by S. R. Grey
That left only one other possibility: someone had murdered her. But who? And why?
The list of potential suspects was long, as were the multitudes of motives.
I tried not to dwell on it, but the fact remained that Adam had the most compelling reasons to want Chelsea out of the picture. I could just imagine her holding that illegal stock trade, and the threat of going to the SEC with what she knew, over him like a dagger ready to plunge at any second. I couldn’t fathom what that must have felt like for Adam to have only two options: One, obey Chelsea’s every whim, including staying with—and marrying—her. Or, two, leave her, thus giving her the opening to make good on her threat to go to the authorities with incriminating testimony against him. Then he could have lost everything and, if convicted, gone to prison. Yeah, great options, I thought bitterly.
Despite such a strong motive for murder, I just didn’t feel in my heart that Adam had done anything to Chelsea. Maybe I was blinded by love, but that was what I believed.
Besides, the list of suspects didn’t begin and end with Adam. Not by a long shot.
Chelsea had led a wild and dangerous life, making numerous enemies along the way. Even Adam’s own sister despised the woman. I still wondered what had motivated Trina to send those threatening letters. Had she really been trying to frighten Chelsea into backing out of marrying Adam? And why had Adam intercepted them? Despite what he’d said, maybe he actually believed Trina had taken matters into her own hands and followed through with those threats. In that case he surely wouldn’t have wanted those letters floating around, implicating his own sister.
Then there was J.T. Had Chelsea met up with him that fateful night? Was that what she wanted Adam to tell her not to do? And since he’d not dissuaded her, what if she had met J.T. and something had gone wrong? J.T. O’Brien was volatile and unpredictable. I’d been on the receiving end of his temper, and it made me shudder to recall the rage alight in his eyes that night at the café. And just days ago, he’d threatened Jimmy. It seemed J.T. was a walking time bomb, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. Yeah, when it came to Chelsea’s disappearance, a crime of passion could not be ruled out.
And, of course, there was also Jennifer Weston—another suspect. She certainly had her own demons and anger issues. That fact had been made clear throughout almost all of my limited interactions with her, particularly on the most recent ferry ride I’d shared with her. Apart from her veiled threats, it made me wary to know she was aware of private things pertaining to Adam.
Someone had told her, and based on her angry reaction that day on the ferry, I was fairly sure it had not been Chelsea. But someone had hinted at Adam’s sexual prowess in the bedroom. Who would know something like that? Someone who’d been with him sexually…or someone who’d known someone who had been intimate with Adam?
Jennifer had known about my high school crush on Adam, and there was only one person I’d ever divulged that information to: Ami Dubois-Hensley. Maybe she was the source of Jennifer’s information. But did that mean…God, no! My stomach churned at the thought of Ami ever having been with Adam. Though she certainly fit the bill of what his “type” had been prior to meeting me. Ami was beautiful, and she had long, blonde hair.
Hmmm, maybe he had slept with her. But Ami had all those mental issues, and I just couldn’t see Adam exploiting them by seducing her. Not to mention she was married. And she was his employee, which brought up a whole host of other potential problems. After evading an insider trading charge, surely a sexual harassment suit was the last thing Adam would have wanted.
No, if Ami had been the one to tell Jennifer those things, then she had heard them from someone else. I felt certain of this, but I wondered who would have shared that kind of information with Ami Hensley.
And how bizarre was it that she’d gone out to LA to contact my agent…and Julian? Telling them I was in danger here on the island. From what? From whom? Was Ami really trying to protect me? How much did she know? Did she have knowledge of what had happened to Chelsea Hannigan?
Good Lord! This whole thing was so confusing that a part of me wished something would surface to prove Chelsea had been the victim of some random stranger passing through town. But no, that wasn’t going to happen. There were too many suspects right here. And they all had motives.
And then there was the mystery blonde, the woman kissing Chelsea in the picture. She never came forward, so the likelihood she held some kind of pertinent—and probably damning—information was very high. I needed to find her so I could question her. She had to know something, especially if she’d known Chelsea, well, intimately. But Jimmy hadn’t recognized her as someone who frequented the bar. He said she’d been there only a few times, and always with Ms. Hannigan. Who was she?
A blonde mystery woman…
For a fleeting moment, I considered Helena. But how crazy and unlikely would that be? She was my friend now, and why would someone wishing to remain anonymous be so forthcoming with so much information? Almost a little too forthcoming, a little voice whispered in my head. And Helena’s alibi was less than ironclad. But Helena and Chelsea? Did I really want to start down that path? It was just too outlandish. She’d never do something like that to Adam. And she’d definitely not hurt Nate; she clearly loved him too much.
Adam was probably correct—the mystery blonde would turn out to be just some random Harbourtown resident Chelsea had hooked up with. Maybe.
I still felt the picture held the key to solving this whole thing. Adam had dismissed its significance, but I wasn’t so convinced it was useless. Whoever was in that photograph had miraculously managed to avoid suspicion for far too long. And as far as I was concerned, it was up to me to make sure that no longer remained the case. Yeah, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on that damn picture.
