“That’s the shooter,” she says.
“Where did you get this?”
“It’s not important,” she says. “Do you recognize him?”
“I do.” Donovan looks up at Clare. “His name is Grayson Morris. He was an acquaintance of Malcolm’s.”
Clare grips the table to steady herself, an action that Donovan notices.
“You’re sure?” Clare asks.
“Hughes,” the guard calls to them. “Time’s up. Let’s go.”
“Thirty seconds,” Donovan replies. “Pretty please.”
“How do you know him, though?” Clare asks. “If he was Malcolm’s friend.”
The desperation in Clare’s voice is plain. A cry might come. Donovan smiles at her gently and shakes his head, wistful.
“There was always rumor of a video. So it was Grayson. What a strange turn of events.” He cranes to check the guard again, then leans in to a mock whisper. “Charlotte was in love with him. With Grayson. They were an item. The other day you suggested that Zoe and I were close, but we weren’t. Those young women you mentioned? Well. Zoe could be quite vile in how she conducted herself. She had no scruples to speak of. But Charlotte was such a sweetheart. I loved her daughter, Shelley, like she was my own grandchild. But Charlotte had terrible taste in men.”
Clare taps the photo, incredulous. “So Charlotte and this guy were a thing?”
“It was brief, I’m pretty sure. He was not right for her. Got her mixed up in all the wrong things. He insisted they keep it a secret, like she embarrassed him or something. I only know because I came across them once while walking my dog on the beach. I introduced myself and he gave me his name. I never forget a name. After that, Charlotte confided in me a bit about their relationship. Their troubles. I think it helped her to have someone to talk to. Anyway, I believe he left Lune Bay around the time of the murder. I suppose now we know why.”
The room is empty but for them. Clare folds the photograph and returns it to her pocket. The guard approaches.
“Thank you,” Clare says. “You’ve been helpful. I appreciate it.”
Donovan stands and opens his arms to Clare.
“I can’t hug you,” he says.
“No, you can’t.”
“I certainly wish I could. Forgive me for saying this, but you’re gorgeous. I’ve enjoyed looking across at you.”
Clare says nothing. The guard hovers almost shyly, an indication of Donovan’s status here.
“Thank you, Clare. There’s been something cathartic about this. I feel almost at peace.”
“Hughes,” the guard says. “I’ve been generous. Now let’s go.”
“Okay, fine,” Donovan says, retreating. “Let’s go.”
With a heavy clink the door swings closed. Donovan Hughes disappears.
Before she is even outside the prison’s doors Clare has unlocked her phone to search the name: Grayson Morris. When the results are not specific enough, she adds a place name. Lune Bay. Nothing of note. Clare opens her text messages and types one to Somers. She gives her Grayson’s name and tells her that Donovan Hughes identified him as the shooter.
At her car, Clare collects a water bottle from the trunk and gulps it down. The sun is high in the sky, the air too warm in the absence of the ocean. Clare leans against the car door and unlocks her phone again, this time noting the red circle on the call icon. Five missed calls. Unknown number.
Clare feels it. Someone is watching her. She spins in a full circle to search the parking lot. No one else is here other than a guard stationed adjacent to the prison entrance. She shields her eyes from the sun and circles slowly again, looking to the prison yard, to the woods beyond it, her pulse in her ears. Missed calls? Clare gets in the car and grips the steering wheel until her knuckles are white. When her phone rings she jumps, fumbling it into the passenger footwell. She bends to collect it and swipes to accept the call.
“Hello?”
“Clare.”
She will not say his name. She cannot afford to be wrong.
“Clare?” he says again into the silence. “It’s Malcolm.”
Yes. She knows it. The depth and tone of his voice. Tears of relief spring to her eyes.
“What the hell, Malcolm. Where are you?”
“I’m in Lune Bay,” he says. “If I email you directions, will you meet me?”
Clare closes her eyes and wills herself to breathe.
“Yes,” she says.
She can’t be sure who hangs up first. Clare grips her phone until the email with the map link comes through. It directs her to a picnic area on the ocean five miles north of downtown Lune Bay. Clare starts the car. She cannot decipher what courses through her, whether it is rage, relief. Anticipation.
Beyond the prison gate, she takes a left and drives on autopilot, cued by the pings of her phone. She comes over a rise and the ocean appears in front of her, and then a signal to turn right. SEASTONE CONSERVATION AREA a sign reads in faded paint. A single car is parked in the lot. Clare collects her gun from the glove compartment and then steps out of the car, both hands gripping her weapon. She kicks the driver door closed.
“Malcolm?” she calls.
No one. No answer. A path marked by a faded map stems off the parking lot. BEACH UNSUPERVISED the sign reads. USE AT YOUR OWN RISK. Clare follows the path until it widens to a pebbled beach. The sky is low and cloudy here, the sun gone, the waves kicked up. Clare scans left to right.
“I’m here,” a voice behind her says.
Clare spins. There he is, sitting on a wooden bench where the beach meets the trees, watching her with sad eyes. Clare is surprised at the look of him, his hair longer by a touch, his skin tanned. Malcolm stands. She’d forgotten his shape, his height, the scar on his forearm in full view with the
