by Lisa Jackson
She’d already observed Sosi Gavin, now Gaffney, in her Ford SUV, an Escape, which was parked in the lot. A sleek Mercedes was in a spot near an older Toyota of some kind and as she watched, she spied an older, smaller SUV, a Subaru, wheel into the lot, splashing up water from the various puddles. Behind the wheel? Kinley narrowed her eyes and focused as the woman parked and climbed out, then reached into the back seat to pull out a bag before swinging toward the front of the hotel.
Nell Pachis.
Interesting.
But she spied no vehicle she could ascribe to either of the Alsace sisters. She was certain they were on their way, but so far she couldn’t see any evidence that they’d arrived. That knowledge bothered her. She was itching to get started, to write this story, to break the case wide open, but she needed all of the players. Time was fleeting and even now some of those greedy, corporate-ladder-climbing, step-on-anyone’s-back-who-got-in-the-way reporters were no doubt on their way. She clamped her jaw at the thought. No way were they going to horn in on her exclusive. No way were they going to get the jump on Kinley.
A smile played at the corners of her lips and she picked up the diary again, flipped through the faded pages, and found a familiar section where Annette had speculated about Nell and Sosi after catching them swimming topless in the pond when they’d thought they were alone.
Nell was here, and Sosi . . . most of the others.
They would collect in the room next door, the room that shared the deck with this one, the suite rented oh-so-conveniently to Jo-Beth Chancellor Leroy. Kinley reminded herself to be careful. She didn’t want to blow her cover. She needed to hide in the shadows until she collected all the information she could for her exclusive—at least she thought it would be an exclusive due to her intimate knowledge of the witnesses, who were probably considered by the sheriff’s department as suspects.
She noticed another car sliding by on the street, a dark sedan that she couldn’t quite make out, but the driver slowed and eyed the parking lot, surveying it just as Kinley had a few minutes earlier. For a second, Kinley thought the car would pull in and either one of the women she’d known way back when or another hotel guest would arrive. But no, the dark vehicle rolled on.
No big deal, she told herself but couldn’t help having an uneasy feeling about it, and that sensation only increased when she spied the car easing past again, going in the opposite direction. A cop maybe? Another reporter? Or just someone out for a lazy drive? She saw her camera with its powerful lens on the bureau and she reached for it, intending to take a picture of the car and driver when they drove past again, but though she waited a full ten minutes, staring outside into the rain and descending night, the dark sedan didn’t reappear.
“It was nothing,” she said aloud, her breath fogging on the panes of the French door. She put the camera away. For now. She’d use it later.
Soon, the damned Alsace sisters would arrive and then it would be “game on.” She could hear, through the thin walls, that the women were gathering. Perfect.
One way or another the truth about the dead woman found on the beach was going to come out, and she would have an exclusive because she was there and, of course, she had the diary to back her up. “Showtime,” she told herself, and double-checked her connections, her laptop, iPhone, and the external Wi-Fi and hard drive, making sure, again, that everything was working, and gaining audio from the hidden microphones and from the minuscule camera, a wide-angle view of the room next door.
She spied Jo-Beth in leggings and a tunic walking from one end of the room to the other, heard her curse under her breath when her computer case slid off the ottoman near a side chair. “Shit!” she said in a whisper that the tiny microphone picked up clearly.
Kinley’s equipment was working perfectly.
Trying to tamp down her own excitement, reminding herself that she didn’t have anything earth-shattering, or case-cracking, or even newsworthy yet, she took in a deep breath and hit the record button on her phone.
Things were about to get interesting.
CHAPTER 28
Averille, Oregon
Now
Bernadette
“Register us both,” Bernadette said as she slid her Honda into a long parking space in front of the hotel. She jammed the gearshift into park, but didn’t shut off the car, just let it continue to idle as rain drops slid down the windshield.
“What?” her sister asked from the passenger seat.
“Use your credit card for now, and I’ll come back and put mine down.”
