“Even if everything you say is true,” Clare says, “do you see how messed up this is, Malcolm? You participated in this. You are not absolved.”
“I know I’m not,” he says, rubbing hard at his forehead. “That’s what haunts me, Clare. That’s why I left. Zoe was trying to frame me for her disappearance, but it wasn’t just that. I didn’t just leave because of that. I needed to find out what happened to these women. Once I was gone, once I started digging, I really understood the magnitude of what Zoe had been doing. She was trafficking young women in networks that stretched far beyond Lune Bay. And if these young women wanted out, their only option was to disappear. They knew they couldn’t stay here. They were under threat. If they wanted to live, they had to run—”
Clare has heard enough. She feels anxious, unsteady, chilled from the mist.
“Why did you let Jason hire you?” Clare asks, her voice low.
“I needed a front to be able to ask questions,” he says. “I needed to set myself up as a pseudo investigator. I put up a website. And honestly? I wanted to take on a few legitimate cases. The work was absorbing. Then Jason called me.”
“And he hired you. And you found me.”
“Yes,” Malcolm says, his face sad. “I did.”
“And then you hired me for no reason I can discern except that I looked like your wife. The wife you claim is evil.”
“Clare—”
“You said that Zoe knows about me, that she’ll come after me. How do you know that?”
“She emailed me a photo of you, Clare. Not one from the paper. It was a photograph I’d never seen before. Like she knew exactly who you were. Where you are.”
“When was this?”
Malcolm withdraws his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. He scans his email and hands his phone to Clare. The photograph is a portrait of Clare from the shoulders up taken last summer, her hair down, her face rounded by pregnancy. She is not smiling. The sight of it wraps Clare in a wave of nausea.
“Malcolm. Jason took this photo. How would Zoe have it?”
“I tried to warn you, Clare. You didn’t listen to me. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Zoe knows you’re onto her. That’s what’s driving her. She knows you’re onto her. That, and…”
“And what?” Clare snaps.
“She knows that I fucking fell in love with you, Clare. Jesus Christ!”
Clare freezes. The anger in his tone breaks something inside her.
“Clare,” he says, a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“No. Stop talking. Just stop.”
Malcolm sets his hand down atop hers. Clare withdraws, as if he’s burned her. She jumps to her feet. The bartender gapes at Clare as she weaves through the patio tables and climbs over the rope to the beach. She walks fifty paces on an angle to the water’s edge, the bar out of sight. She wants room to breathe. She wants Malcolm gone. But what Clare wants too, she knows, is for him to follow her.
This beach is empty, dark, the froth of the waves lit only by the clouded moon. Clare removes her gun from the back of her jeans and grips it squarely. Malcolm’s figure appears and approaches her. Clare stands still. Malcolm closes in, taking shape, stopping only when he is right upon her.
“Clare,” he says. “Please.”
Clare pushes the gun barrel right into the muscle overtop his heart.
“Why should I believe anything you say?” she asks.
“Clare.”
She presses the gun harder into his ribs. He doesn’t back away.
“It always been about you, Clare,” Malcolm says. “That’s all I need you to know. I should never have left your side. I should have told you everything from the start. I should have stayed with you and faced things down. If you want this to end, Clare, you need to trust me. I’m not lying to you. I’m not.”
Clare feels pushed, pulled. Finally, she lowers the gun and backs up. Malcolm moves forward in lockstep.
“I’ll do whatever you tell me to do,” he says.
Clare shakes her head. She looks down at his outstretched hand. When she places hers into it, Malcolm tugs her in until he can wrap his arms fully around her. He kisses her forehead. I’m sorry. With her ear to his shoulder, Clare can’t be sure that he’s spoken the words aloud. She untucks his shirt and lifts her hand to touch the bare skin of his back.
When she looks up, Malcolm kisses her. She responds by pressing herself against him, teetering, their feet sinking in the sand. Malcolm edges her legs open with his knee, his hands to her face, and he kisses her so deeply that Clare must turn away briefly to catch a breath. Her body is right up against his now. She feels a heat rise through her.
SATURDAY
The blanket is tangled in their legs. Clare lies on her back, Malcolm propped on one elbow next to her. The lamp next to the bed offers enough light that Clare can see the texture of Malcolm’s face, the lines that cross his forehead, the stubble of his beard.
“I’ve never looked at you this closely,” she says.
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” he says.
They haven’t slept. The sliver of light that cuts through the closed curtains tells Clare it’s morning. Malcolm’s motel room was only a block from the fish shack. Clare allowed him to lead her here, to hold her hand and guide her in the rain to the safety of this room.
They said
