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.
“I want to know—”
“Go inside,” Deputy Bobby said, “or you’re going to get arrested.”
I wasn’t sure he’d arrest me, not really. But I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t either.
Inside, that odor was stronger. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The shelter had a simple layout: a storage area with hooks and lockers, where lifeguards must have stored gear and supplies; an ancient desk, with a discolored spot to suggest where once, I suspected, a two-way radio had been bolted; in the corner, a dusty cooler with the name GUS spelled out in duct tape on one side; and a ladder that led up to the observation deck. A bare light bulb hung overhead, but it was off, and with the shutters closed against the day’s bone-white light, the inside of the shelter was dark.
Deputy Bobby stepped in behind me and shut the door. Then it was really dark. And really quiet. Deputy Bobby’s breathing wasn’t exactly agitated. But it wasn’t relaxed, either. My own breathing probably sounded like Road Runner after giving Coyote a run for his money. Deputy Bobby’s silhouette moved slightly—shifting his weight, I thought. Sand rasped and crunched underfoot.
“I have every right to be up there,” I said. It was important to start strong—and to avoid the slightly more complicated question of if I actually did have every right, or if I might have, just a wee bit, been doing some light trespassing. “And you should be happy—”
“I should be happy?”
The thing about Deputy Bobby is that he rarely raised his voice. His tone didn’t even change that much. If you didn’t know him very well, you could have heard that question and thought it was the same way somebody would have asked if he should take out the trash, or if he should stop and pick up groceries on the way home. If you did know him, though—
“Okay, I understand you’re upset, but—”
“Be quiet.”
“—I actually think the sheriff is making a big mistake—”
Deputy Bobby held up his hand. “Stop.”
“—and if you’ll let me explain—”
“Dash.” His voice was a low crack. “Stop talking.”
The sting came a moment later: a flush rising in my face, an airiness in my head. I thought of the night before. How I’d stood there, letting Gerry paw at me. Well, being paralyzed by my own anxiety once a week seemed like more than enough, so I started for the door.
“Hold on—” Deputy Bobby began.
I shook my head.
He still hadn’t moved, but that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t stop me; I knew him well enough for that.
And then my foot came down on something hard and round. A marble—that was my one, instantaneous thought before my foot flew out from under me, and I fell.
Deputy Bobby caught me, of course. It probably wasn’t easy, since I’m a few inches taller than him, and Indira has cookbook after cookbook of just cakes. But Deputy Bobby was also very strong. I was aware of that strength as my brain caught up with my body: the powerful lines of his arms wrapped around me; the hint of saltwater and sweat and a clean, masculine fragrance that was probably his deodorant; the warmth of him. I hadn’t realized, until right then, how cold I was.
