In the Waning Light (4 page)

This was dumb. You’re wrong, Jonah. Sometimes you don’t need to go back to go forward . . . the hell with this!

Angrily she keyed her ignition. She swung her truck around, wheels spitting up gravel on the sidewalk. She headed for the coast road, a half-baked purpose forming in her head to go someplace warm. Far away from this town. This stupid winter. Jonah. Her life. When she got too tired, she’d pull over and sleep. California. Mexico. She could drive all the freaking way through South America. To Tierra del Fuego. Until she ran out of land.

So what if she was running . . .

But as she neared the town exit, the rain pummeled down even harder, wind gusting fierce off the Pacific, and a light on her dash began to flash orange. Fuel gauge. She swore bitterly and slowed, keeping her eyes peeled for a gas station.

Meg drew into Millar’s Gas and Motor Shop and pulled up alongside a diesel pump. An attendant came running out. She asked him to fill her tank while she ducked into the convenience store in search of something hot to drink.

The doorbell chimed as she stepped into the fluorescent brightness. Meg shook off her hood, picked a few things off the shelves, and poured a self-serve coffee. She went to pay at the counter, where a plumpish, blonde woman with smooth, creamy-looking skin and apple-dumpling cheeks was serving a giant of a man. Meg stood behind the man, taking in his stained pants, muddy construction boots, ink-black hair.

He snagged his smokes and six-pack off the counter, turned, and stalled dead as his gaze lit upon Meg. His mouth opened, then closed. His features hardened.

Meg swallowed at the full-bore intensity and hot energy radiating off him. She nodded, smiled. But his eyes narrowed sharply as he pushed past her and out the door. Through the window she saw him climb into a black van with a circular logo on the side. His brake lights flared red before he pulled out onto the coast road.

A memory, a voice, came through her. Faint, so faint, it was almost the sound of sand scraping in the wind outside.

Wait. Stop! Don’t run, Meggie, don’t run!

She froze, trapped suddenly in a loop of time. She felt a hand grabbing at her arm, fingers digging into bare skin, terror rising in her throat . . .

“That be all?”

The woman’s words jerked her back to the present. Shaken, she placed her items on the counter—a wrapped sandwich, a packet of potato chips, the coffee. Newspaper. A packaged cream-filled snack cake that she planned to inhale whole before she was out of the lot.

“Terrible night to be out and about. You just traveling through?”

Meg hesitated, suddenly drained. “Actually,” she said, trying to force a smile, “I’m hoping to find a clean motel for the night. Or somewhere to camp my rig.”

The woman glanced at Meg’s rig parked outside, her Washington plates clearly visible.

“No fun camping in this storm,” she said as she placed the items in a bag. Meg handed over her credit card. “State park is closed for the season, anyways. There’s the One Pine Motel at the north end of town. It’s a low-budget place.”

Bates Motel . . . never catch me staying there . . . rather be dead than caught staying in a place like that, Meg.

You
are
dead, Sherry.

“There’s also a new boutique hotel in Whakami Cove, one town over, if you’re looking for something more upmarket. Pretty ritzy, though.” She passed the card back to Meg along with the slip to sign. “It opened this past summer as part of a big new Kessinger-Sproatt waterfront development. And there’s Bull’s Marina, down on the bay.”

Meg glanced up sharply.

“They have some cabins, but I don’t know if they still stay open during the winter,” the woman said.

“Bull Sutton’s place? It’s still there?”

“You know it?”

“I, uh . . . from years ago.” Meg picked up her bag of goods, but hesitated. “That guy who was just in here—do you know him?”

Suspicion flitted into the woman’s eyes and a frown tilted her brows inward as she weighed Meg’s question.

“No worries. He . . . looked familiar, is all.” Meg nodded to her bag. “Thanks.”

But as she reached the door, the woman called out behind her. “Name’s Mason Mack.”

Meg stalled. Swallowed. A chill trickled down her spine. Trying to keep her voice level, she said, “Guess I don’t know him, then.”

She pushed through the door and into cool mist. Her skin was hot, her blood electric. Rain clattered loudly on the tin roof, and shimmered in a bead curtain beyond the covered area. She climbed into her truck and glanced uneasily in the direction the man’s van had disappeared. A nearly inaudible whine, like a wet finger tracing around the rim of a crystal glass, began circling in her brain.

Mason Mack.

The uncle of the young man who’d raped and strangled her sister. The young man her father had shot and kicked to a pulp. The reason her dad had died in prison.

She reached down, keyed the ignition. Her big diesel truck rumbled to life, and she let it idle a moment as heat blew into the cab and she ripped open the snack cake packet, and ate the awful thing in two bites, welcoming the instant sugar rush. She sipped her coffee, feeling vaguely human again as the whining sound slowly dulled in her head. But as she pulled out of the gas station, in her rearview mirror she saw the woman come up to the store window and stare out at her.