And here I was again, rehashing the facts as I knew them in my head. Clearly it was time for a diversion. I dumped my cereal down the disposal, gave it a whirl, and put my bowl in the sink. Next I took the eggplant Parmesan out of the freezer and plopped it onto the counter with a resounding thud. There.
Even though it was dreary out, the rain had stopped, and the temperature was mild. I should get out and enjoy the day, I thought. Sitting around here was just making me crazy, and for the love of God, I was sick and tired of cooking. Cooking hadn’t helped, but maybe a little exploration here on the island would “clear” my head.
I had yet to check out the heavily forested, mostly impassable, east side of the island. The car would be useless, but hiking on a mild October afternoon like this one sounded like a welcome respite. So I laced up my hiking boots, smoothed out my jeans, and tied a light jacket around my waist in case the thin sweater I had on proved inadequate.
After grabbing a bottle of cold water out of the fridge, I left the cottage and started north. This time I stayed off the trails and stuck to the paved main road. It was the most direct route anyway, and I soon reached the western boundary of Adam’s property.
In Adam’s absence Max was spending time patrolling up here, just generally keeping an eye on things. I’d seen him drive by my cottage in his dark green Hummer a number of times over the past several days. I figured Adam was behind all the surveillance. It seemed silly and overdone to me, because the few residents who were on the island were Adam’s trusted friends. But I supposed it was the individuals who traveled back and forth on the ferry, and their possible passengers, he was distrustful of.
I continued along the edge of the road as it curved past Adam’s driveway. I now knew the long, winding lane—wider now that the undergrowth had died out in the changing season—split off in two directions a few hundred yards ahead. One lane led to Adam’s house and the other to a set of garages where his other vehicles—more sports cars and a black Range Rover that was mainly used in the winter—were kept.
I stopped, considering if I should he
ad up the driveway and see if Max was around. Adam would surely want him to know that I was heading into the wilderness on the east side of the island. But then he may discourage me from going or, worse yet, go with me. I certainly did not require a babysitter. Besides, I had my cell in my pocket, and Max’s number was still in my contacts. I’d call him if I needed him. So I resumed walking, believing everything would be fine.
A mile from the driveway, there was a gravel turnoff. I recalled it to be the one leading back to the runway and hangar on the far eastern edge of Adam’s compound. I smiled as I recalled my first date with Adam, the experience with the strawberries and champagne. How I longed to re-create that experience, this time with no interruptions.
Lost in my lust-muddled thoughts, I tripped at the point where the pavement, and consequently the main road, ended abruptly. I glanced around. At last I’d reached the east side of the island. And it sure was desolate.
Before me, a nearly impassable access road—really just a widened trail—snaked deeper into the forest of ancient oak and thick pine. From my research I knew the access road meandered through the woods in a southerly direction, eventually coming out near the lighthouse area.
I took a few cautious steps, navigating the uneven terrain and the many muddy puddles. The access road was in worse shape than I’d anticipated, rutted and overgrown with wiry, coiled tangles of skeletal-looking branches. Towering pine trees grew in densely packed clusters on either side of the path, creating an overhead canopy that made the overcast day appear even darker. But I forged ahead, keeping safely to the middle. Dried leaves, clinging lifelessly to the trees, rustled all around me. I heard the scurrying of animals and the occasional bird chirp, but the forest was much too thick to actually catch sight of any of the island fauna.
After traveling what I estimated to be about two miles, the woods quieted. No more rustling leaves, no scurrying animals, no more chirping birds. It was actually kind of creepy, and I started to wish I’d stopped, after all, to let Max know where I was heading. Breathing in deeply, the smell of rotting leaves particularly pungent now, I fished out my cell phone to reassure myself Max was only a phone call away. But a sick feeling of dread passed through me when I saw I had no signal over here on this side of the island. Stupid for not checking first, I thought. I knew if I continued, I’d eventually reach the cliffs above the lighthouse. Recalling how Adam had told me there were hidden caves in the wall of cliffs, I shuddered. Uh, definitely not going down there all alone.
Although there was plenty of daylight left, I’d had enough. It was too quiet and devoid of life here. And I had no cell service. Worse yet I was starting to get a bad feeling. I stopped, took a swig of water to calm my nerves, and turned around.
I began to walk quickly but halted when I heard a weird clang noise, like metal hitting metal. What is that? Somewhere off to my right, coming from behind a cluster of particularly dense pine, it sounded again. Clang! And then a few seconds later, Thunk! Thunk! This time it sounded like something metal pounding at the ground. What the…?
Besides Max, Nate was the only other person who was supposed to be on the island today. Helena was still in Boston. But why would Max or Nate be over here in the deep woods on this side of the island?
Against my better judgment, I crept to the edge of the rutted road and crouched down at the treeline, the cool smell of pine filling my nose, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the source behind the steady, rhythmic noises that had yet to abate.
