“Okay,” Somers says. “Remember that conversation we just had about lying to each other?”
“I know,” Clare says. “I saw him less than an hour ago. I was going to tell you. I just needed—”
“He just rides back into town after taking off, what? Eighteen months ago?”
“He thinks I’m in danger. That’s why he came back. Or so he says.”
“Or he’s putting you in danger, Clare. Maybe you’re exactly where he wants you.”
“He says he’s willing to talk to Germain. To turn himself in. After he knows I’m safe.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Somers says. “You don’t know what he’s going to do.”
“You’re right,” Clare says. “I don’t. He said this is all a game to Zoe. So this is what I’m thinking. I think that he’s telling the truth. That Zoe has been alive this whole time, and she disappeared because she’d gotten herself embroiled in some bad business dealings. It was a game to her. She knew they’d pin her disappearance on him, because they always do. It’s always the husband, right? And then she found out about me. I don’t know how. And I became part of her game too. Why? I don’t know, but I have to find out.”
“So, she went to find Jason. She found out about you.” Something dawns on her. “She was the one making the calls to me.”
“Maybe,” Clare says. “I think so.”
“And now they’re here together?” Somers squeezes her eyes closed. “Jason and Zoe Westman? I don’t get it. What for?”
A cry finally escapes Clare. It comes to her suddenly and clearly, her sprint through the woods behind her and Jason’s home. Running. Running to the car she’d hidden deep in the grove of trees. The note she’d left for Jason to say she was out for a jog, hoping it would buy her enough time, that before he realized, she’d be too far gone for him to catch her scent. She can recall the precise crunch of the snow under her feet. But the strange thing is, the memory of that escape no longer plays in first person for Clare. Instead, it unfolds in her mind as if she’s watching it from above, a spectator instead of the woman running.
“Listen,” Somers says. “If they show up here, we’ll bring them in. I can drum up some reason to round them up. Give you a head start. Simple as that.”
“Nothing about this is simple,” Clare says. “I want this to end.”
“This?”
“Everything. Malcolm. Jack Westman. Zoe. I’m done running, Somers. I’m done. That’s why I’m still here. I need to see this through. I need to find my way to the other side so I can stop running.”
“Okay,” Somers says, quiet.
“And I want Jason dead.”
“Jesus. Don’t tell me that. Let’s go with, I want Jason arrested.”
“I want this to end,” Clare says again.
Somers removes a notebook from the center console, all-business. “Let’s just do this right, get to work. I’ll call my guy who’s been tracking the signal on Jason’s cell phone. I’ll read him the riot act about the importance of it. We’ll figure out where he is, track him. They’re working on the video, we’re doing everything we can. For now, we deal with this coroner.”
“Okay,” Clare says. “Let’s go.”
The county offices are modern and clean. Clare follows Somers through the reception area to the desk. A young man looks up from his phone and offers them a wide smile. Behind him is a poster of a cartoon rabbit outlining proper hand-washing technique. Whatever dark notion of a coroner’s office Clare had formed over years of watching detective shows with her mother, this does not match it.
“What can I help you with?” the young man asks.
Somers pulls her badge from her pocket. “Detective Hollis Somers. Is Dr. Flanagan here?”
“He just arrived back from his lunch, actually. You can go right in.”
They circle the desk and the receptionist buzzes open the heavy set of double doors. On the other side is a long, sterile hallway. Somers cranes to read the name plates on each door until she comes to the one marked DR. SAMUEL FLANAGAN. CHIEF CORONER. She knocks and enters before getting any response. A man in his fifties looks up from a laptop. This office is large and square, the picture window behind him giving way to the green of a park.
“Officer Somers,” he says, standing to offer his hand.
“Detective,” Somers corrects him, glancing at Clare.
“Right. My mistake. And this is?”
“Clare O’Kearney. She’s working with me on a case. It’s related to the Westman family. The Lune Bay Westmans. That family.”
Dr. Flanagan nods with no shift in his expression. “Of course. And you need something from me?”
“I need Jack Westman’s autopsy report.”
Dr. Flanagan laughs heartily, then waves at Clare and Somers to sit in the chairs across from him. “Something tells me you don’t have a warrant for that. Or you’d have gone directly to the detective assigned to the case.”
“I don’t have a warrant,” Somers says. She taps the top of his desk. “Listen, I appreciate that you have a job to do. And I know that coroners and cops aren’t always in simpatico. But the system works better when we get along, doesn’t it?”
“I’d say it does,” he says.
“Let’s just assume I did my research. Clare, you’ve heard of the term ‘dirty cop’?”
“Sure,” Clare says.
“Well, a dirty cop’s lesser known cousin is the dirty coroner. You know, the one who fudges results here and there. Adds or leaves out a key detail in their report. Maybe forgets to write down a piece of evidence the prosecution needs to seal the case. A grimy nugget about a bad death that a rich family wants buried with their beloved. Coroners who act as judge and jury. Ever heard of such a thing?”
The smile on Flanagan’s face
