Black Rock Bay

by Brianna Labuskes

  “With anyone in particular?” Izzy pressed.

  Patty tipped her chin back, her gaze going distant. When her eyes returned to Izzy, she shrugged. “Earl, Jimmy, those guys.”

  “Bishop and Roarke,” Izzy clarified.

  Patty actually wagged her finger in Izzy’s face. “Don’t go making that anything salacious. Charles worshipped the ground she walked on.”

  “What did he think of the attention she got from Earl and his friends?”

  Patty just shook her head. “He adored her.”

  “That’s not answering the question.”

  “Notice that, did you?” Patty turned her back on Izzy, her attention on the board. “We might make a proper detective out of you yet.”

  Izzy kept her jacket unzipped on the way home despite the temperature outside. She didn’t feel the eyes on her neck like she had in the woods, but after getting shot at and asking too many questions of too many people, it didn’t seem paranoid to be cautious.

  The snow had stopped, leaving behind a fresh blanket, her boot prints from the trek down the hill just a faint echo of what they had been. The way back up was tough, but the residual fire in her blood from the Eagle Rare made it slightly more bearable this time.

  The quiet let her think, too. Since they’d arrived, there hadn’t really been time to regain her footing. The eerie silence gave her time to run through the list of players they’d been gathering.

  Sammy Bowdoin. The doc had rubbed Izzy the wrong way, and though he hadn’t done anything that raised big red flags, his behavior certainly leaned more toward suspicious than not. Plus, he was in the perfect position to clean up any evidence he’d left behind. The only hesitation she had about him was motive. Why would he have killed Twist? Jealousy seemed a stretch since he’d been pulling away from Ellen for months.

  But . . . he might have been an accomplice. That fit with the phone call Brandon Sonder had told them about. She’d have to sit with that one for a bit.

  Cash Bishop. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Izzy didn’t have a read on him yet, apart from watching Mia react to him that first night. Mia had been tense, but that could be chalked up to him being an ex. He had dodged out on their questioning and had been asking about the Bells, but it seemed plausible that he was trying to keep his girlfriend from finding out he was digging into her father just in case she didn’t want him to.

  Which brought Izzy to Lacey. She was an interesting one. She’d found Mia that night, which sent up alarm bells. Had she seen something she shouldn’t have? And was the bruise on her arm and the nervousness in her eyes related to the case? Or was she just haunted by demons they had no business uncovering?

  For that matter, where did Bix and Charles fit in? They hadn’t been on the island in years; no one had even seen them in that long. Were they even worth pursuing now, when the Robert Twist case was their main focus?

  And what about Jimmy Roarke and Earl? They kept being brought up, but was that just because it was such a small town that it was inevitable they’d be included in conversations?

  The past and present were blurring, and Izzy was having a hard time keeping them separate. She wanted to follow Robert Twist down the path he’d sniffed out, the secrets he might have revealed about the supposed suicide pact. At the same time, she was here to solve his murder, not a decades-old mystery.

  Mia. She was the link between it all. She was the one who’d recognized Robert Twist, the one whom he was asking about. She was the one who’d gone into the lighthouse with two of her friends and emerged the only survivor. She was the one who swayed on her feet and blinked too long and looked, at times, for the all the world like she was simply going to burn to the ground where she stood, float into the air like ash. Disappear.

  Izzy trusted her, she did. And more than that, she knew Mia hadn’t been to the island recently, so that probably gave her an alibi for the murder. That didn’t mean, though, that she didn’t have more secrets that she was keeping tucked away. Had that call Sammy made been to Mia? Was it worth it to find out?

  All of them, they were all threads. Izzy just had to find the right one to tug. Then those lies they so dearly loved to tell would start to unravel.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MIA

  At first Mia thought the pounding was in her head, the migraine that had been coiling at the base of her skull finally unleashed. But the pain she was expecting as she blinked awake in the early-morning light was absent.

  “Mia,” Edie said from the bedroom doorway. “Think you better get down there.”

  When her bare feet touched cold hardwood, she hissed but didn’t pause as she tugged on a sweatshirt and headed toward the stairs.