“Wait . . . what’re you doing? Where are you going? Oh, God . . .” Annette rolled her eyes. “This is about Lucas, isn’t it?”
“I just need to straighten some things out.”
“Seriously? After twenty years? Don’t you remember what he did?”
Bernadette shot her sister a glare meant to melt ice. “Of course I do, but this is something I need to do.”
“He’s a cop.”
“All the more reason. You were the one who wanted to talk to the police, remember?”
“I know. I know,” she muttered, “but maybe we should hear what Jo-Beth has to say.”
“And let her bully us? Like she used to? Nuh-uh. I’ve been thinking about it, all the way down from Seattle. Well, for the past couple of decades, you know, how she bullied us into doing what she wanted, but no more.”
“If you say so.” Annette looked uncertain.
“I do.”
They stared at each other a moment, Annette not making a move to get out of the car, Bernadette waiting, hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel.
“Jo-Beth’s gonna be pissed.”
“Let her be. And anyway who cares? We’re not scared little girls any longer.”
“Aren’t we?” Annette said, holding her gaze. Then, “Oh, screw it. Do what you want.”
“I will.”
“I know.” Annette was already yanking on the door handle and stepping onto the curb and sidewalk that ran in front of the tiny picket fence, short lawn, and wide front porch of the Hotel Averille. “But you can check in yourself.” She opened the back door and grabbed her bag, leaving Bernadette’s on the seat. “I’m not your damned slave.”
“But you are Jo-Beth’s.”
Annette sucked in a breath, offended. “That wasn’t fair.”
“This time we’re telling the truth. All of it.”
“But you’re coming to the meeting with Jo-Beth?”
“Oh, yeah. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Bernadette said, feeling a sense of anticipation. It was time someone knocked Jo-Beth down a peg or two, and if it had to be her, fine. All the better. She, for one, wasn’t going to be running scared. No longer.
“What if you’re late?”
“It’s been twenty years. Jo-Beth will wait.”
“How’re you gonna find him?” Annette asked, hesitating, standing in the rain, her head still poked into the interior.
“I’ve got his number. He called. Remember?”
“But you never talked to him.”
“I’m planning on changing that.”
“It’s your funeral.”
“Namaste.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Bernadette.” Annette slammed the door shut, then pulled her roller bag up the brick walk. Bernadette watched her sister, head ducked against the rain as she climbed the two front steps and passed through a set of French doors, the entrance to the hotel.
She shouldn’t piss off Annette, she supposed. Her sister might be the only friend Bernadette had in Averille. Well, so be it. Pressing her foot firmly on the accelerator, she pulled away from the hotel, leaving Annette and all of her insecurities behind.
There was a lot of strain between them, and some of it stemmed from Annette’s jealousy, a piece that had always been there, the friction amplifying as their mother had slipped into dementia, her symptoms worsening to the point that she didn’t recognize anyone, couldn’t walk, talk, or feed herself. Round-th
e-clock care wasn’t enough as she slowly died by inches. Hospice had come in, morphine prescribed, and as their mother’s state had worsened they’d agreed to up the dose, a little more each injection.
When she’d passed, Annette had experienced instant guilt, complete regret, and had blamed everyone for the unfairness of it all, but mostly she’d pointed an accusing finger at Bernadette, claiming that it had been Bernadette’s idea. That much had been true, Bernadette had thought often about helping her mother cross over, but she’d never acted upon it. Then came the day their mother was out of her mind, in pain and desperation, moaning and completely out of it. Annette was the one who suggested they up the dosage, “Just to calm Mom down.” From there, the pattern had started, and within a month Bess Alsace’s agony was completely alleviated. She’d slipped away to join her husband in whatever ever after there was. Bernadette hoped it was heaven. Annette still struggled with the tough decisions they’d made, and Bernadette was first in line to shoulder the blame.
