the lane. All three houses backed onto a hundred acres of forest and trails leading to a windswept beach.
My herb shop sat in the woods behind our house, the little blue cottage’s myriad sashed windows reflecting the lush gardens. I’d kept the Clary Sage open to honor my mother, but I’d diversified, carrying more gift items to complement her medicinal teas, salves, and tinctures. I’d admired her intuitive approach to healing, which did not come naturally to me. As a pharmacist, I couldn’t help my scientific leaning. I’d studied chemistry, physics, and mathematics—pharmacists were much more than pill counters. We understood the interactions among medications and the structures of chemical bonds. We filled hundreds of scrips per day. But the pressures of the job had worn me down, and when my mother died, I returned to a slower life on the island. I relished the challenges of gardening and shopkeeping, but I had not yet mastered her expertise at creating effective botanical remedies.
I parked next to the main house, and as I hoisted my suitcase from the trunk of my car, I could hear the deep drumbeat of distant salsa music. Curious. Normally I couldn’t hear any noise from Chantal’s house, a few acres through the trees. She must be throwing a wild party, I thought. But in the middle of the day?
Maybe kids were camping in the woods, blaring music from a boom box. I shielded my eyes and gazed toward the forest. Nothing but trees, shadows, and the distant glimmer of the ocean.
As I rolled my luggage through the front garden and up to the porch, the music grew louder. It was coming from inside our house. My heartbeat quickened. Somebody was here, but it couldn’t be Kieran. There was no other car in the driveway.
Maybe someone had broken in—unlikely in our remote location, but one never knew. The intruder might’ve rowed ashore in a canoe, but again, not likely given the hostile currents on this side of the island.
I unlocked the front door and it swung open silently. “Hello?” I called out cautiously, peering inside. The din of the music swallowed my voice. I rolled my suitcase into the foyer and closed the door after me. A sandalwood scent wafted through the air. The hallway stretched back to the kitchen, the dining room on my right, the living room on my left. Nothing appeared to be amiss, but the music pounded in my brain, Spanish lyrics blaring from the stereo in the living room. Kieran’s favorite album. Was he here? Then where was his car?
I left my suitcase by the front door, spotted his black loafers on the floor—next to a smaller pair of women’s ballet flats. The shoes were not mine, and neither was the pink canvas tote bag with rope handles sitting on the foyer table next to Kieran’s wallet and phone and a large pile of mail.
Had he parked around the corner for some unfathomable reason, or had he arrived home some other way? Who was with him? A sales rep, maybe, here for a business meeting. But why meet at home? It didn’t make sense.
I took off my shoes. “Hello?” I called out again. “Kieran?”
No answer. I peeked into the living room. Nobody was there. The music kept pounding from the stereo. The family photos watched me from the mantel—Kieran and I at the wedding with our closest friends, my mother on her various trips to gardens around the world. She seemed to cringe at the blaring music. I considered turning down the volume, but then Kieran would know I was home. I preferred to remain incognito as I backed up into the hall.
Muffled voices drifted down the stairs, threading in and out of spaces in the song. Kieran and his companion were on the second floor. I broke out in a sweat, my breathing shallow.
I climbed the stairs, instinctively avoiding the creaky step, the one I’d learned to skip when I’d sneaked out at night as a teenager. Not that anyone could hear through the racket. When I reached the top of the stairs, the smell of sandalwood grew stronger. The voices were louder, too—I heard a woman’s tinkling laughter, and then a familiar guffaw. They were most likely in the master bedroom, which overlooked the back garden, giving no view of the driveway.
Kieran was supposed to be at work. But those were his shoes downstairs. His wallet, his phone. My insides twisted, the hairs rising on my skin.
The song playing below ended, and in the moments before the next one began, I heard a loud groan. The next song started, a slower, melancholy beat, a woman’s voice crooning in Portuguese.
I floated outside myself as I approached the master bedroom. I became aware of every flaw in the grain of the wood floor, worn sections of paint on the hallway walls. The bedroom door stood slightly ajar. I stayed out of sight, the music muted at this distance. The bed squeaked as someone got up, footsteps heading somewhere.
“. . . take a piss,” Kieran said.
“Hurry up,” a woman said. “We don’t have all day.” The voice sounded familiar.
“I could cancel the rest of my appointments,” Kieran called out. “We could fuck all afternoon.”
I flinched at the word, an assault on my eardrums.
I froze, my hands curling into fists.
“We’ll have plenty of time,” she replied. I heard the flick of something, and then the acrid odor of cigarette smoke wafted through the air. She’d lit a cigarette in my house, in my bed.
“Why not this afternoon?” Kieran said from the bathroom. “We’re here now.”
The woman laughed. “We’ve got the rest of our lives.”
The ballad crooned on downstairs, while I stood motionless. The rest of their lives, which I imagined would be barely a minute before I murdered them both.
I heard a stream of urine hit the toilet bowl, then the flush, water running in the bathroom sink.
“Hey, you can’t smoke in here,” Kieran said, coming back into the bedroom. I recognized the serrated edge of irritation in his voice, so rare that it stood out.
“Oh, come on,” she said. Scuffling, another toxic tendril of smoke creeping into my nose.
“Open the damn window,” Kieran said. “Don’t be an idiot. Elise has a keen sense of smell.”
“Like a dog,” the woman said. The window slid open.
“More like a cat. A cute, sleek cat.”
“Don’t talk about her that way,” the woman said, a pout in her voice. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Do what? Enjoy yourself?” The squeaking of the mattress again, Kieran getting in beside her, maybe.
Sweat had broken out on my forehead, in my armpits, my heartbeat fast. Still, I didn’t move.
“I want it to be done,” she said, her voice slightly muffled.
“You have to learn to play the long game.”
“Yeah, well, I wish she could just be gone already.”
“Patience. Chill out.”
You’ll be the ones gone, I thought. Both of you, out of my house.
Then the rhythm began, the creaking of the box springs, that timeless, iconic, horrifying sound, and downstairs, the next song banging to life.
CHAPTER TWO
Time slowed. The world stopped turning. Every particle of dust hung suspended in the air. Then I flung open the bedroom door so hard, the knob slammed against the wall. I strode in and stood at the foot of the bed, shaking all over. The stench of smoke assaulted my nose.