“Hi, Jen,” I said.

She moved her mouth soundlessly once. Sweat glistened on her forehead, even though the house was cool. When she tried again, she managed to get the words out, but they were rough. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Don’t do that!” The hand with the gun wavered, and in a more controlled voice, she said, “Don’t. The files. Where are they?”

“What files?”

“Gerry’s blackmail files. I know he had duplicates, and I know you found them. Where are they?”

“That’s why you—”

“Yes.” The word sounded thick in her throat. “Yes, that’s why I killed him. Because he was blackmailing me.”

“You know, just one time, I would like to be the one who explains everything.”

Jen, though, was on a roll. “The weasel waited until he knew he had me hooked. We’d started construction on the surf camp. I’d invested everything I had, plus the loans. I thought he was just a kooky old guy who liked to look at the eye candy. And then one night, he came to my apartment and told me.”

“He knew you were using—”

“HGH. Yeah. He figured it out somehow.”

I should have figured it out sooner too. Not only because Gerry’s laptop had showed a recent search for somatotropin, another name for human growth hormone. At the time, I’d written it off as part of Gerry’s quest to stay young. But I should have noticed it in Jen. Her age. Her attempts to stay competitive. The acromegaly—the continued growth of bones in her face and hands and, I was sure, her feet too. It was a distinctive look. And, of course, any business partner of Gerry’s should have been at the top of my list.

“I tried to blow it off,” Jen said, “but I didn’t fool him. And then I tried to explain. He didn’t understand. It’s hard enough to be a woman in this sport. It’s even harder to be queer. And every year, it’s a little harder to get up on the board, a little harder to stay up, a little harder to do everything that used to be easy. It wasn’t too bad when we did the surf camp once a year; I could get by. But a permanent surf camp? Running this place year-round? I’m the owner. I’m the lead instructor. Who’s going to come if I’m just another old lady trying to relive my glory days.”

I had my own doubts about those glory days—my guess was that Jen had always had an excuse for why she needed just a little help. But that wasn’t really the point. I said, “And Gerry wanted you to pay.”

“To pay? He wanted everything. He was going to take all of it. Sure, I’d own the surf camp in name, but it would be his. He was going to turn it into—into a kiddie park. An attraction. One more stupid perk for his planned community. He was going to scrap all the stuff that made it important, all the stuff I’d worked for. He told me to forget about all that gay stuff; he had a better idea. Like that was the end of the story. Everything I’d worked for, and he was going to take it away. If he talked, my reputation would be ruined. Nobody would come here to learn how to surf, not from me. It would be over before it started. He was going to ruin everything.”

“And then you saw your chance.”

Jen shook her head—not at my words, but at something else. A memory maybe. Or some part of her that still protested. “He was sloshed. You saw him. You saw how he was; he couldn’t keep his hands off you. And I’d been thinking all day about when Nate tackled him at the beach. Seeing that, seeing Gerry go down, seeing him get hurt.” She stopped. She flexed the fingers of her free hand. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how good it felt. And then it happened again. Bobby. Good old Bobby. He got right in Gerry’s face and let that ancient fart have it. God, it felt so good. I thought, this is how it would feel if he died. This is how it would feel, like this.” Her voice took on an unbelieving note. “And then he walked straight out toward the cliffs. It was like—like someone meant for it to happen. Like it was supposed to be this way. Everybody else was busy with the party. Nobody noticed when I left. Gerry didn’t even know I was following him. He was angry. He was embarrassed—humiliated, I guess. I could tell from how he walked. He didn’t have any idea where he was going—he was just walking, just trying to get away. He walked right up to the edge of the cliff. He was swaying; he could hardly stay upright. I didn’t even have to push him that hard.”

The silence that came after was thicker, deeper. She was looking at me, but I didn’t think she was seeing me. And then her eyes focused, and her expression flattened out until she looked like a different person. Her fingers flexed around the grip of the gun.

“Where are the files?”

“It wasn’t just the drugs, though, was it?” I tried to keep my eyes on her face, but the gun kept pulling my gaze back. “That wasn’t the only thing he had on you.”

She pulled her head back to the edge of the lamp’s light. Shadows swallowed up her eyes.