Now, Bernadette sighed. Like Annette, she really couldn’t believe she was going to meet Lucas Dalton. As recently as when she’d left Seattle, she was pretty certain she never wanted to see Lucas Dalton again. However, as she’d driven south, her little car moving steadily closer to Oregon and the summer when she was all tied up emotionally with Lucas, she decided it would be best to talk to him. Face-to-face. Clear the air. Before she dealt with Jo-Beth and whatever agenda she’d concocted.
Bernadette and Lucas had parted without really saying good-bye, a maelstrom of fear, recriminations, emotional upheaval, and the ominous cloud of mystery surrounding the missing girls, making it impossible to talk or see each other. Everyone had been shell-shocked, the police had arrived, the press nosing around, parents worried sick and shuttling their kids—campers and counselors alike—home as quickly as possible. So she’d left and never responded when he’d tried to reach her.
Until now.
She bit her lower lip. Maybe this was a mistake, but she felt she had to talk to him before she dealt with the others.
Ignoring the no cell phone rule while driving, she punched out his number, then waited, hearing the phone ring once, then twice, her heart pounding. Would he pick up? Would he agree to meet with her? Annette was right, he was a detective with the sheriff’s department and—
A third ring.
“Hello?” His voice was low and deep. And familiar. Stupidly her heart started thudding. Oh. God. “Bernadette?”
“Hi,” she replied quickly, clearing her throat. “I’m here, in Averille,” she said as she drove by a gas station on the outskirts of the small town. “And . . . look, I know you’ve called and I’ve ignored you, but I think, I mean, it would be best . . .” Oh, quit beating around the bush. “I wanted to talk to you. Alone. Not . . . not officially. Not because you’re a detective. It’s just that . . . we never have spoken and now . . . I just think it would be a good idea. You know, to clear the air and sort some things out . . .” Oh, Lord, why was she rambling on? She gripped the wheel harder with her free hand and stared out the windshield to the old-growth Douglas fir trees guarding the narrow road.
“Okay,” he said. “So when?”
“Now? Would that be okay? Can you make it?”
A beat.
In that moment of hesitation she doubted herself, felt her heart nosedive.
“Sure,” he said. “You’re in town?”
“Just leaving. Turning onto 101.” The rain increased, blurring her windshield, and she flipped on her wipers automatically and caught a glimpse of a car following her in her rearview. “How about we meet at the camp? Camp Horseshoe?”
Another hesitation. Then, “All right. I can be there in about ten minutes.”
“Me too. See you then.” Then she clicked off and let the phone drop into the cup holder wedged between the two front seats of her Honda. Ridiculously, her heart was still pounding and she was transported to another time and place, when it was summer, the days hot, the sea wild, an energy running through the camp where preteens laughed and talked and ran.
And you fell in love.
“Yeah, a million years ago,” she said, glancing at her eyes in the rearview and hoping to quell the voice in her head.
That’s what this is all about. Seeing Lucas again. Finding out if that white-hot attraction you felt as a teenager still exists.
“No,” she said quickly, but knew there was more than a little truth in the allegation.
She drove without seeing, passing cars heading in the other direction, the beams from their headlights cutting through the late-afternoon gloom, the vehicle behind lagging back but still following. Had it been parked on the street and, when she pulled away from the curb in the front of the hotel, fired up and started tailing her?
Oh, geez, Bernadette, you’ve watched one too many cop shows. This is the main road along the coast, so quit being so paranoid.
Still . . .
It didn’t turn off and now her attention was split between the car behind her and the road ahead, a wet, slick strip of black asphalt winding along the coastline and hugging the forested mountains. She needed to focus as she drove where rocky tree-covered cliffs rose on the east side of the pavement, while to the west there was no shoulder, just a thin guard rail separating the edge of the road and the sheer drop-off. Through the patchy trees she saw the Pacific, a vibrant and vast gunmetal ocean roiling with whitecaps.
