“Audrey? How do you know?”
“Sources.” Like a damn journalist. I rub my forehead.
More background noise. I can hear a regular clicking, which I realize must be Jane drumming her fingers on her desk.
“Sources. A mystery witness who has issues. Jesus, Audrey.”
“Jane, I know. I wouldn’t blame you if you hang up now. But please. I think we can prove this. I think we can put this to bed. But I need your help. I need backup.”
“Backup. For what?”
“I want to bring the killer back to the scene of the crime. Get him to admit his guilt. Get him to crack.”
“Jesus, Audrey. That’s dangerous. And you’re not even a cop. Not any more.”
“I know it’s dangerous. That’s why I need you for backup. To corroborate. And — for protection.”
There. I’d said it. And deliberately asked for backup, one cop to another, even though I was technically a civilian now. Admitting my vulnerability. Phoebe would be proud. Or she will be when I tell her.
“You know I can’t condone this. Leave it to us. Tell your witness to come forward. Or you come forward yourself. Divulge your sources. You know better than this.” Whack. She must have smacked her desktop.
“I can’t explain. You wouldn’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me. And there’s no direct evidence. I have to do it this way. Are you in, or out?”
“I can’t help you. You know that. I could lose my job.”
“Jane, an innocent person is in jail. Is your job more important than justice? Wait, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. When I have this all set up, I’ll send you the details. Regardless of whether or not you choose to sit on the sidelines, I’m going in.”
“Audrey —”
“Oh, and Jane? One more thing.” I tell her about the flash drives, that they will be arriving soon by US Mail.
And I hang up the phone.
My hands are shaking. I’m panting like I’ve just run a marathon. And for once Zoe is silent. She hasn’t intruded into my conversation with Jane at all. I don’t know if I should be relieved or terrified.
I write a note to Eric and tape it to the door of his studio. It reads:
“Eric. I know you killed Victoria Harkness. I have a witness. And I’ve read the book. Meet me at the scene, tonight at midnight. You know where, if you want to make a deal.”
Then I send a text to Jane: The beach behind the Holiday Inn at midnight tonight.
Then I talk to Seth, and tell him what I have planned, and what I want him and Travis to do. As expected, he tries to talk me out of it. As expected, he tries to shield Travis.
“Let it be his choice,” I say. “It isn’t up to either of us to coerce him either way.”
“He isn’t in a fit state to make meaningful choices.”
“Sez who? You? I know you mean it for the best, but who are you to decide?”
In the end, he agrees to put my request to Travis.
Would he come? Would she come? Would they come? Would this turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life? But so be it. One way or another, I have to know. And it’s all I can do to save my friend from a lifetime of prison.
Nighttime. Darkness. Dank tendrils of mist and the mournful hoot of foghorns. The path winds away to my right and left. Three or four windows in the hotel behind me glow with a welcome yellow light. Everyone’s curtains are closed.
I’m alone, except for Zoe, and she’s not great company.
Don’t talk about me as though I’m not here.
Terrific.
I mean, I haven’t heard back from anyone. Not Jane, or Seth, or Eric.
Then I hear footsteps. I make sure my sidearm is ready, tucked away in my shoulder holster. I move onto the sand. It’s hard to see, but a dark silhouette walks slowly down the path. The figure also steps onto the beach, and after a pause, heads in my direction.
A feeling of deja-vu suffuses me. It’s the vision all over again. Is what I’m seeing real? Or is it actually happening?
The figure is obscured by the thickening fog. I draw my weapon, keep it close to my side. The sound of traffic on Marine is muffled and far away.
The mist thins, and the figure is only twenty feet away.
I say, “That’s close enough.” I begin recording on my phone, tucked into my breast pocket.
He stops. “Audrey? Is that you?”
“It was a night like this, wasn’t it, Eric? Dark and foggy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You came down the path, just like tonight. She heard your footsteps.”
“Who?” He takes a couple of steps forward. I back up. The water sloshes against the pilings.
“You know who. Victoria Harkness.”
“You’re crazy, you know that? I’m going to complain to the cops. This is harassment.”
The mist condenses on my cheeks and forehead. “And yet, when you got my note, you knew where to come. This is the crime scene. This is where she died.”
He stiffens, then visibly relaxes. “You told me.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“You did. When you came to my studio the first time.” He steps closer. “You were ranting about it, how I’d killed her on the beach.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“And who are they going to believe?”
I feel a chill, like cold water running down my spine. “Stop.” I don’t raise my gun, not yet. I don’t want to escalate the situation. But he’s demonstrated a master stroke. There’s no way I can prove what I had or hadn’t said to him. Even though I recorded our conversation, since I did it without his permission, it’s not admissible in an Oregon court. What I thought would be my trump card, his knowledge of the place Victoria had been killed, is now null.
He growls, “You said you wanted to
