“Interested in knowing the autopsy results?” He speaks to me like we’re mystery-solving pals. Only we’re not. This is clearly a cop technique. Lure them in. Get them to trust you.
“It was an accident.” If I keep repeating the words, maybe all this will feel less tragic.
“Shattered C-4 disc. The fall severed his spine immediately. Death was instantaneous. He felt no pain.” He rubs the side of his neck. “If he’d landed a little differently, he might have survived with bruises, or he could’ve spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Damage to that part of the spine is measured in millimeters.”
“The ER doctor said my clothes were soaked in his blood,” I say quietly.
“Head wounds bleed a lot. Doesn’t mean they’re serious. But a broken neck . . . well, it’s usually game over.”
I cringe. “Oh.”
He’s still watching, testing. “The medical examiner ruled the cause of death undetermined.”
“What does that mean?”
Creases run across his forehead. They’re the wrinkles of someone who worries. “There are three manners of death. Natural. Homicide. Undetermined.”
“Accidents are natural.”
“They can be, but I’m not totally convinced.”
“Are you accusing me of murder?”
He shakes his head slowly. “You said yourself, you don’t remember. And the neighbor heard you fighting. I need to fill in the missing pieces.”
“The neighbor is wrong. I was excited to see the beach and spend time with Kyle.”
“You’d been drinking, and there were drugs in your system.”
“A glass of champagne. Prescription meds taken the night before.” Frustration warms my cheeks.
“Don’t get upset with me, Lane. I’m only telling you what I know.”
This guy is holding too many cards close to his vest. “You’re suggesting I had something to do with his death.”
“I’m not.”
Then why are we having this conversation? “I can’t do this right now.”
“Get a coffee with me, Lane. My treat. Seeing as you sell the stuff, I bet you know the best places to get it.” When I don’t respond, he adds in a lighter tone, “You look like you could use a good meal.”
Eating hasn’t been on my priority list for months. “No. I think that the next time we talk, I should have a lawyer.”
“You can’t afford PT, Lane. The retainer is twenty-five grand for a case involving a death.” A smile teases his lips. “Can you afford a lawyer?”
No, I can’t. Still, none of this feels right. There are layers under layers that I’m not privy to, and I know for a fact that the brain requires two sleep cycles to fully process a trauma. “There are lawyers that don’t require money up front. They take a portion of the settlement.”
“There’s no lawsuit. This would be a criminal case. You’ll be racking up billable hours with whomever you hire.”
“I don’t need this now.”
His grin widens, and he holds up his hands. He seems pleased I’m rattled. “Okay. Backing off, Lane. For now.”
I don’t slam the door when he steps back. I watch him turn and walk down the front steps. Hands in pockets, Detective Becker moves easily, casually, as if insinuating I’ve committed murder is just another Friday. He walks past all the cars parked at the curb and vanishes around the corner.
I don’t know when he’s coming back, but I suspect Detective Becker is a man of his word. He’s not done with me yet.
Chapter Three
LANE
Saturday, December 30, 2023
7:00 a.m.
The fall replays in small, broken sound bites. We’re on the top landing. Kyle has his back to the stairs as he’s looking at me. He’s smiling. But am I? My hands raise to his chest. I feel his racing heartbeat. He grips my forearm. Is he losing his balance? There’s no time to process because a second later there’s air under our feet.
I sit up on the couch. My pulse pounds fast, and my palms are slick with sweat. What happened? How did we go from him smiling to dying? Was he reaching out in desperation because he felt his balance teeter? Those missing milliseconds hover in a hazy darkness.
Swinging my legs over the side of the couch, I glance toward my Christmas tree. Needles fall, joining the others in a green ring around the base. I’ll take the tree down after the New Year because it’s bad luck to do it before then.
What am I doing here? I was supposed to be waking up beside Kyle now. I should be nestled close to him, filled with hope and contentment.
But I’m home. And alone. Cinderella has left the ball. And she’s not only lost her slipper, but she’s battered and bruised, and a cop thinks she might have killed the prince. “How did I get here, Kyle?”
When Kyle pulls off the main road, the dazzling sun is almost too warm. I crack a window and drink in the cold ocean breeze as he crosses over the cattle guard where Route 12 terminates into soft sand. Waves roll up onto the beach, and the ocean is as smooth as glass. Immediately, we pass a small four-door car that’s mired in the sand and a tow truck driver attaching a strap to the vehicle’s underside. Beside the car stand two young men wearing jeans and puffer jackets.
“All-wheel drive doesn’t cut it on a day like today,” Kyle says.
“It’s bright and sunny. And the beach looks so smooth.”
“Can’t be fooled by this place. It rained hard last night, and the sand is extra soft. If I hadn’t driven this so many times, I’d be nervous.”
“Are you going to stop and help?” I ask.
“Naw. That truck driver has it. Hate to take away any of his holiday revenue. And those two guys will never forget this expensive lesson.”
The side mirror again catches the mired car and its helpless occupants. Raised in the city, I’ve only had concrete and asphalt under my feet. I’ve had flats before, but I can fix those. But a car mired in quicksand is beyond my skill set.
The Range Rover bucks as the front tire slams through a patch of soft sand. I grip the door, and my seat belt keeps me from pitching forward. For an instant, I’m certain we are now stuck. “Are we stuck?”
Kyle grins and presses hard on the accelerator. “We’re fine.”
“What’s the weekend weather like?”
“We’ve got weather coming in, so we might be trapped at the cottage for a few days. When do you have to be back?”
I grip the door tighter. “Wednesday.”
“What if we’re stuck here for weeks or months?”
His teasing is unsettling. “We’ll just have to walk out.”
Laughing, he lobs an amused glance my way. “You aren’t scared, are you, baby?”
“Of course not,” I lie.
He speeds up, zooming past tree stumps that are echoes of a migrating shoreline and a long-lost forest. The sand smooths out for a stretch, and he drives close to the ocean. Waves glistening with sunlight crash within feet of the Range Rover.
The beach is deserted. I’ve read that in the summer it’s filled with tourists and parked four-wheel-drive vehicles. I’ve also read that the 4x4 beach, as it’s called, is home to over one hundred wild horses who come with nonnegotiable no feeding or touching rules. The horses were brought to the Outer Banks by the Spanish four hundred years ago and now live in a fenced-off sanctuary in the woodlands behind the dunes.