  “Iz,” she called down the hallway but didn’t wait for a response. There was someone out there, banging on the front door, and Mia didn’t know how long the small house could withstand the attack.

  When Mia yanked open the door, she ducked, just to the side, in case a fist was headed toward her face. The hit didn’t come, though.

  Instead, Cash’s hand dropped. His eyes were wide, panicked and unfocused.

  “You,” Cash snarled, an accusation and challenge. He was on her in two steps, his fingers curling into the collar of her sweatshirt, hauling her up to her toes. “You did this.”

  Her world narrowed down to the two of them, his bared teeth, the anger in his voice. He could toss her like a rag doll against the side of the house if he wanted.

  “Let me go.” She said it in the firmest voice she could, stripping any fear from it in the process. “Cash, let me go.”

  Izzy was there. She hit him, hit him hard. But rage was fueling him now, and he didn’t go down. Mia tried again. “Cash, let me go.”

  Over and over the same simple phrase, calm and easy, without raising her hands. The seconds stretched into what felt like hours, but finally Cash released her.

  He didn’t throw her, like she’d been expecting. But he didn’t put her down gently, either. Her feet scrambled for purchase, but it was too little, too late. Mia ended up sprawled half on the porch, half in the entryway.

  Izzy had her gun out, pointed at Cash, the safety off the weapon. She had been prepared to shoot, and Mia was thankful it hadn’t come even close to that.

  Cash was down the stairs, crouched on the cleared path leading up to Edie’s house, rocking, his hands up around his head. “He’s dead.”

  Everything was still too sharp, the smell of burning wood somewhere in the forest, the snow against the soles of her feet, the metallic fear lingering in her mouth. The words sliced into her newly vulnerable skin, raw and sensitive from the chemicals flooding her bloodstream.

  “Who?” she asked, though she knew. She knew.

  “He’s dead,” Cash said again, broken, pale, and sweaty. His voice was that of a little boy’s begging for someone to tell him it wasn’t true. “Earl is dead.”

  “Mia?” Izzy hadn’t relaxed her stance, her eyes trained on Cash.

  “It’s okay,” Mia said and hoped it was true. She held out a hand to Izzy, gesturing her to lower the gun even as she kept her eyes on Cash. “It’s okay.”

  They were all having trouble forming thoughts into anything other than basic sounds, repeated until they sank in.

  Mia pressed at her temple with her thumb and concentrated on sitting up, unlocking the muscles that she hadn’t been able to control as well as her voice.

  Eventually the cold cut through the shock, and Mia was forced to push herself to her feet. If she started shivering, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to stop.

  Izzy had dropped her weapon to her side, but her shoulders were still tense, her feet still braced apart. She was ready to draw again if needed.

  Mia approached Cash like she would a wounded animal: careful, slow, deliberate. Once she realized he wasn’t going to lash out, she grabbed his biceps and tugged. If he hadn’t wanted to go, she wouldn’t have been able to make him budge, but he unfolded himself easily, a puppet being pulled up by st
rings. “Come on.”

  She guided them all into the house.

  Her hand was firm on Cash’s back as she pushed him down the hallway and then deposited him into one of the chairs in the kitchen. She put on coffee.

  None of them spoke until she’d placed his mug on the table and then sat across from him. Izzy was behind her, leaning against the counter, her eyes watchful, her gun resting against her thigh.

  “Tell me what happened,” Mia finally said. Cash’s gaze flew to hers, his eyes red rimmed and wet, his lashes clumpy with his shed tears.

  He dropped his gaze.

  “If you’d just let it go,” Cash muttered into his cup. “Christ, Mia, if you’d just . . .”

  “What, Cash?” Because she needed him to say it. This wasn’t a confession; at least she didn’t think it was. But it wasn’t nothing, either.

  “Left well enough alone.”

  Mia ran her thumb along the rim of her mug. “You mean, just not investigate a murder?”

  His eyes were on the table. “Who even cared about that guy? And now . . .”

