“Listen to me,” she says, her voice low. “I’m not leaving. I don’t know what you hoped would happen here. That you’d show up and whisk me away like some knight in shining armor?”
“Clare—”
“This needs to end, Malcolm. I have a job to do. So you go ahead and turn yourself in. Or don’t. Stay with me and help me do my job. But I’m not leaving.”
“Okay,” he says, frowning. “Okay.”
“Text me in an hour,” she says. “Tell me where to meet you.”
Malcolm nods. Clare takes a wide berth around him and walks away. Her heart beats too fast in her chest. She feels angry, exhilarated. When she reaches the foot of the path to the parking lot, Clare glances over her shoulder. Malcolm has walked forward into the water. He stands so that the waves wrap him to the knees. He need only take a few more steps for the ocean to absorb him whole.
Clare sits in the passenger seat of Somers’s car. They weave through the one-way streets of Lune Bay’s small downtown. If Somers is bothered by the lack of conversation, she reveals nothing, fiddling instead with the radio knobs and making occasional commentary on the scenery, the ocean that flits in and out of view. Clare’s eyes are fixed out the window. It is Malcolm who occupies her thoughts now. The sight of him, the pleading tone in his voice. It’s not safe for you here. Why does Clare feel numb to his pleas? She knows Malcolm could be right. Danger is circling, closing in on her. Zoe. Jason. She feels it in the air. So why is her reaction to Malcolm anger and not fear?
“You okay?” Somers asks.
“Fine. Lots on my mind. Lots to think about.”
“You’ve got that right,” Somers says.
In her message en route from the jail, Clare gave Somers the name of the shooter, Grayson Morris, but did not reveal that Donovan Hughes linked him to Malcolm. Despite everything, Clare is still protecting him. She knows she should tell Somers about their encounter this morning. But she can’t. Not now. Not yet.
They pull up outside an older brick building. The sign reads COUNTY GOVERNMENT OFFICES. Somers kills the engine and shifts in her seat, unbuckling herself so she can face Clare head-on.
“How do you want to play this?” Somers asks.
“Play what?” Clare asks flatly.
Somers heaves a long sigh. “Are you with me here? You’re in the clouds.”
Clare cannot look at Somers. She remains turned to the window, silent.
“I sent the video to forensics,” Somers says. “I copied Germain. Included the guy’s name you gave me too. We’re dropping this stuff in Germain’s lap. I did a quick search on any Grayson Morris names and couldn’t find much of note. A couple of hits, but I’ll need access to the wider database to really mine the options. Your jailbird friend Hughes might have it wrong, who knows?”
“You knew all along,” Clare says.
“Knew what?” Somers asks, impatient.
“You knew that everything here was connected. You sent me here knowing that. Knowing that these missing women were connected to the Westmans. Knowing…”
Clare trails off. Somers reaches over and jabs a finger into Clare’s leg.
“Look at me,” she says. “Look at me.”
“What?”
“You’re mad,” Somers says. “I get it. You’ve got a lot to be mad about. You don’t even have a specific target for your anger, do you? You’re just mad at the world right now and I’m in your sights. But let me tell you something. For the last time, I am not your enemy here. I’m not the person to turn on. You’ve been telling yourself the wrong story, Clare. Because I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I am not the bad guy. I know I didn’t tell you about the Norton case, and I’m sorry about that. But trust me, I’m the one who’s got your back.”
Clare bites at her lip. The car is too warm. It feels impossible to make sense of the day so far, the video of a man knowing he was about to get shot, Donovan naming the shooter, Malcolm here. These scenes that feel unreal, dreamlike, even though they unfolded barely hours ago. Somers is right: Clare can’t pinpoint where to direct her rage. She takes a few deep breaths to compose herself before speaking.
“I had this realization this morning,” Clare says. “I was driving back from the prison and I had an epiphany. Is that the right word for it? Epiphany?”
“Yeah,” Somers says. “The aha moment.”
“Right.” Clare pauses to quell the tremble in her voice. “The thing is, my whole life I’ve been a pawn. A chess piece in someone else’s game. My dad was obsessed with teaching me how to shoot. He didn’t want a daughter in pink, a doll-playing daughter. He wanted a sharpshooter. Then my mom got cancer, and my brother and my dad were absolved somehow of anything to do with her illness and death. I was a teenager, but she was my problem. Then I met Jason, and by then I just—I felt like my role was to play along. You know? To just participate in other people’s games. It was easier. So that’s what I did. I did what other people told me to do. I went along with plans. Jason proposed and I said yes because honestly? I just couldn’t conceive of an alternative. And we got married, and it was horrific, but I couldn’t break away. Eventually I did. Because when he hurt me and I lost the baby? That was the first thing in my life I felt happened to me. It was my loss, and mine alone. So it spurred me to leave.”
“Yes,” Somers interjects. “It would.”
“But then I met Malcolm,” Clare continues. “And I wonder now: Did I let myself become a pawn in his game? Old habits die hard, you know. But,
