“But it was your idea, right? I mean, you must have been the majority shareholder, or however you say it.”

She started to nod again. Then she brought her head up and considered me. Her expression wasn’t wary. It wasn’t even defensive, not exactly. But it was...closed, I guess, in a way it hadn’t been before.

I decided to risk a lie. “The reason I ask is I heard the cops talking about an argument you guys had. About money, right?”

The caution in her expression evaporated in a flash of heat. “No, not about money. About his stupid idea to turn this into a daycare. Listen, I like working with kids. But this is my surf camp. It’s not an amenity for his planned community. It doesn’t matter whose name is on the paperwork.” She drew a breath. “Who said we were having an argument?”

I didn’t want to get into a game of he said-she said, mostly because I had no idea who had said anything, so I said, “How’d he get up there, anyway?”

“What?”

“On the cliff. Did anyone see him after, you know, that stuff with Bobby?”

Jen shifted her weight. “I don’t get why you’re so interested.”

Genius struck again. “Oh, I was just thinking out loud, I guess. Wondering about liability, you know—if the family might sue because the surf camp was negligent.”

“That’s ridiculous! He was so drunk he could barely stand up—you saw him staggering out of here. And I wasn’t his babysitter. You walk that way—” She pointed toward the ocean. “—and you end up right at the cliffs. Flat ground, an easy walk. It’s only a few hundred yards.”

I tried to construct a mental map. That made sense—the route I’d taken the night before, when I’d been following Deputy Bobby, had definitely taken me downhill until I reached the beach. The route had also curved a fair bit, following the natural slope of the ground. It made sense that it would have taken me longer to go down to the beach and then along the bluffs to reach the spot where Gerry had fallen; Gerry, on the other hand, could have gotten there in a few minutes (depending on how many times he stumbled along the way, I guess).

“Do you mind if I take a look?”

Her eyes widened; apparently, she hadn’t been expecting that. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because a man died out there.”

“Technically, he died on the beach, not on the cliff.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I just need a quick look. I promise I won’t disturb anything.”

“No!” She seemed to be trying to think of a reason because then she said, “The deputies were out there all night. You might mess something up.”

“But they already left,” I said. “Which means they’re done.”

I took a step in the direction she pointed, and she moved into my path. “You can’t go out there. It’s like you said: the cliffs are dangerous, and what if the camp is liable? I don’t want to be on the hook for anybody else.”

“I’ll sign a waiver.”

When I tried to step around her again, she caught my arm. She was strong—I’d known she was strong, but she was even stronger than she looked. “I think you should leave.” She released me and stepped back, but she was still in my way. She wouldn’t quite meet my eyes as she said, “I’m sorry about what happened to you, but I don’t feel comfortable letting you wander around out there.”

I got back in the Jeep and left, but instead of going back to the state highway, I took the first turn I came to. It led me south, in the general direction of Klikamuks Head. The dirt roads weren’t labeled, but fortunately, everybody who drove back this far was headed for the same place: the beach.

It took me fifteen minutes to find another route down to the water, and I parked on a square of flattened grass where a piece of driftwood had been laid like a parking stop. Beaches in Oregon—every inch of coastline, in fact—were public property, which meant that while Jen might have the authority to kick me out of the surf camp (although I wasn’t sure about that, since Gerry had been the owner), she couldn’t keep me off the beach.

When I got out of the Jeep, the sound of the surf met me, and a stiff breeze raked my hair. Big, white-capped waves tumbled and broke out on the water. I shivered; the canvas jacket, I decided, definitely wasn’t going to cut it.

I worked my way up the beach as quickly as I could, sticking to the firmer sand near the waterline and setting a pace that balanced speed and, well, my current level of conditioning. The wind made a high-pitched noise, and when it faded, even for a moment, the detritus of shells crunched underfoot. I’d read about the bottom of the ocean. Marine snow, that’s what they called it: the powdery blizzard of bone dust left by millions—billions—of deaths. The day had a crushed, grayish-white glow. Still no shadows.

It was faster going this time. I passed the lifeguard tower and the racks of drying wetsuits, the surfboards lined up at attention. Nobody was out on the water today. It’d be nice to think they were grieving Gerry—it’d be nice to think somebody was grieving him, anyway. But I had a feeling this had more to do with the surf conditions, and possibly with Jen, than it did with anything else.

When I reached the bluffs, I cut across the sand and found a path—barely more than a cut in the rocky face—I could scramble up. Stone gave back the sound of my breathing, which, admittedly, was starting to sound a little labored. I pushed my way through scrub, the brush stiff and rustling. A few thorns caught the backs of my hands. Then the bushes and tall grass gave way to hemlock and pine, and I crested the rise.