The image of the woman, her encounter with Mason Mack, filled Meg with unease as she arrived at a T-junction intersection with the coast highway. A sign pointed south to Whakami Cove. Another sign pointed north, back into town.

Another bolt of memory sliced through her, the voice louder this time, oddly familiar . . .

Wait. Stop! Don’t run, Meggie, don’t run!

Hot panic flicked through her stomach. Then came a memory of Sherry’s voice . . .

Cover for me, Meg. You won’t regret it . . . just tell Mom and Dad we went to see that new movie . . . do it for me . . . look, here’s some cash . . .

Then
wham
. Yet another image. A flicker of black shapes against blinding white. It came with a sharp slice of pain up the back of her head. Then it was gone. Trees in her headlights bent suddenly in the wind, the gust tearing debris free that hurtled across the road and smacked into her windshield. She jumped, pulse racing, past slamming into present—a dark, wet, black horror trying to rise out of the abyss of her mind and crawl into her consciousness. With it came a raw instinct to flee. South. On the back of it rode a compulsion to stand ground, fight it. Make it show itself—this horror.

Prove it. Prove you can go all the way and get the life you deserve.

You haven’t been back to see your aunt since she went into that home . . .

She gripped the wheel tight.
Fine, you damn town. You don’t want to let go, then you got me.
Gritting her teeth, she turned north, to Shelter Bay, clamping down on all her reasons for coming back. A mile in she took another turn, this time toward the ocean, negotiating the zigzagging road down to the bay.

And there it was. Through the mist and whipping rain, the faint pulse of the lighthouse beam on the dark rocks of Shelter Head. A guide. A warning. A Janus message being sent out over the black sea.

And as she rounded the point, snugged along the bay, she saw the marina. Above the buildings a neon sign smeared by rain flickered in dull pink:
BULL
’
S MARINA AND CRABBY JACK’S CAFE
. Another memory reared sharp and hungry, clawing open her chest. Blake kissing her on the dock. Her telling him that she was leaving. The desperation, the ferocity in his eyes, the emotion in his voice as he’d pleaded with her to stay, to just try. He’d enlisted the day after she left. Went straight into the army. Became a medic. She hadn’t seen nor heard from him since.

His older brother, Geoff, had also left town, along with so many other of Sherry’s contemporaries. Her murder had come at a time of change in the lives of her fellow graduates, but to Meg it felt as if her sister’s brutal death had precipitated a more seismic shift in this town, and the lives within it.

She wondered if either of the Sutton men ever came home to see their dad. Did Bull manage this marina on his own? He had to be about seventy now—the same age her dad would be, if he were alive.

She rounded another curve dense with brush.

A small
VACANCY
sign beckoned at the top of the long gravel driveway. Meg tapped her brakes, hesitating a moment, before quickly swinging her wheel and taking her rig bouncing down the steep, rutted track to the water.

And she knew she’d just done it—taken her first solid step back into the past, into writing Sherry’s story. Into the murk of her own memory. Because now she would have to speak to Bull Sutton. He’d ask why she was here, and she’d ask him what he remembered about that day that she and Sherry went missing. She’d ask after his boys. And he’d give her their addresses.

There was no turning back now . . .

CHAPTER 3

Meg hoicked up her rain hood, exited her truck, and jogged through the lashing rain to the office. There was a small light on inside. She tried the door. Locked. Cupping her hand against cold glass, she peered in. It looked much the same as it had when she’d left Shelter Bay—a store counter, some crab nets, and other gear on the walls. Life jackets. A vintage postcard display rack. Touristy knickknacks on a few shelves. Stairs at the back climbed up to the residence. Pop fridges flanked an archway that led into what was once Crabby Jack’s Cafe, but now appeared to be a vacant room in the throes of renovation, shrouds of drop cloths on the floor, a ladder in the center of the room.

Meg stepped out from under the covered deck area and, holding her hood against the whipping rain and wind, she squinted up at the top floor where the Sutton men had all lived. There were some lights on up there. She could smell wood smoke from the chimney. Someone was home.

A dog barked.

She hesitated, the sound of the foghorn moaning in the mist. Thunder clapped, and rain redoubled its assault. She ran carefully back to her truck, avoiding the black puddles. She’d check in come morning.

Back inside the camper, she shook out of her wet gear, pulled on a fleece jacket, and turned on the gas heater. It clunked and grumbled to life, blowing air with a noisy fan. The interior started to warm as Meg made her bed, shaking out her down sleeping bag. The camper rocked in the wind, rain drumming on the roof. Eager to ease the chill, Meg poured a small glass of brandy, sipped, then took out her phone. She debated for a moment whether to make the call.

