My apartment is one thousand square feet with wall-to-wall wood floors coated in layers of shiny polyurethane. The furniture is secondhand, as is the shag rug. A small kitchen sports white cabinets and appliances that date back at least two decades.
In the living room I’ve hung colorful posters ordered off the internet that not only cover peeling paint but feature all the places I’d like to see for real one day: Muir Woods, Paris, Rome, and London. Dream big, I always tell the girls in my circle.
In the corner there’s a browning Christmas tree I put up four weeks ago. I’ve celebrated Christmas since I left foster care. The tree represents hope, kindness, a goodwill-to-all kind of thing. I even go so far as to wrap a present from me to me and set it under the tree. This year, I gifted myself a new knit hat and matching gloves.
I glance toward a tall bookshelf filled with books from school and library sales. There’s also a repurposed dining room table that doubles as my study desk. A lot of my dissertation research is done on the street, but the bulk of the writing happens here.
I’d budgeted the long weekend off, so I don’t have to be anywhere. Most days I’m robbing Peter to pay Paul timewise, and I’m not sure what to do with the free time. I head to the shower and turn on the hot spray.
Stripping, I pile my clothes on the bathroom floor and step into liquid heat. The water pulses my skin, washing away hospital smells, and the last remnants of Kyle’s blood swirl around my feet and down the drain.
From the outset, I was punching above my weight with Kyle. He was smart and sophisticated, and what he saw in a would-be social worker who worked as a barista was beyond me. But we’d clicked. Opposites do attract, I guess.
I shut off the tap, towel dry my forgettable shortish, light brown hair. I gingerly re-dress in the clothes Shelly brought me, finger comb my curling hair, and limp into the kitchen. I set up the coffeepot. As I hit “Brew,” a fist pounds against my front door.
Shelly. What has she forgotten? I don’t think twice as I cross to the door and open it. Standing outside my door is the man from the hospital parking lot. Mild annoyance furrows his brow as he stares at me. Did he follow Shelly and me here?
“That was rude,” he says.
Chapter Two
LANE
Friday, December 29, 2023
10:15 p.m.
It was one thing to have this guy beating on a car window in a public parking lot, but it’s another level of creepy to find him standing on my doorstep. The ick factor hits a dangerous level. “I don’t know what you want, mister, but I don’t have it.” I move to close the door.
He stops the door with his foot. “Not yet, Lane. We need to talk.”
That large, broad frame has grown exponentially since the parking lot. And he’s staring at me like I have a third eye. He hesitates, waiting for something. If it’s an invitation, he’s out of luck. “I’m with the sheriff’s department.”
I didn’t see that coming. “What?”
“Your accident happened in my jurisdiction. I was hoping to catch you in the hospital so we could talk, but you left so quickly. Dr. Jackson asked me to remind you to take it easy.”
It’s standard advice any doctor might dole out to a woman who’s had a fall. If he thinks that tidbit is going to ease the unsettling feeling he’s stirring, he’s wrong. My grip on the door tightens. “Do you have a badge?”
He fishes one from his pocket, holds it up in front of my face, and then quickly tucks it back. The credentials look real enough. “I’m Detective Becker. I want to talk to you, Ms. McCord. I have questions about the fall.”
“This isn’t a good time, Detective.”
“There’s never going to be a good time, Lane. I know you’ve been through a lot. May I come in? You look like you need to sit down.”
I shift my stance, dropping more weight on my right side. I’m braced to slam the door as soon as that size-thirteen foot moves. “There’s not much I can tell you, Detective Becker. I don’t remember the fall.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to need more. A man died, and you were the only witness to his death. I need to know what happened at the top of those stairs.”
“I don’t remember.” Tears well in my eyes. Shit. I never cry. Now twice in one hour. “I remember arriving at the cottage. Dr. Iverson and I were upstairs. He was giving me a tour. We returned to the top of the stairs, and then . . . nothing.”
“You met Kyle Iverson a few weeks ago, correct?” His voice softens a little.
“Yes, how did you know that?”
“I spoke to Devon.” When the name doesn’t ring a bell, he adds, “She manages Kyle Iverson’s beach house. She keeps it clean, stocked with supplies, etc. According to her, Kyle told her about you.”
Kyle had given me a number to call in case of an emergency. That must be Devon. Unsettling to have strangers discussing me. “Oh. I didn’t see her today.”
“How did you meet Iverson?”
My pulse throbs along my left side. “Why does this matter?”
“Humor me.”
“We met in the coffee shop where I work,” I say. “He quickly became a regular and asked me out. We’ve been dating casually for a few weeks, but this weekend was supposed to be . . .”
“I get it.” Detective Becker drops his gaze briefly as a muscle tenses in his jaw. When he looks up, his arrow-like gaze hasn’t softened. “How long were you at the house?”
“We arrived about noon. I understand we fell around one.”
“The rescue squad arrived about one fifteen.”
Such a remote stretch of beach, yet word traveled so fast. “Who called for help?”
“There’s a contractor working across the street. He dialed 9-1-1.”
“Working over the holidays?”
“Apparently, a pipe burst in the house. It was an emergency, and seeing as he owns the company and everyone was on holiday, he took the call.”
“Right.” Kyle had received a call when we were driving across the bridge, and as we pulled into his driveway, he had glanced toward the black truck parked across the street. He’d looked slightly annoyed. “I suppose I’m lucky he was around. How did he know we fell?”
“The contractor said he heard you and Kyle fighting.” The statement dangles between a question and an accusation.
“What would we have been fighting about? We’d only been on the property an hour.”
He’s staring, as if he’s trying to peel back layers. “I don’t know. Again, you tell me.”
I press fingers to my temple. Suddenly, I’m so exhausted. “We weren’t fighting. We’d just arrived. Maybe he heard a radio or television. Why would we fight?” The last question is more for me.
He shrugs, but his foot doesn’t move off the threshold. “You’re the witness, not me.”
My shoulders slump with fatigue. “I’ve no idea.”
He draws in a breath. “How are you doing, Lane?”
Each time he says my name, there’s extra weight behind it, as if he’s testing its strength. “I’m banged up, but I’m fine. Like the doctor said, I need rest.”