But then a voice surprises them: “You’re all dead.”
They all look over at Hannah, who has picked up the Glock in the momentary confusion. And she is pointing it at Otto.
“I remember you. You were that fake security guard back at school. And you!” Now she points the weapon at Jana. “You’re the fake FBI agent! You people have been after us this whole time.”
“Well, technically, only since this morning,” Theo offers.
“ALL OF YOU SHUT UP!” Brooke screams. She can’t handle it anymore.
“I don’t care who any of you are,” Hannah says with a creepy calm in her voice. “But I’m not going to let you ruin our lives.”
“Pretty sure you did that all by yourselves when you murdered Paige Ryerson and paid off a local cop to cover it up,” Theo says.
Hannah might be trying to smile, but instead it comes across like the leer of someone who’s just realized she’s lost her mind.
“You probably think I’m some silly schoolgirl who can’t do anything right without her daddy helping out. Well, you’re wrong. We grew up by ourselves, left to fend for ourselves. I’ve gotten us out of trouble before, and I’ll do it again.”
“How?” Theo asks. “By shooting us?”
“Yes. And then you can join Paige under the beach here,” Hannah says. “I’ve been to the shooting range plenty of times. My daddy used to take me, and he always told me I’m an excellent shot.”
“I don’t doubt that, sweetie,” Jana says, speaking in the soothing tones of a therapist. “But killing us wouldn’t help anything. We’ve recorded everything you’ve said since you stepped inside that limo.”
Hannah is momentarily gobsmacked by that piece of news, because it’s the worst possible thing she could hear. The whole world is going to know what we’ve done!
Brooke, however, doesn’t seem to get it. In the moments since she’s learned the truth, Brooke has done what she’s always done: taken Hannah’s side. After all, Hannah’s always known what’s best for them.
“Yeah, well, after we kill you,” Brooke says, “we’ll just find all of your phones and cameras and whatever and bury them, too.”
“Honey,” Jana says, “to cover this up you’d have to take down the whole internet.”
Hannah, meanwhile, knows it’s over. She allows the Glock to fall to her side. Weirdly, the first thing that pops into her head at this moment is the paper she’ll never write, never hand in. But what do papers matter now?
The message still hasn’t reached Brooke, however, because she snatches the weapon out of her sister’s hand and screams as she points it at Theo.
“Look who’s defending us now, Hannah! Look who’s cleaning up your mess!”
Now, Brooke Clee hasn’t spent any time at shooting ranges. But she’s confident she can squeeze the trigger and spray these annoying jerks with enough bullets to make them all just shut up.…
And maybe Brooke would have gotten in a lucky shot or two, if Kate and Otto hadn’t rushed in, Tasers in hand, and lit up both of the Clee girls like Roman candles.
They both shriek before tumbling down onto the cold sand. A full minute later you could still smell the ozone in the ocean breeze.
Otto secures the Glock, unloads it. Kate checks the killers’ vitals. They’ll be hurting later, but they’ll certainly live. Jana texts Quinn with the latest developments. Theo, however, simply stands there, enjoying the moment.
“Man, I hope we got all of that, because I’m totally binge-watching it later.”
Jana says, “First we need to get the room and the equipment ready. We’re not finished yet, and we don’t have a lot of time.”
Chapter 35
QUINN
This time, Matthew Quinn enters the offices of Paul Clee & Partners the way he is expected: through the lobby, up to reception, and with an appointment. All perfectly respectable and businesslike.
“You didn’t have to make a special trip,” Clee says as he shakes Quinn’s hand. “I presume there’s news?”
“There is, but perhaps not the kind you might be expecting,” Quinn says.
Clee sets his jaw and frowns, then shows Quinn to a chair on the other side of his massive desk. Other clients might place Quinn on the office couch and take a seat nearby, as if to imply, Hey, we’re in this thing together. But this seating arrangement says something different. I’m the boss, you’re my employee. Now impress me.
“Go on,” Clee says.
“None of the four major suspects you gave me did it. My team cleared them all.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Salese, Halsey, Kurtz, and James—none of them killed Paige Ryerson. That I can guarantee.”
“You guaranteed closure, Mr. Quinn,” says Clee. “I’m paying you people a lot of money to end this nightmare. For my girls’ sake, and for the poor Ryersons’ sake.”
“The Ryersons will have closure. Because we found the killer.”
“Well, who is it?”
Quinn gestures: May I? Since Clee has no idea what he means, Quinn walks around the other side of the desk and helps himself to Clee’s desktop computer, which has an absurdly huge display. A few clicks, and he’s bypassed Clee’s password and connected to the Stingrays’ servers. Clee is about to protest, but then digital footage begins to play.
It’s his daughter Hannah, who looks like she’s hungover. The ghosts of mascara lines run down her cheeks.
“Yes, I killed her.”
An unseen voice demands, “Who did you kill?”
“Paige Ryerson, our hallmate. But you have to understand…she was such a snitch! I swear, it was like she was keeping notes on Brooke. You should have heard her—that’s a violation of the St. Paul’s honor code, that’s a violation of the honor code, honor code, honor code, blah blah blah.”
Paul Clee’s jaw drops. Quinn watches him carefully—especially the man’s eyes. They reveal everything.
“She threatened to turn Brooke in?” asks the unseen interrogator, though Quinn, of course, knows this is Kate speaking.
“All the time! So we figured it was time for that honey and vinegar thing. You know, sweeten her up, get her to change her mind. So we invited her to the island. We showed her a really, really good time.