As I made my way to the cliff where Gerry had fallen, the wind rose, and over the slap of the waves came the creak and protest of the branches above me. He’d come out here at night, I thought. Drunk. Maybe he’d wanted to see the water. I glanced behind me; the nearest outbuilding of the camp couldn’t have been more than a couple hundred yards, which meant Jen had been telling the truth. Maybe he’d just wanted some privacy, time to collect the shreds of his dignity, not unlike Deputy Bobby. Or maybe, like a boy, he’d wanted to pee off a cliff.

Not fell, a part of my brain revised. Was pushed.

But—had he been pushed? My memory of finding Gerry was a welter of impressions: the swash running over my feet, the spray on the side of my face, the heat of a held breath in my chest. In the dark, Gerry had been nothing more than a jumble of body parts. And while I had been sure, earlier, that I’d seen a shadow above me, now that I stood here, it seemed…well, unlikely was the politest way to put it. The cliff was higher than I realized. And there’d only been weak, ambient light. It could have been a trick of my eyes. It could have been a drop of water on my glasses.

Adjusting my glasses now, I pushed through the last line of hemlocks to reach the edge of the cliff. A stiff gale met me, braced me, howled in my face. I stared down at the lip of ground that ran until the drop: a few weeds, and then nothing but small stones and pebbles, basically gravel. No sign of a footprint. No disturbance to suggest a man had ever stood here—much less that he had struggled here and been forced to his death. Closer to the trees there was a thin layer of soil, but even that looked clear of any possible impression. I turned on the flashlight on my phone and raked the light, trying to catch a hint of some depression or other irregularity to suggest Gerry had walked here, stood here, hell, that he’d ever even been here.

Nothing but the marks I’d made.

I gave up and started back the way I’d come. I tried to replay the events of the night: finding Gerry’s body, the stunned realization of what I’d stumbled across, and then—had it been movement? Had something at the edge of my vision drawn my attention, and that’s why I’d looked up? Or had it been automatic, instinctual: mapping his fall in reverse, my brain still trying to understand what had happened. I eased my way down the steep path, and with every step, I was less certain I’d seen what I thought I’d seen. If there had been something to see, the professionals would have found it. And I’d just seen with my own eyes, there was nothing—

There was nothing to see.

My heart started to beat a little faster. My brain whirred. I was so caught up in my thoughts that I skidded-slipped-slid the last few yards to the bottom of the bluff. There’d been nothing to see up there. Even though gravel and damp soil should have taken some kind of print. Which meant—

I hadn’t been paying attention. As I dropped down from the rocky chute I’d been following, I caught a glimpse of movement too late. A hand grabbed me and spun me in a circle.

I reared back, fighting to pull free. And then I stopped and stared at Deputy Bobby.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked. (It was more of a shout.) “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

Deputy Bobby was dressed in a dark green rain jacket, dark jeans, and his old hiking boots. With the hood up, and the day’s skeletal light, the effect was like camouflage. No, my brain told me as it caught up. It was camouflage. Because Deputy Bobby was out here sneaking.

He still hadn’t said anything, but I recognized the tension in his jaw, the way he set himself, arms folded across his chest. I’d only made Deputy Bobby mad a few times, and it was never a fun experience.

“You scared me,” I said in a milder voice. “I thought—” I thought the killer had gotten me, I almost said, but I was saving that line for when I was asked to star in a local production of Nancy Drew and the Scary Deputy. “I thought I was in trouble.”

“Funny you should say that,” Deputy Bobby said.

Chapter 5

Deputy Bobby chivvied me along the beach. He didn’t push. He didn’t prod. I got the impression that he was battling a powerful urge to take me by the arm and haul me along like we were headed to the principal’s office, but he somehow managed to keep his hands to himself. He didn’t need to do any of that; all he had to do was point, and I scooted right along.

But when we approached the lifeguard tower, Deputy Bobby made a sharp noise and cocked his head, and I realized he meant I was supposed to turn. Tower was a misleading description—it was more like a small hut or cabin built on a metal frame. A shelter, I guess. The shelter was a wooden structure that had probably, one day in the distant past, been a beautiful shade of light blue. The paint was the color of a dead pigeon now, with a molted look where large strips had peeled away. It had big windows behind wooden shutters, deep eaves, and what appeared to be an observation deck on top. A ramp led up to the tower, with an old metal bucket chained to the post at the bottom. Deputy Bobby made that noise again, and I followed the ramp.

“What’s happening?” I asked when I reached the shelter.

Deputy Bobby stepped past me. He did something to the door, and the hinges screeched as it swung open. Inside, the shelter was dark, and a faint, musty odor like wet wood and mildew wafted out.