“I’d like to come back,” Clare says, standing. “I’ll have more questions. If you’ll see me again.”
“Anytime,” he says. “It’s been a pleasure.”
The guard takes Donovan by the elbow to support him as he hoists to his feet. Clare watches as he shuffles through the door. Donovan looks back to Clare as the guard bends to remove his shackles. She is grateful for the metal door between them.
The sand is dark and gritty under Clare’s shoes. She digs a heel in and drags it to draw a line parallel to the water. Every color on this beach is washed out by the last of the day’s light. At the end of the beach is a peninsula with a suspension bridge spanning the bay, the beams of oncoming headlights like yellow eyes pointed at Clare.
Pebble Beach, Charlotte had written. 8pm.
It is 7:57. Clare arrived here directly from the prison. The shore is dotted with gray driftwood but devoid of people. Clare thinks of her mother, dead in her forties without ever having set foot in the ocean. When Clare was little, summers were about their farm, about the harvest. Any trips they took were perfunctory visits to see family members in the city. Their entire life unfolded within a small radius, the ocean a distant dream. How easy it is, Clare knows, to remain tethered to your small corner of the world. She inhales deeply. This day has been too long, too overwhelming. The salt in the air burns her lungs.
“Clare,” says a voice behind her.
Clare turns to find Charlotte almost upon her, her approach drowned out by the noise of the ocean. Charlotte sidles up to her so they are shoulder to shoulder, both squared to the horizon.
“I was trying not to startle you,” Charlotte says.
“You didn’t,” Clare says. “I’m glad you texted.”
Everything about Charlotte’s demeanor has shifted from yesterday morning. She seems relaxed next to Clare, her shoulders loose, hands in her pockets, an entirely different person from the woman Clare encountered at Malcolm and Zoe’s home yesterday.
“I was thinking about you last night,” Charlotte says. “It kept me up, actually. We got off on the wrong foot.”
“A gun at my head is the wrong foot?” Clare says. “You don’t say.”
“Well. You broke into my dead sister’s house.”
Dead. Why, Clare wonders, does Charlotte keep insisting that Zoe is dead? It’s as if she’s goading Clare.
“No more guns, then,” Clare says. “We agree on that?”
“No more guns. Kavita talked to me, by the way. She thinks I should trust you.”
“I wish you would,” Clare says. “I think we want the same thing.”
“I just want my life back.”
“Yes,” Clare says. She pauses for a few beats. “This really is a beautiful spot.”
“We used to come here when I was young. My mom would pack us these picnics. She insisted on these gestures of togetherness.” Charlotte points to the waves. “I never swam. The water is too cold, and the undertow is fierce. But Zoe and my dad…” She pauses, remembering. “They’d swim far out. Zoe would let these huge waves crash into her. I remember my mom yelling at my dad that one of the waves was going to snap her neck. She was so reckless, even back then. So was he.”
“My mother used to say the same thing about me,” Clare says.
Charlotte shifts so she is facing Clare. “I need her to be dead. Officially declared dead.”
“Why?”
“You said yesterday that you can help. Kavita says you’ll help.”
“I can,” Clare says. “But I can’t have someone declared dead when there’s no proof that they are. Honestly, Charlotte? I find it strange that this is what you want. Your sister dead.”
“What do you know about my dad?” Charlotte asks.
“I’ve done some research. I’m not sure all of your father’s business dealings were on the up-and-up.”
“Ha. I’ll say. But he had this thing about ‘taking care of us.’ My mom. Zoe and me. Zoe went to college but I never did. I got married and had a kid when I was twenty. My dad loved my daughter. She lived like a princess.”
“And then your dad was murdered.”
“Yeah. It was like it never fucking occurred to me that he wouldn’t be there to take care of me.” She laughs. “That the money wouldn’t be there. My dad died, then the family business went to shit. My husband left, took our daughter. My mom’s heart gave out. My parents’ house was repossessed after my dad’s business partner was convicted. Zoe was fine. She had Malcolm to take care of her. Then she vanishes. Then Malcolm vanishes too. Jesus. Malcolm was rich, you know that, right?”
“Yes,” Clare says. “But I still don’t understand why you want Zoe dead.”
For a moment Charlotte stares out to the water, kicking at the sand.
“I don’t want her dead,” she says. “I want her declared dead. It’s not the same thing. The glass house is in Zoe’s name. It’s worth millions. I need a place to live. I need to clean up and hire a good lawyer. I need… stability. That’s all I want. And I’m Zoe’s next of kin.”
“Isn’t Malcolm the next of kin? They never got divorced.”
“Next of kin? He’s evil. He’s a fucking murderer.”
The venom in Charlotte’s words rattles Clare. A murderer. Clare’s every instinct wants to push back against this notion, to defend Malcolm against such an accusation. How well Clare knows that she could be wrong about him. After all, what is her life so far but failing to see men for their true colors until it’s too late? She thinks of the Westman family photograph, the way Charlotte leaned into Malcolm. Clare crouches to pick up a rock and toss it under a curling wave.
“You believe that Malcolm killed Zoe?”
Charlotte stares forward. Clare waits for an answer, but none comes.
“I don’t know what Malcolm did or didn’t do,” Clare says. “I’m here to find
