“Those dumb bitches left me there,” she says between heaves. “Throwing the rock through her window was their idea. Then they ran when the cops showed up.”
“That sucks,” Clare says. She must bite her tongue. Nobody hurt. No one dead. No one vanished. The ridiculous simplicity of a bachelorette party gone haywire.
“Relax,” the older woman says, crossing to sit next to Clare. “Your fiancé’s gonna come get you.”
“No. He’s going to die of shame. He’s a lawyer. Do you know how bad this looks?” She pauses and pats at her outfit. “Those fucker cops took my phone!”
“Seriously,” another woman says. “Can you shut up? They’ll give you one call. You know? Like in the movies? You’ll get to make a call.”
The bride looks up earnestly. “Can I ask for one text instead? My fiancé never answers his phone.”
Every woman in the cell laughs, sending the bride into a deeper fit of tears. The older woman reaches for Clare’s hair. She tugs gently on one of the curls and allows it to bounce back.
“What beautiful hair,” she says. “You’re very pretty.”
“Not in this light,” Clare says.
“You look familiar,” another woman says.
This statement always jolts Clare. “I get that a lot. One of those faces.”
“Are you famous?”
“No. Maybe I look like someone famous?”
“No, wait.” The bride wipes her nose with her sleeve. “I saw a video of you getting arrested. One of my friends got a video text of this hot cop arresting a woman in a bar for pulling a gun on some guy who was manhandling his girlfriend.” She points at Clare, wide-eyed. “Oh my God! You’re that woman!”
“She wasn’t his girlfriend,” Clare says.
“You pulled a fucking gun on him!” the bride squeals. “And he was a cop! Oh my God, you’re so screwed.”
One of the women begins a slow clap and the others follow. Despite her exhaustion, despite the knot of rage in her belly, Clare smiles. She waves her hand and lowers her head in a mock bow.
“The Robin Hood of wronged ladies,” the older woman says. “Keep it up and someone will give you your own TV show.”
But Clare isn’t smiling anymore. She only realizes now what this means, her image on a video spread far and wide. She imagines Jason watching it, its contents a beacon pointing exactly to where Clare is now. She feels a swell of distress. Clare stands and grips the bars.
“Do any of you know Germain? The cop who dropped me here?”
“The kid detective?” the older woman says. “He used to be a beat cop. Not a very nice one.”
Nice, Clare thinks. Germain: not a very nice one. She feels only rage at him for bringing her here, for processing her upon arrival at the precinct like any other criminal, fingerprints and a mug shot, for taking her to this cell, for vanishing after that. How many hours has it been since she last saw him? Two? How far has the video of her arrest spread since then? The other women in the cell have returned to minding their own business, a few of them dozing, backs flat on the hard benches. Two have slid to a seated position on the floor. Clare studies them closely, one at a time, until it occurs to her. Ask them.
“Hey,” Clare says. “Do any of you know anything about the Westman family?”
The older woman looks up. “Are you a cop?”
“No,” Clare says, crossing herself. “I swear to God. But I’ve been doing some digging on people who’ve disappeared from Lune Bay. Kendall Bentley was one of them. Stacey Norton?”
The women each look to the older one, who keeps her eyes fixed on Clare.
“Listen,” Clare says. “Would I be in here if I was a cop? Would I be pulling a weapon on another cop in a bar?”
“You should know to stay away from the Westman family,” the older woman says.
“There isn’t much left of them,” Clare says.
“Jack might be dead, but his legacy lives on. Lune Bay is a charming little place on the surface.” She gestures to the jail cell. “But there’s quite the underbelly.”
Jack? First name basis? “You knew him?” Clare asks.
The older woman laughs. “Fuck, no. I mean, not personally. Have you ever heard of a whisper network?”
“Yes,” Clare says.
“There was a lot of money to be had. If you were a pretty girl willing to… bend some rules. Jack Westman wasn’t interested in running his business that way. But his daughter certainly was. And she paid very well.”
“Running the business what way?” Clare asks.
“I’m sure you can guess the gist of it,” the older woman says. “Business is business, right? You need a signature on a permit but someone down at city hall is being difficult. You need some deal to go through. These pencil pushers are all family men. They’ve got wives and kids. Incriminating photos can go a long way. But sometimes the ladies in these photos would… stop turning up.”
“You mean disappear,” Clare says.
“My take is that most of them just got paid to stay away. To move on. Still, we take care of each other, right? So, the whisper network. Women around here let each other know. Anything with the Westman family is a high-risk venture.”
“I heard stories about some kind of cult,” one of the younger women says. “They had this cabin in the woods and they’d do these ceremonies. Sacrifices.”
“Jesus Christ.” The older woman rolls her eyes. “No. That’s just some made-up shit to throw you offtrack. It was all pretty bread-and-butter stuff.”
“You mentioned Jack Westman’s daughter. You mean Zoe?”
“I’m not saying another word.” The older woman zips her lips and points to the camera trained on them from the high corner of the cell. “Cops are all in on it too. You’re wading into shark-infested waters, my friend.”
“I would love to talk to you some more,” Clare pleads. “Maybe when we both get out of here?”
The older woman laughs. “Sure thing. I’ll invite you over to my condo for some wine