  A dry sob cut off anything further. Mia sat back against her chair, meeting Izzy’s eyes. The woman’s lips were pressed together as if she were holding back thoughts that wanted nothing more than to escape.

  Mia turned her attention back to Cash. This wasn’t the boy she’d known. The boy she’d known was on the cusp of becoming a man with strength and conviction. This person before her was almost unrecognizable. What had happened? A disdain she never could have guessed she’d feel toward him rolled through her.

  “He left a letter,” Cash said like it was dragged out of him, the words sliding against gravel.

  A letter.

  Mia ran her sweaty palms against her pajama pants, feeling far too defenseless and underdressed.

  “Do you have it?”

  Cash reached into his jacket. Mia’s heart fluttered, but she remained still. When he pulled out a sheet of paper and not a gun, she relaxed.

  He tossed the letter to the table and stared at it, his fists clenched so that his knuckles were white.

  Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.

  I’m sorry. Forgive me.

  Mia cursed on a quiet exhale and then handed the message back to Izzy. Cash hadn’t looked up at her to watch her read it.

  “This morning?” she prompted.

  He nodded once, licked his lips. “He comes down for breakfast every morning at seven sharp. He didn’t today.”

  “How?” She ripped off the Band-Aid they’d all been waiting for her to strip away.

  “Pills,” Cash said. Not another gunshot wound, then.

  “And you didn’t hear anyone else in the house?” she asked.

  At that he looked up, surprise breaking through the thick lines of anger that had settled into his face. “No.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, then?”

  There was a pause. “You think there was foul play?”

  “Covering the bases,” Mia said, not wanting to agitate him.

  Cash studied her but then dropped his gaze once more. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “How did he have access to that kind of medication?” It wasn’t like he could just pop some aspirin. It would have had to be heavy duty. Opioids, probably. Powerful painkillers.

  The line of his shoulders broke as he hunched forward a little. “Why the hell is that important?”

  “Bases,” Mia said, trying not to let it sound flippant.

  “He was . . .” Cash cleared his throat, glanced back at Izzy, then finally looked at Mia. “He had Alzheimer’s. A couple months ago he wandered off, fell, and broke his femur. He was still recovering.”

  Mia tapped her finger against her mug before quieting her hand. Her nerves were so easy to read for anyone who looked for them. She nodded to get him to continue.

  “I kept them in my medicine cabinet.” The guilt in Cash’s voice was evident. “Locked. But it wouldn’t have been hard for him to get them. I didn’t . . . I don’t monitor it that closely. Not for this kind of thing. He’s never been suicidal.”

  “A theme with this case,” Izzy murmured so low that Mia wondered if Cash had even heard.

  “Did you call Sammy?” Mia asked, standing. She no longer worried that Cash was about to go off again. His volatile rage had clearly fizzled into a sad, dampened helplessness.

  “No, I came straight here.” Cash glanced at Izzy’s holster. “You’re the police.”

  He hadn’t seemed to be thinking about that when he’d lifted her from the ground, his fingers curled into her sweatshirt. But she didn’t mention that. Just nodded and grabbed her phone.

  After a quick call to the coroner, she directed them all to the foyer to wait as she threw on some actual clothes. Along the way back downstairs she stopped by a locked drawer and pulled out her own gun.

  A crisp white sheet covered Earl Bishop’s body.

  Mia stood in the doorway, blocking the others from the room. She wanted a first impression that didn’t involve Izzy’s nerves or Cash’s grief or even Sammy’s surprise.

  The furniture was unfinished oak, simple and bare and sparse. There was a dresser and then a bedside table with a half-drunk glass of water, a neatly folded pair of reading glasses, and a tattered paperback book.

  A pair of boots, well worn and weathered, were tucked under the foot of the bed.

  The walls, though . . . the walls betrayed the true state of the man who had lived there. They were papered in Post-it notes, the yellow and green and pink of them quivering at the mercy of a draft. They were layered on top of each other, a sticky mapping of the inner workings of Earl Bishop’s deteriorating memory.

  Izzy nudged at Mia’s shoulder, and she knew her time was up.

