Harper shifted her shoulder experimentally, feeling the familiar twinge of damaged muscles and scar tissue.
‘They took it off a month ago,’ she said. ‘A bit of physical therapy and I’ll be able to throw a punch again.’
Suddenly grief shadowed his face.
‘I am truly sorry, Harper.’ His voice grew unsteady. ‘You know that bullet wasn’t meant for you, don’t you?’
‘I know.’
She did know. She’d always known. She’d felt the resistance when she tried to pull his arm down. The way he’d fought to keep the gun pointed at himself.
Nonetheless. It felt good to hear him say it.
Harper took a breath.
‘Lieutenant …’ she began.
He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Are you really going to call me that?’
She tilted her shoulder. ‘It’s what you are to me. What do you want me to call you? Robert? Mr Smith?’
‘I guess that does sound strange coming from you,’ he conceded gruffly.
‘Lieutenant,’ she began again, ‘I hate that it ended like this. I think I never believed, in my heart, this was possible.’
‘I hate it, too, Harper.’ His voice carried more feeling than he’d ever shown during the trial. ‘More than I could ever begin to tell you.’
Someone across the room started to cry. The guards migrated closer to that table, looking for trouble.
Harper braced herself.
‘I have some questions.’
Smith almost smiled.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ He shifted in the plastic chair, his ankle chains rattling. ‘Ask away. I’ve got nothing but time.’
‘Well.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Obviously, I understand the Whitney case. I was in the courthouse every day. You didn’t contest the charges. What I don’t get, is why the murder looked exactly like my mother’s.’
She leaned toward him, her eyes fixed on his.
‘I need to know the truth – did you kill my mother?’
The mingled surprise and horror on his face gave her the answer she sought even before he spoke.
‘My God, Harper. No.’ He leaned forward urgently, chains clanging. ‘Please don’t think that. I am not the man you’re looking for. I killed Marie Whitney. I am a murderer. I accept the jury’s verdict. But not your mother. I swear it.’
Harper held his gaze for a long moment, then, finding no sign of deception, leaned back.
There was so much she wanted to say to him. She wanted to tell him how much he’d destroyed. She wanted to tell him about Pat and Kyle and Scott, whose lives would be tainted forever by his actions. She wanted him to know that he’d taken away the last of her trust.
And then, there was Camille Whitney.
But she hadn’t come here to tell him things he knew already.
She’d come here for answers.
‘If you didn’t kill my mother, why did you use exactly the same method?’ she asked.
At that moment, a new visitor walked in and Smith looked across the room at the door leading out of the prison – one he’d never walk through again.
‘Did you know I’ve solved nearly every murder I’ve ever investigated?’ he asked. ‘Thirty years as a detective and I can count on one hand the number of murders that went unsolved. A few of those really got to me. Your mother’s case.’ He turned back to her, his eyes like steel. ‘That was one of those.’
Around them the noise of the room receded. The smells, the guns – all of it faded into the background. All Harper heard was Smith’s familiar baritone.
‘I think every major crime that goes unsolved chips away at your soul,’ he said. ‘Mostly they’re small dings – you barely notice them. But your mother’s case … that was different. That one was a break right down the middle. Because of you.’ His eyes swept her face. ‘I promised you I’d get him. And every day I didn’t solve that crime, I thought about the look on your face when I first walked up to you that afternoon.’
Harper bit her lip, hard, but didn’t interrupt him.
‘Sometimes I think my whole life might have been different if I hadn’t pulled that case,’ he said. ‘Choices I made would have gone the other way if I hadn’t made a promise to you I couldn’t keep.’
A guard walked by their table, nightstick swinging, gun heavy on his hip. Harper saw Smith assess his posture, his weapon. It was so automatic – she wasn’t sure he even knew he’d done it.
When he spoke again he sounded tired.