What I saw made my hand fly to my mouth to stifle a gasp. Oh God! Several yards away, there was a man—in muddied jeans and a dark hoodie— and he appeared to be burying something. He was just about finished with his task, patting down the dirt neatly to obscure the digging he had done. Clutching my water bottle tightly, my hands grew sweaty, because I recognized this person. Though his face was mostly obscured, I knew, without a doubt, that the man patting down the dirt was J.T. O’Brien. And, hell, if I didn’t need to get out of here—fast.
I looked furtively left and right. Of course, nobody else was around. Oh God, this isn’t good. Here I was, stuck deep in the woods with my former friend, but more recently my assailant. Thankfully, J.T. appeared to be deeply engrossed in what he was doing, which, at this point, was kicking fallen leaves over the now barely noticeable mound of dirt.
“Get out of here!” my mind screamed.
Quickly I stood—my limbs trembling—and backed away cautiously. My heart was taking up residence in my throat as memories of J.T.’s assault at the café flashed through my mind. Only this time there would be no Adam to save me. I turned and crept away silently, rapidly putting as much distance as possible between J.T. and me.
When I was certain I was out of his hearing range, I broke into a run. I needed to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible, but I still ventured a glance over my shoulder, my pace barely slowing. Relief washed over me once I confirmed I was not being followed. No J.T. in pursuit as I’d feared.
After what felt like forever, the forest a blur, I reached the entry to the access road, breathless and with my heart pounding. Gasping for air I slowed to a walk as my feet hit the paved surface of the main road. Safe, at last.
With fear taking a backseat, my thoughts turned to what I’d seen. What was J.T. O’Brien doing back there? Bizarre. Why would he be burying something out here on Fade Island? Whatever it was, I’d been fortunate he’d not caught sight of me. One thing for sure, J.T. O’Brien had certainly been engaged in some crazy behavior since his short stint in rehab. Showing up at Billy’s for the first time in ages, buying drugs, and getting so messed up he threatened Jimmy for shutting him off, and now, digging around out here on the island. Yes, J.T. was up to something. I hoped to God he hadn’t caught wind of my investigation. Suspecting I was poking around would be bad enough, but if J.T. actually knew specifics—like my visits to Billy’s—then that could spell big trouble for me. Especially if he was trying to hide something, and I was getting too close.
When I finally reached the cottage, I was a sweaty mess. I went in, showered, and changed clothes. Adam would be arriving soon, and I had to decide if I was going to share this new development with him. But there really was no choice; he had to be told that J.T. had been on the island burying something. But Adam would surely be upset with me. Not only had I not cooled it with the case, I’d put myself in danger, once again.
Later that evening, as I plated the eggplant Parmesan I’d reheated, the doorbell sounded. Wiping my hands on the apron I’d thrown on over my jeans and sweater, I hurried to the door and let Adam in.
He greeted me with a kiss that started out soft but soon deepened. Leaving me somewhat breathless, he pulled away way too soon for my liking. “Miss me?” Adam asked, his tone soft.
“More than you could imagine,” I replied.
His brow furrowed. “Is everything OK?”
I waved a hand dismissively. “We can talk while we eat,” I said. “Dinner’s on the table, and it will get cold.”
I was biding my time, waiting for an opportune time to bring up the day’s events. Now didn’t feel right.
We sat down to eat, and Adam talked of his business in Boston. He wasn’t pressing me to elaborate on my earlier comment, but he seemed to notice I was preoccupied.
Cutting into a piece of eggplant, he asked, “Maddy, are you with me here? You look like you haven’t heard a single word I’ve said.”
I looked up from my own plate, meeting his questioning gaze. “Um, not really.” I admitted. “It’s just that…”
Adam put down his fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Did something happen while I was away?”
I lifted a glass of water to my lips and took a long drink. Putting the glass down, I nodded. “Yeah, something did happen. When I was hiking down the access road over on the other side of the island, I saw some—”
“Jesus Christ,” Adam interrupted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “What were you doing over there? You know it’s not safe to be traipsing around on that side of the island. Hell, it’s almost impossible to even get cell service over there.”
“Adam,” I said, huffing in indignation, even though everything he said was true. “Please.”
I rolled my eyes at him, and he replied sharply, “You couldn’t find anything else to occupy your time?”
“What like cooking?” I pushed my plate away, my appetite lost.
“What about writing, Madeleine?” Adam’s voice was harsh, cold. “That is what you’re here to do. Remember?”
Yeah, I remember, I thought, but I didn’t share with Adam all the second thoughts I’d had recently. Instead I said, “Look, I know you want me to take some kind of a break from the case, but I’m not going to sit around here locked up in this cottage all day like some kind of prisoner.”
“You’re hardly a prisoner,” Adam’s voice softened. “It’s just that anything could happen to you in those woods. If you fell or got hurt, we’d have a hell of a time even locating you.” Pausing, he added, “Did you at least tell Max where you were going?”
Uh-oh. He’d just settled down, and now he was going to be pissed all over again. And I hadn’t even gotten to the J.T. part yet.
I shook my head, staring at my plate of unfinished food. “Um, no, I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.”
Adam was silent, so I glanced up. His eyes held, not anger as I expected, but disappointment and sadness. I suddenly felt genuinely bad for being so foolhardy. “I’m sorry,” I said softly.