Then, wrapping a throw around her shoulders, she bit the bullet and hit speed dial.

Jonah answered on the fourth ring, voice thick, as if with sleep.

She checked her watch, frowned. “It’s me,” she said.

“Meg. Where . . . where on earth are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for two days.”

“Shelter Bay.” She inhaled. “I came home.”

Silence. Then a ruffling sound, the kind sheets might make. Her pulse quickened. When he spoke again, he sounded different, as if he’d moved location.

“Are you okay, Meg?”

“I—” She worried her engagement ring around her finger, thinking of Jonah’s final words after she’d tried to talk to him again.

Keep it. I don’t want it back . . . it’s just a reminder of what didn’t work. I don’t need a trophy for that.

“I will be.”

“What’re you doing there?”

“I’m going to prove it,” she said quietly. “I’m going to write the story that everyone says I can’t. I’m going to go back into the past, to work through it all, and put it to bed.
The End
.”

A long beat of silence.

“Can you?”

“Yes. No . . . I don’t know. But I’m going to try. And, Jonah . . .” She closed her eyes, taking a moment to corral her emotions. “When I’m done, when I’ve written
The End
, I’m coming back to Seattle, and—” Thickness caught in her throat. She took another beat to marshal herself. “—I . . . hope you’ll still be there.”

A soft curse.

She closed her eyes.

“Meg—”

“Who’s with you?”

“I . . . listen, Meg . . . you were the one who walked out on me. On us. You chose to end it.”

She scrunched her eyes tighter, a hot burn rising in her chest.

He’s been patient, so patient, and I just blew through it all . . .

“I came to Shelter Bay because I want to win you back,” she said softly. “I want the things we spoke about. Children. A family. A proper home—walls and a roof. I
want
to find a way forward, and I want it to be with you.”

“Meg, I . . . I’ll always love you. You know that?”

She killed the call, hands shaking.

Shit.
She scrubbed her hands hard over her face.

What have I done . . .

“Whoa, Lucy, what’s up, girl?” Blake Sutton came running down the stairs in socked feet at the sound of excited barking. He ruffled his black Lab’s fur as he entered the dimly lit office. Cupping his hand against the glass he peered into the dark. He’d thought he’d heard knocking, but the thunder was loud. Rain hammered a din on the tin roof—the old wooden structure creaking like an ancient mariner’s ship in the storm. The buoys tied to the rafters outside beat a steady
thump thump thump
in the wind, accompanied by the low, metronomic moan of the foghorns.

As lightning cracked out over the bay, he caught sight of a hooded figure in a glistening wet coat running along the fence above the small harbor, and ducking into a camper fitted onto a dark truck. A light went on inside the camper, but the blinds were drawn.

Blake watched for a few moments longer. No one in their right mind would be out on a camping trip now. Had to be a traveler passing through.

“Dad!” Noah’s voice came from the top of the stairs. “You coming to read to me, already? You
promise
d
!
”

Lucy bounded back up the stairs at the sound of his son’s voice.

Blake hesitated, watching as a shadow moved behind the camper blinds. Lightning cracked again and thunder boomed, the sound rumbling like a giant off into the dark night. He wondered if that rig would even be there come morning, or if the occupants might decamp before paying. It didn’t matter. His priority right this minute was Noah. He’d learned this the hard way. Way too hard—and reading bedtime stories was one of the few real connections he had with his eight-year-old son at the moment.

“Sure, kid,” he called up. “You better be all tucked in by the time I get up there!”

The thumping of socked feet sounded on the upstairs landing, followed by a skittering of dog claws. Blake clicked off the lights downstairs. He’d check in the newcomers tomorrow,
if
the rig was still there.

Once he was upstairs and had snugged back into pillows propped against the headboard, Noah cuddled under the covers next to him, Lucy lying like a heavy log on their feet, Blake cleared his throat theatrically, and began, “Once upon a time—”

“Oh jeeze, that’s for
babies
, Dad. Read the proper story.”

Blake smiled, just a little. It was rare to tease fun out of Noah. He began to read from their latest boys’ adventure series while outside lightning lashed over the bay and thunder growled. As he read, a part of Blake’s mind wondered again who was huddled outside in that camper, and if they would be there come dawn.

Jonah snagged a fresh, white towel from the pile his housekeeper maintained daily. Naked, he made for the floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors. Beyond the glass, the black surface of his infinity pool shimmered with pockmarks of rain. Mist obscured the ocean view, making eerie halos of lights on the opposite shore. He reached for the door handle.