‘I worked so hard on that case – we all did. Day and night. We never got a break. Whoever did it was good. He was a pro. We found nothing we could work with. Nothing. We called him the invisible man.’
He paused, remembering.
‘When Marie threatened me that last time …’ Hands turning over on the table – rugged palms. ‘… I never planned to kill her. She told me she was going to Pat – that she’d make my boys hate me. She’d take away my job – my family. It all happened too fast – my reactions were inhuman. They were horrible.’ His voice dripped self-loathing. ‘But when it was over, I remembered the invisible man. I thought about how he did it. And I decided I needed to be him.’
He gave a sad nod.
‘That’s why the scenes look alike. I designed the second one to look like the first. A direct replication. If he got away with it, I thought I could, too.’ He exhaled. ‘Turns out I was wrong.’
It wasn’t the answer Harper wanted but, still, there was a hollow satisfaction as the last missing piece finally fell into place.
It would have been simple, in a way. Every detective has all the tools for covering up a murder in the trunk of their car. Gloves and alcohol wipes, bags for removing evidence, shoe covers.
‘I’m so sorry you’re still looking for your murderer,’ Smith concluded with real regret. ‘I wish I could at least give you that.’
Something he said triggered a sudden image in Harper’s mind of fierce brown eyes staring at her across a scarred kitchen table.
And make him pay.
‘Camille Whitney,’ she said, cutting him off abruptly. ‘I don’t understand. She had the same experience as me. How could you let that happen to her?’
Smith had been so composed. Now, though, his face crumpled. He buried his face in his hands. A long moment passed before he could speak.
‘That, I believe, was God reminding me he was watching.’ He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I thought I had it all figured out. I knew her dad was going to pick her up that day after summer school. He always did on Thursdays. Every single time. That was why I chose that day. I knew Camille wouldn’t be there. But, that morning, her dad got called into work.’
He met her gaze with eyes that suddenly looked ancient.
‘What I did to that girl will haunt me the rest of my days. I took a life, which was unforgivable. But I also ruined a child’s future. And I know from watching you what that means.’
She couldn’t think of anything to say to that. If he wanted absolution he wasn’t going to get it from her. But at least, now, she understood.
There was one more thing she needed explained. Then she’d be done here.
‘Lieutenant,’ she said. ‘The break-in at my house. Why did you order that?’
The sadness left his face, replaced by something else – something more urgent.
‘Harper,’ he said, ‘you have to believe me. I had nothing to do with that burglary.’
He leaned towards her, reaching out across the table as if to take her hands.
A guard barked an angry warning across the room. Smith pulled back. But his face was passionate.
‘You must believe me,’ he said again. ‘That wasn’t the police. It did not come from our ranks. I swear it.’
Harper thought of the word left on her wall in black, stark letters, paint dripping down like blood: RUN.
A shard of fear pierced her heart.
‘If it wasn’t you …’ she said. ‘Wh
o was it?’
‘I don’t know, but I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘The things you told me – slashing the face of your portrait, leaving a message on the wall – that indicates a personal relationship. It’s someone close to you. Whoever it is, if they’re willing to take chances like this, they are incredibly dangerous.’ He held her eyes. ‘You need to be careful.’
The air felt suddenly clammy and dank.
Since the break-in, Harper had replaced the windows with bulletproof glass and added an alarm system. The threat left on the wall had long ago been painted over.
Nonetheless, she didn’t feel safe there any more.
She’d told herself it was the sense of invasion that had pushed her away from her home. Now, though, she wondered if it wasn’t her instincts warning her things were not as they seemed.
A forlorn hopelessness swept over her. What was she going to do? She needed help.
The problem was, the person she’d always gone to for advice was sitting across from her in chains.
Who was she going to turn to now?
She’d come here today to get what she wanted and walk away for good.
Now, all of a sudden, she couldn’t imagine her world without Smith in it.
She’d lost so much already, she had precious few people left to hold on to.
There was no way she could forgive Smith for what he’d done, but the truth was, she needed him.