She guided the Honda by rote until the highway curved inland a bit. Darkness was threatening and she hadn’t been in the area for years, but she caught sight of the turnout, now covered in wet leaves, the fence surrounding the property mossy and sagging in places. Slowing, she cranked the wheel toward the ocean and checked her mirrors. The dark car sailed past and as it did she caught sight of the driver, a woman with white-blond hair.
Her throat went dry as she thought of Elle, with the same light hair.
But she’d only caught a quick glimpse of the woman at the wheel and she knew her mind was playing tricks on her.
“Power of suggestion,” she told herself as she continued down what seemed to be a forgotten driveway, little gravel remaining, weeds sprouting, grass growing, potholes threatening the tires. She noticed the sign that had once welcomed people to the camp, now faded, barely legible, and not nearly as bold as the NO TRESPASSING sign.
Pushing all thoughts of Elle Brady aside, she ignored the sign’s warning, concentrating instead on keeping her silly heart from racing at the prospect of seeing Lucas again. She knew he wasn’t married, well, at least he wasn’t the last time she’d Googled him. She’d also learned that he’d stayed in this neck of the woods, worked on various farms and ranches, gone to college at Oregon State University, then began working twelve years ago for the Neahkahnie Sheriff’s Department, and now was a detective. She’d kept up with him, at least virtually, even though she’d been married to Jake for five years.
Getting involved with Jake hadn’t been a rebound thing. He’d come along much later, after a few other romances had quickly burned out with men she hadn’t much thought about in the intervening years. Not like Lucas, who came to mind at the oddest of moments.
No, Jake had been the natural choice, the right man, handsome and affable, and the timing had been right because she’d been of the age to think of marriage and children. Besides, she’d believed she’d never see Lucas again and had tried to think of him only as a teenage fling, the first boy she’d ever loved, but certainly not a life partner. She always told herself that it was best to forget him. It just hadn’t happened. She’d met Jake at twenty-seven, nearly ten years from the last time she’d seen Lucas; she’d liked him immediately, fallen in love slowly, gotten married filled with hope and dreams that had all crumbled horridly after the miscarriage. So here she was and, as the nose of her Honda broke through the mossy trees to the clearing of what had been the camp, she reminded herself that Lucas was a different person than the boy she’d left, just as she was a very different woman.
>
There probably wouldn’t even be a spark between them.
But she had to know.
And she had to tell him the truth—all of it. He needed to be informed, not only because he was someone who had been at the camp when the girls had disappeared, but because, more importantly, he was a cop.
It wouldn’t be easy.
She caught sight of a Jeep, a much newer model than the one he’d driven years before, parked near the old rec center, in the rutted parking lot where recent tire tracks were visible in the mud.
Lucas stood near a post on the porch, protected by the roof from the rain. He was just as tall as she remembered and just as lean. He’d matured, of course. His hair was now darker and a little wet, but still thick. In jeans, a T-shirt, and jacket, a beard shadow covering his jaw, he looked more cowboy than cop, and though his expression was grim, one side of his mouth lifted as she parked and cut the engine.
Oh, man.
Her damned pulse was racing, her hands damp from being clenched around the steering wheel, all of which was just plain idiotic. Pasting on a smile she didn’t feel, she forced herself out of the car. Flipping up the hood of her jacket, she dashed through the puddles.
“Lucas,” she said a little breathlessly as she mounted the two steps. When she met his eyes, she saw something flicker in their hazel depths, something recognizable and fiery.
“Hey,” he said in return. And then, “Jesus, Bernadette, you look great.”
“Thanks.” She was nodding, feeling awkward. God, why had she called him? “You too.”
He cocked his head, waiting.
Shrugging her shoulders, she said, “You know, I thought this was a good idea, that you and I—we meet and, you know, clear the air, but . . . now . . . I don’t know—”
Before she could finish her thought, he said, “I get it. Me too.” Then, to her surprise, he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close, and kissed her. Just like that. She was still trying to catch a breath, still dying a thousand deaths and wishing she hadn’t called him, when his lips came crashing down on hers and he kissed her as if he’d been waiting a lifetime.