Chapter 37

A storm brewed both outside and in as I lay atop the covers and stared at the ceiling. So much swirled around in my mind, not the least of which was seeing blood on Tierney’s hands, hands that had been on my body, touching my most intimate places. If that wasn’t enough to cool a girl’s raging hormones, then nothing could.

Tina made four. Four significantly pregnant women, all of them from the same women’s pregnancy group. Seven, counting the women from Boston and Portland.

I was terrified Sarah was next on the list.

I rolled over and sighed, the rush of air loud in my silent cottage. I never thought I would miss the background sounds: the white noise of electricity and central air that could help drown out the most intrusive of thoughts. Three long years had passed since I’d lived in a house connected to such luxuries.

J.J. moved closer, shoving into my back. His weight was heavy and cumbersome as he tried to make me feel better by osmosis. At my feet, Solstice alternately cleaned his paws and chased my feet any time I moved.

More thunder, closer this time, made me jump.

I couldn’t lie there any longer. I’d go mad.

Lightning streaked horizontally across the sky as I left through the front door. The yard was fragrant with honeysuckle and lavender beneath heavy, oppressive cloud cover. I climbed into Sarah’s car, the slamming of the door cutting off the ozone in the air.

In the dim glow of the car’s interior, my brass pocket watch said it was just after eleven. My usual haunt, the Diner, had Tierney. I made a face, at war with myself over how I felt about him and how I could possibly believe he had anything to do with Tina’s death. The only place left was Beryl Koon’s.

Beryl Koon’s had been around since the dawn of time, or so the locals said. Beryl was a retired Marine with more hair on his arms than on his head, and he was one of the nicest, most loyal men I’d ever met. The bar was typical for a hole-in-the-wall: dark, grungy, full of wobbly tables and booths, and the walls hung with every kind of beer sign that had existed since the eighties.

There were only two other cars in the lot. One I recognized — Beryl’s boxy Camaro. The other was a sleek new F-150 with temporary plates. I hit the locks on my hatchback and went inside.

Mindy McCready crooned a song of double standards over the flashing jukebox inside the door. Battered, dusty fans twirled gently above empty tables lined with sticky ketchup bottles, half-full salt and pepper shakers, and the ubiquitous Frank’s Red Hot bottles.

I noticed a slumped form at a booth in the corner beneath a television broadcasting a weather report. The person didn’t move at the sound of the door slamming shut behind me.

“I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Mena McGinty.” Beryl waved me over to the end of the bar where he stood with the remote aimed at the flat screen above his head. Everything about Beryl was larger than life: tree-trunk arms with an assortment of military tattoos, a barely visible neck above shoulders built like a tank, and a voice that shook the ceiling beams.

I took the seat he indicated, sliding onto the cracked pleather with a sigh.

“Been ages since I’ve seen you, gal. Where ya been?” Beryl put the remote down and grinned. He was missing two front teeth.

“You know me. Very little money to my name, and the extra dollars aren’t for drinking out.” I motioned to the snoozing, shadowed figure in the corner. “Had a little much?

“He’s had a bad week,” Beryl said with an unconcerned shrug. “Long as he’s paying, he can stay. I take it you’d like your usual poison?” Without waiting for an answer, Beryl grabbed the familiar green bottle from the shelf and upended it over a glass.

As he poured, I glanced up at the television to find Tina’s name at the bottom of the screen. I grabbed the remote from the bar and turned up the volume.

“The search for a missing Waterford woman came to an end tonight. Twenty-nine year old Tina Harlow was found in Shutter’s Forest near Waterford Baptist Church on the south side of town. This comes in the wake of the heinous crimes that claimed the lives of twenty-seven-year-old Justine Montgomery, thirty-two-year-old Molly Swanson, and thirty-year-old Chloe Neill. All three women, eight months pregnant when they went missing, were later found dead in different local cemeteries.

“Police ask that if you have any information regarding these four women, please call the Waterford PD at five-seven-four WFPD.”

Beryl gently set my glass in front of me, and I returned the volume to “low.”

“Very sad about those poor women. What kind of sicko…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but I was sure he was thinking about the missing babies. “Did you know them?” Beryl gripped the tap on the Bud Light and pulled himself a beer.

“Not personally,” I answered after my first swig. It cleared my sinuses and my mind, leaving a fiery trail down my throat that pooled in my belly. “Sarah did, though. She was close to Tina.”

“And how is our First Lady? I tell you, I’m glad those two are finally having a kid.”

“She’s good,” I replied, but they were nothing but words. Sarah wasn’t okay. And neither was I.

“Is there anyone new in town, Beryl?” I asked.

He pulled up a stool behind the counter and sat across from me, one bushy brow raised. “New how?”

“Someone who doesn’t belong here.” I hated myself the moment I said it. Three years before, I was the one who didn’t belong, but not a single person in Waterford had acted like I was anything but welcome.

Beryl’s bulldog face screwed up. “There’s an Irish lad. Name starts with a ‘T’, I think. Working down at the Diner.”

A weird pang in the pit of my stomach proved I was more concerned about Tierney than I wanted to admit. “Other than him?”

“Nah. Can’t say I know of any others. You want another?”

I glanced at the glass in my hand and realized it was empty. When had I drunk it all? “Yes. Please.”

There was Jenna, I thought, resting my chin in my hand. But how could such a smiley, happy person be a killer?

How could a thoughtful, wonderful human being like Tierney be a killer?

I groaned out loud, so confused in my head that I needed another drink STAT.

As Beryl moved off to fix me another drink, I noticed movement in my peripheral vision. The other patron, apparently aroused by our conversation, was unfolding himself from the corner booth.

It was Butch Allen.

He swaggered over to me in slow motion, his beefy arms swinging. A sneer crossed his face. “McGinty.”

“Butch.” I was proud when my voice didn’t waver, because my heart sure was beating like a hummingbird’s wings. “The judge let you out, I see.”

“You bitch!” He slammed a hand to the bar. “You took my wife from me.”

Beryl dropped a fresh glass of whiskey in front of me. In a low voice, the bartender said, “Butch. Time to go.”

“Not ’til I say my piece.” Butch leaned over me. “Your tree-hugger, liberal-bitch ways cost me my family.”

The smell of stale beer on his breath made me lean away. “No. Your habit of using Emily as a punching bag cost you your family.”

“They said I’ll never know my kid,” he spat, slamming his hand again. “Those hoity-toity lawyers your fancy friends got said I’ll never meet him.”

“You’re lucky Emily didn’t put you away for five years on attempted murder,” I said evenly, taking a sip of fiery liquid.

Butch slapped the glass from my hand. It bounced off the bar and shattered on the floor.

Beryl was around the bar quicker than I could blink. He grabbed Butch roughly by both arms and dragged him to the door.

“You’re going down, McGinty!” Butch shouted, fighting against Beryl’s grip. “I will have my son! Not you or Sarah fucking Koenig or my bitch wife will stand in my way!”

The door shut with finality.