  She stepped into the room, and the others were quick to follow. Like Mia, Izzy was captivated by the little messages tacked to the walls. Sammy and Cash made their way toward Earl’s body. They were all quiet, tense.

  The handwriting on the Post-its revealed varying stages of dementia. Some had neat block lettering, the exact type Mia would have expected from Earl Bishop. Others were a scrawled jumble of letters that might have made sense only to him.

  “Wild,” Izzy said.

  Mia nodded once, to show she’d heard, and then stepped toward Sammy. “Can you check for defensive injuries when you do your report?” It was strange having to ask one of their suspects to examine the body. But that’s how life was on St. Lucy’s. They had one coroner, and they had to follow procedure. They had nothing on Sammy other than an overheard phone call and reports of him being a distant boyfriend.

  Sammy lifted a brow. “Course, Detective.”

  It was doubtful he’d find anything. If it had been foul play, it hadn’t required strength. Just access. And considering few, if any, residents on St. Lucy’s locked their doors, that wouldn’t be hard, either. Someone could have easily come in at night and overpowered a sleeping, disoriented Earl Bishop without leaving any signs of struggle behind.

  “Wish we had a tech team,” Izzy said, her hands on her hips, doing a slow sweep of the room.

  Everything was so much harder here. A weariness settled into Mia, achy and sore, dragging on her lashes. When she opened her eyes, it was to find Izzy watching her, her head tilted.

  “Yeah,” Mia said, and with the way Izzy’s lips pressed together, she thought she might have been late on the reply. How long had she slipped behind the darkness of her lids? It had seemed like only a blink, maybe a second longer.

  But time had become a funny thing.

  Izzy studied her a minute longer. “Are you okay?”

  Mia nodded. “Yes. Just tired.”

  “Sleep helps with that.”

  “Oh, really? Never heard of that, should give it a try.” Mia softened the sting of the words with a small smile as she walked away toward the far wall.

  While there wasn’t a coherency to the arrangement of the notes at first glance, the most important daily
ones were close to the headboard.

  Keys. Wallet. Glasses. Earl Bishop. St. Lucy’s Island, Maine. Tess died 11/4/2014.

  Tess had been Cash’s mother, whom Mia had only a fleeting memory of despite the amount of time Mia had spent in and out of the Bishops’ house. She’d been a wisp of a woman, slight and pale and reserved. Mama had mentioned her passing, briefly. Cancer, if Mia recalled correctly.

  Mia stepped closer, wanting to lift the notes so she could see what lay beneath. What Earl had thought was the most important thing before keys, wallet, glasses had taken over. But one off to the side caught her eye. It was on top of three or four others, and the shakiness of the lines in the writing seemed to date it as recently.

  Call Jimmy.

  Jimmy Roarke. He had been Earl Bishop’s right-hand man, his lifelong drinking buddy, and Cash’s godfather. He’d also caught the reporter out by the lighthouse.

  “Has Jimmy been round lately?” Mia asked, without turning back to the others.

  Cash cursed. “I have to tell him.”

  “Before this, though,” she pressed. “Since we got to the island. Has Jimmy come round?”

  “No.” Cash sounded uncertain. Mia glanced over her shoulder, and his jaw went taut. “No.”

  The second denial was firmer. But . . . “Why the hesitation?”

  “I’m not home the entire day.” Cash shrugged. “But I don’t think Dad had him over.”

  “Was Earl upset? That we were here?”

  Cash’s face flushed, the pink of it crawling up his neck first before slipping into his cheeks. “He was talking about Asher.”

  Mia turned fully toward him. “What?”

  “You just . . . you set him off, Mia.” Cash threw up his hands. “Why did you have to come back?”

  You think I wanted this? Mia didn’t let herself get dragged into that particular fight, though. “Was he talking about that summer?”

  “He got confused easily.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” Sometimes she thought Cash forgot whom he was talking to.

  Cash sighed. “He always liked Asher. Thought he was a good kid. But we’d gotten in a fight. That’s why I wasn’t allowed out that . . . that night you all went to the lighthouse.”