The front door is unlocked, Charlotte’s message said. I’m outside on the back deck.
In the late afternoon light, Austin’s house is even more striking, the ocean like a painting out the long run of windows. Clare steps inside. She can see Charlotte on the deck, curled under a blanket on the same lounger that Kavita had been on last night.
Even from inside the house, Clare can hear the ocean. She knocks on the glass door to alert Charlotte of her presence before sliding it open. The ocean is kicked up today, angry waves bending and crashing into tall rocks. Clare drags the other lounger to within arm’s length of Charlotte. The circles under Charlotte’s eyes are a deep purple. She is otherwise pale, dressed in track pants and a sweater, pilled and moth-eaten.
“You’re making your way around,” Charlotte says. “So I hear, anyway.”
“Where are Kavita and Austin?”
“Asleep. They’re night owls.”
“Are you all right?”
“You’re not here to check up on my well-being, Clare. Can we cut to the chase?”
“Okay,” Clare says. “If I ask you something directly, will you tell me the truth?”
Charlotte shrugs. “That depends.”
“You filmed it,” Clare says. “When your father was shot at Roland’s, you were filming.”
“That’s not a question.”
“I have the video. It arrived in my in-box when I was here last night, actually. From an encrypted email address. Did you send it to me?”
On the lounge chair Charlotte pulls her knees to her chest, her stare fixed on the ocean, silent. Her eyes are glassy with tears.
“Charlotte,” Clare says. “I don’t know what you’ve done. I think you probably got caught up in something, and I’d like to help you figure this out. You filmed your father’s death, but the video never saw the light of day, and there must be a good reason for that, right?” Clare reaches into her pocket and hands Charlotte the photograph of Grayson Morris. “I think he might have something to do with it.”
For a long time Charlotte holds the photo aloft and studies it. She pulls it in up close and then extends it away, squinting at it from different vantages. Finally she sets the photograph down on her lap and returns her gaze to the sea. Clare snatches the picture when it flutters in a breeze and nearly lifts away.
“Grayson Morris,” Clare says. “He shot your father. My theory is that he was hired to do so. You were in a relationship with him.”
Charlotte will not look at Clare.
“Like I said,” Clare continues. “My guess is that you didn’t hire him to kill your father. But somehow, you got caught up in it all, right? The cops just want to arrest the guy who pulled the trigger, Charlotte. As long as they can throw the killer behind bars. But now they know you were filming. Germain has the video. You’re going to face an inquisition. Maybe it’s time to tell the truth.”
Finally Charlotte shifts so she is facing Clare. “Do you know why I sit out here?” She laughs and runs a fingertip under her lashes to wipe away the forming tears. “It’s not for the view. I swear Austin has this place bugged. Pinhole cameras, recorders. He just seems like that kind of guy. Kavita thinks I’m paranoid, but I’m convinced he’s spying on me.”
“You don’t need to be here,” Clare says. “You could find somewhere else to stay.”
“Where else can I go?” Charlotte asks. “I was evicted at the end of last month. I had the shittiest apartment in all of Lune Bay but they still managed to evict me. Fucking Charlotte Westman, daughter of the King of Lune Bay, and I can’t cobble together cheap rent.”
“You could leave Lune Bay altogether,” Clare offers. “Start over.”
“Right. You’re all about that, aren’t you? Get up and run away as soon as things in your life go awry?”
The sting of her words takes Clare aback. What has Austin told her? Indeed Clare can no longer assume her past is her own secret. She feels rage at that prospect. Clare thinks of Somers hours ago at the coroner’s office, the tricks she’d used to steer the conversation, to right the course when the coroner tried to veer them offtrack.
Don’t let them take the wheel, Somers said. Always retain control.
“You have a choice,” Clare says. “I’m sure every media forensics team within five hundred miles is dissecting the video as we speak. I’ve seen your father’s autopsy report. Germain was going to have you picked up for questioning, but I was able to call him off. I bought us a few hours. So here’s what I’m going to suggest to you, Charlotte. You tell me everything. And we sort it out together, and figure out what version you’re going to give to the police. At this point you owe them the truth, but even the truth is subjective, right? I can protect you.”
Charlotte scoffs. “Protect me? You’re not a cop.”
“No,” Clare says. “Lucky you too. Because if I were a cop, I’d have no choice but to arrest you for obstruction of justice. That’s what they’ll do, Charlotte. You filmed that video, then buried it.”
From under the blanket Charlotte withdraws a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She curls into herself to shield the cigarette from the wind as she lights it. The first waft of smoke hits Clare. That smell, so sharp and particular, forever a reminder of Jason, the way he too would lift his chin to blow the smoke upward even when a breeze promised to carry it Clare’s way. Clare feels an anxious flutter in her chest. Just like that, Jason appears in her mind’s eye. Like he’s here, like he’s in the air.
Breathe, Clare tells herself. Breathe.
“Your dad was dying,” Clare says. “According to the autopsy record, he had advanced cancer. Weeks to live,