Once upon a time, long ago, he’d saved her sanity. In some way, he’d been doing that ever since. Without him, what would become of her?
Grief hit her like a fist, knocking the wind out of her.
How could he do this? He was supposed to protect her.
He had to protect her.
Tears burned her eyes, and she blinked them back hard. She wasn’t going to wail like that woman across the room. That wouldn’t get her anywhere.
She was going to make him help.
Squaring her shoulders, she drew a breath and raised her eyes to his.
‘So,’ she said, ‘what kind of person are we dealing with here? Someone with an obsession? Maybe someone I’ve written about?’
For an instant, she thought she saw a hint of understanding in his expression. As if he knew everything she was thinking.
Then that cool, professional mask descended, and she could never be certain whether that look had been real, or all in her imagination.
‘It’s hard to say.’ His voice was thoughtful. ‘I don’t think so. This is bigger than that. This is someone you’ve personally interacted with. Someone who’s met you. You might have no memory of this meeting – but somehow it became meaningful to him. Now, tell me again, everything you can remember about the break-in. From the start.’
Forgetting the crowded room and the patrolling guards, they broke the case down into its smallest pieces so Smith could study each one, like he used to in the comfortable, smoke-filled study in that big suburban house.
As the day stretched on, and the autumn sun drifted across the blue Georgia sky, Harper could almost fool herself that everything was the way it had been.
And that she wasn’t a little more alone out there than she used to be.
Acknowledgments
I would like to start with a huge thank you and a tiny apology to the gorgeous city of Savannah, Georgia, because I have taken a few liberties with it. Among other things, I’ve invented a newspaper that doesn’t exist, and I have created a police department that suited my needs. Most of the restaurants and bars in the book are not real. There is no Library Bar in Savannah. There is no place that I know of in Savannah precisely like The Watch.
Finally, all the people in this book are fully invented. The police officers and the murders are all fictional.
Still, I have tried very hard to be true to the feel of Savannah. And to treat it with respect. I have very fond memories of my years working as a reporter in that city, and of the people I knew there. It was the best first job a girl could have.
Many, many thanks go to my brilliant editor, Sarah Hodgson, and the entire team at HarperCollins. I am thrilled to be working with such amazing and talented people. I hope we make many beautiful crimes together.
In a lot of ways, this book was a leap of faith for me. My wonderful agent and friend, Madeleine Milburn, knew it was the book of my heart and, despite my nervousness (Should I write it now, or later? Should I write something else instead? Should I …?), calmly told me to just go write it. I am grateful to her for believing in me. She, Hayley Steed, Alice Sutherland-Hawes, and Giles Milburn – the whole agency helped make all of this happen.
Enormous thanks also to my brilliant partners-in-crime who read the first draft of this book and helped me make it better: Ruth Ware, Lee Weatherly, Sam Smith, Holly Bourne, Melinda Salisbury, Alexia Casale – what in the world would I do without you?
Finally, thank you to my husband, Jack, for insisting for as long as I have known him that I should write this book. But I was always busy, and there were other things to write, and I wasn’t ready and I wasn’t ready and I wasn’t ready.
Now, I’m ready. I love you.
Can’t wait to continue the Harper McClain series? Read on for a sneak peek of the next instalment, coming April 2019 …
Chapter One
‘Eight ball in the corner pocket.’
Leaning over the edge of the pool table, Harper McClain stared across the long expanse of empty green felt. The cue in her hands was smooth and cool. She’d had four of Bonnie’s super-strength margaritas already tonight, but her grip was steady.
There was a delicate, transient point somewhere between too much alcohol and too little, where her pool skills absolutely peaked. This was it.
Exhaling slowly, she took the shot. The cue ball flew straight and true, slamming into the eight, sending it rolling to the pocket. There was never any question, it hit the polished wood edge of the table only lightly, and dropped like a stone.