“Because you killed—”

“Yes.” The word was small and fragile. “Yes, I killed Ali.”

Once, I thought. Just once I wanted to get a chance to explain.

“It was an accident. We were arguing. I was so angry.” She stopped. She was nothing more than a silhouette now, but the dry click of her throat was clear in the quiet. “She wouldn’t get up. And there was so much blood.” Her voice frayed on the last word, and silence rolled in on another dark tide. “I don’t know how he found out. He said he had evidence.”

“You faked the—”

“The vandalism. Yes.” Her voice was growing stronger. “For weeks. That was his idea too.”

“To make sure people thought she was still alive. That’s why no one could figure out how the cameras kept getting disabled, how she kept sneaking past the surfers who were standing guard. Because you were doing it, so that when she finally did ‘disappear’—”

“I’d have the perfect alibi.” Her breathing was smoothing out. That dry click came again in her throat. “After…Gerry, I thought I’d done everything perfectly. I made sure I didn’t leave any footprints. And I knew, with the party as wild as it had been, no one would notice I’d been gone. It had only been a few minutes, and if I nudged the right person, I was sure they’d ‘remember’ I’d been with them all night. Once the police had left, I broke a few windows. It was almost dawn by that point. I didn’t know the medical examiner had said it was an accident; I thought the sheriff would make the connection to Ali.”

“Jen, why don’t you put down the gun?” I asked. “You don’t want to do this. Bobby’s your friend. Keme too. This isn’t the Jen they know and care about. They wouldn’t want you to do this—none of your friends would.”

The silence was a held breath. And then she gave a strange, tilt-a-whirl laugh. “They wouldn’t be my friends if they knew the truth, though, would they?”

“That’s not true—”

“We’re done talking, Mr. Dane. I want those files. And then I’ll leave, and no one has to get hurt.”

She wasn’t a particularly good liar; her tone slipped at the end, and I wondered how she’d been able to get away with everything for as long as she had. Then Jen gestured with the gun, and my nerves almost failed me. I could shout. I could try to run. But even if Jen wasn’t a crack shot, she only had to hit me once to kill me, and she was close enough that I didn’t want to risk it.

Hands raised in surrender, I stood and moved toward the billiards table. Jen followed, keeping the gun trained on me. Her hand had steadied; any doubt or fear had vanished. She was going to get what she wanted, whatever the cost. I figured that had been Jen’s way her whole life—this was just the next level. As we moved out of the ring of lamplight, I watched each step, trying not to trip over the shadowy shapes of rugs and end tables and potted plants and who knew whatever else. You could say one thing about Victorian homes: they weren’t short on junk.

“The files—” Jen said.

“I hid them. I thought this might happen. I thought someone might hear I’d found them. Someone might come looking.” I took a breath. “How’d you find out?”

“Keme,” she said with a voice of grim satisfaction. “He couldn’t wait to tell Damian. Keme has a bit of a man-crush on you, in case you weren’t aware. And Damian wanted to know everything he could about you.”

I wasn’t sure Jen had her facts right—I put Keme near the top of my list of people who seemed to be annoyed by my very existence—but then, Jen didn’t seem like she was playing with a full set of marbles. Before I had to respond to her comment, though, my hip bumped the billiards table. I found the rail and slid my hand along it, counting the diamonds (mother-of-pearl inset into the aged mahogany).

“What are you doing?” Jen demanded. “This better not be a trick.”

“It’s not a trick. This is an old house. There are a lot of secrets. I told you I had to hide the files.” I found the correct diamond; it moved slightly under my finger. “I’m going to press this, and a panel in the wall is going to open.” I gave a nervous laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. “I don’t want to startle you.”

“Which panel?” Jen said. “Where?”

“Over there. Next to the cue rack.”

She gave me a long, considering look. And then she said, “I’m telling you, this better not be a trick.”

“No tricks.”

A second passed. Then another. “All right.”

I pressed the diamond. The concealed latch snicked.

Jen gave a nervous laugh and peered through the gloom, obviously trying to tell if the panel had opened. “That’s it?”

“That’s it. The documents are in there.”