“What’re you doing?”

He stilled, glanced over his shoulder. Jan Mascioni propped herself up onto her elbow, her breasts small and pale in the dim candlelight. Her hair was blonde, again. It fell in a mussed tangle over her shoulder.

She was beautiful. A good fuck. And not interested in any sort of relationship beyond a hot tumble in the sack. His head pounded. He wished he hadn’t taken Meg’s call. She couldn’t comprehend this side of him—his need for tactile comfort in the face of hurt. She was unable to wrap her head around the idea that he could sleep with a woman, and it didn’t have to mean anything more than that. Besides,
she
was the one who’d made it crystal clear that it was over—three years of their life together. And now this bombshell—he’d had no hint that she was spiraling in this direction. He wasn’t sure how to process the fact she’d returned to Shelter Bay. And why.

“Going for a swim,” he said, coolly. “Coming?”

Jan gave a throaty chuckle as she flopped back onto the pillows, flinging her arms out wide as if in sated bliss. She was comfortable in her own skin, this woman, and had reason to be. She ran at least forty miles a week, held a black belt in karate, taught Krav Maga classes, practiced mindful meditation, and only ate plants. Her physique was faultless. Her mind formidable. Jonah had yet to unearth whatever vulnerability it was that she worked so hard to hide behind her carapace of so-called perfection.

“I’ll keep the bed warm for when you’re done.” She raised a knee to afford him a view of the Brazilian-waxed delta between her thighs.

He felt his groin stir, and he yanked the door open too hard. Chill air gushed in from the night. His hot body braced to meet it.

Cold rain pecked at his bare back as he swam laps until his muscles burned. But when he reentered the house he felt no less relieved.

Toweling his hair, he walked up to the bed. Jan sat up, dropped her feet over the side, and opened her thighs wide, reaching out for his fingertips. She drew him toward her, and lowered her head, teasing his cock with the tip of her warm tongue as he stood there. He felt a moan building in his chest as blood rushed south and his erection rose. Conflict tightened.

He halted her abruptly, hands clamping down firmly on her shoulders.

With heavy-lidded eyes, she looked up. “Not good enough for you tonight, Doc?” she whispered.

“You’re always good, Detective.”

She sat back. “Ah, but not good enough to get
her
out of your system.” She reached for the sheet, wrapped it around her torso, held his gaze for several beats. “I think you love her. I mean, really love her.”

He snorted. “Want a drink?”

“Make mine a double.”

He tucked a towel around his waist, and poured two glasses of Balvenie thirty-year-old whiskey that had been matured in a mixture of traditional oak and sherry casks, his favorite at the moment. He added a small block of ice to hers. He took the crystal glasses to the low table in front of the fire where she joined him, propping her feet up onto the ottoman and warming her toes to the fire. She sipped, and sighed with pleasure as she put her head back, turning to catch his eyes. “You live in the equivalent of a luxury hotel, you know that?”

He pulled a wry mouth.

Outside the rain was turning to snow.

“So, why
did
you let her go, Jonah?” Always the assessing, questioning cop. This was not a woman who rested. She was one of the city’s top homicide detectives with a doctorate in psychology and a scary-ass solve rate. Jonah pitied the poor punk who got on the wrong side of Detective Sergeant Jan Mascioni.

He met her eyes. She was also a good friend of his, and respect he had for her in spades. He shouldn’t have gone back to bed with her like this. The shrink in him knew why he had, though.

“Because she wasn’t going to stay,” he said after a while. He took a big pull on his drink, letting the warmth of alcohol blossom through his chest. “I suppose I knew it from the start. Maybe I was just hoping I was wrong. Tell me,” he said, steering the topic onto safer ground. “Any leads on the floating feet thing?”

“Expect a call from brass in the morning. They want to bring your team on board with this one.” She finished the last of her drink, got up, and dropped her sheet to the floor. She padded over to her pile of clothes, pulled on her skirt and blouse, holster. Adjusting her jacket over her weapon, she slicked her hair back into a ponytail with a deft flick of her hands.

She came over, kissed him full on the mouth. And in his ear, she whispered, “You can have any woman you want, Lawson, and you know it. Time is a healer of all things. Let her go.”

Trouble was, he didn’t want any woman. He wanted the crazy redhead who wrote books in her camper, who didn’t give a shit about his wealth. Who didn’t really fit into his lifestyle at all. Was that
why
he wanted her?

Whatever the reason, he was seized by a dark and pressing sixth sense that maybe he’d made a fatal mistake in forcing her back home, and into the past.

He sipped his drink, wondering if he should have preempted this, her returning to Shelter Bay. Meg Brogan was not one to shy away from a challenge.
If
she wanted something.