‘Yes.’ Harper raised her fist. ‘Three in a row.’
But the cue ball was still rolling.
‘No, no, no,’ she pleaded.
As she watched in dismay, the scuffed white cue headed after the eight ball like a faithful hound.
‘Come on cue ball,’ Bonnie cajoled from the other side of the table. ‘Mama needs a new pair of shoes.’
Reaching the pocket lip, the ball trembled for an instant as if making up its mind and then, with a decisive clunk, disappeared into the table’s insides, taking the game with it.
‘At last.’ Bonnie raised her cue above her head, triumphantly. ‘Victory is mine.’
Harper glared. ‘Have you been waiting all night to say that?’
‘Oh my God, yes,’ Bonnie replied.
It was very late. Aside from the two of them, the Library Bar was empty. Tuesdays were always quiet, and the crowds had thinned early. Carlo, who worked the late shift with Bonnie, had finished wiping down the bar an hour ago and gone home.
All the lights were on in the rambling bar, illuminating the battered books that filled the shelves covering the old walls. It was familiar – even cosy, in its way, with Tom Waits growling from the jukebox about love gone wrong.
Despite the hour, Harper was in no hurry to leave. All she had at home was a cat, a bottle of whiskey and a lot of bad memories.
‘Rematch?’ Harper glanced at Bonnie. ‘Winner takes all?’
Propping her cue against a wall already scuffed with blue chalk, Bonnie walked around the table. The blue streaks in her long, blonde hair caught the light when she held out her hand.
‘Loser pays,’ she said, adding, ‘Also, I’m all out of change.’
‘I thought bartenders always had change,’ Harper complained, pulling the last coins from her pocket.
‘Bartenders are smart enough to put their money away before they start playing pool with you,’ Bonnie said.
There was a break in the music as the jukebox switched songs. In the sudden silence, the shrill ring of Harper’s phone made the
m both jump.
Grabbing the device off the table next to her, Harper glanced at the screen.
‘Hang on,’ she said, hitting the answer button. ‘It’s Miles.’
Miles Jackson was the crime photographer at the Savannah Daily News. He wouldn’t call at three in the morning without a good reason.
‘What’s up?’ Harper said, by way of hello.
‘Get yourself downtown. We’ve got ourselves a murder on River Street,’ he announced.
Miles had her on speaker phone – in the background she could hear the rumble of his engine and the insistent crackle of his police scanners.
‘You’re kidding me.’ Harper stood up, the pool game instantly forgotten. ‘Are you at the scene?’
‘Just pulling up now,’ he said. ‘Looks like every cop in the city is here.’
‘On my way.’ Harper hung up without saying goodbye.
Bonnie looked at her enquiringly.
‘Got to go,’ Harper said. ‘Someone just got murdered on River Street.’
Bonnie’s jaw dropped. ‘River Street? Holy crap.’
‘I know.’ Grabbing her bag off the battered wooden chair, Harper made sure her reporters’ notebook was inside. ‘If it’s a tourist, the mayor will absolutely lose her shit.’
Setting down her cue, Bonnie ran after her as she raced out of the small pool room into the main bar.
The music was louder in here, echoing off the old walls of a building that had once been a library and that, even now, held bookshelves on every wall, stacked with paperbacks.
‘Give me a second to lock up,’ she said. ‘I’m coming with you.’
Harper blinked. ‘You’re coming to a crime scene?’
‘You’ve had four margaritas,’ Bonnie reminded her in a voice that brooked no opposition. ‘I made them strong. You’ll be over the limit. I’ve only had two beers tonight.’
Behind the bar, she opened a wall panel and flipped some switches – the music fell silent. A second later, the lights began to turn off one by one, until only the red glow of the entrance sign remained.
Grabbing her keys, Bonnie ran back to join Harper, the heels of her cowboy boots clicking against the concrete floor in the sudden quiet, short skirt swirling around her thighs.
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