The water was perfect, not too warm, not too cold. With her dark hair sleek against her head, Iris looked younger and almost carefree.
Annie concluded, “…and I inherited the bookstore from Uncle Ambrose. Max followed me to the island.” She’d run away from New York and Max because she cared too much. She was sure they didn’t belong together. Max was rich; she was poor. Max was laid-back and casual; she was intense and hardworking. Max enjoyed subtleties; she was direct and open.
“Now you’re married.” Iris trailed fingers through the water. “It’s like a fairy tale. And you lived happily ever after.”
Annie’s throat felt tight. “Happily ever after…” Her smile disappeared. Once, she’d trusted that her life and his were charmed. Not now. Never again. Life and happiness were fragile at best. Sunny days could be gone in an instant.
Iris’s dark eyes were empathetic. It was as if a cloud slid across the sun and both of them were in a shadow. She looked at Annie gravely. “What happened?”
Annie gazed at Iris’s burdened face, too old for its years. Annie was often asked about a time that was seared in her memory. She was quick to discern the curiosity of those seeking sensation, much like TV viewers feasting on the raw emotion and exhibitionism of reality shows. Instead, Iris looked at Annie with eyes that had known sorrow and fear. Was it better to push pain deep inside, hope that time would blur memory? Or was it better to confront the past?
Annie ducked beneath the surface, came up with water streaming down her face, fresh and cool. She’d not intended to reveal her heart to a stranger when she invited Iris to swim. “Last summer Max was accused…” She felt again the terror of sultry August days when Max was suspected of murder and damning facts piled against him until there seemed no way to save him.
Iris floated in a plastic ring and listened. When Annie finished, Iris spoke slowly. “Everybody has troubles. Even people like you. I guess I thought I was the only one.”
“Do you have troubles?” Annie’s voice was gentle.
Iris’s face crinkled in thought. “Things are better now. I belong to AA and NA.” Her face held a question.
Annie reached over the water, patted a bony arm. “I never had to fight that kind of battle. You have great courage.”
“One day at a time.” The oft-used words were a bulwark, a hope, a prayer, a plea. Iris looked past Annie at the rising tide and the spartina grass wavering in the onshore breeze. “I have things I need to clear up. Sometimes I don’t remember things. When I do remember, I’m not sure what really happened. I’ve tried to tell the people I hurt that I’m sorry. That’s why I came home. There are people I need to see.”
Annie remembered Cara Wilkes’s sleek white convertible. Cara hadn’t stayed long. After she left, Annie had found Iris sad and alone on the deck.
Iris looked wry. “See, I’ve got things to ask, but nobody much wants to see me. I bring back things they don’t want to remember. Maybe I should leave.”
Annie wondered where Iris would go and to what kind of life?
Suddenly Iris’s face hardened. “I can’t let it be. When things aren’t right, you have to do what you can.”
Annie had no words of wisdom. She knew better now than to murmur that everything would work out. Maybe. Maybe not.
A faraway deep-throated blast signaled the arrival of the five-thirty ferry.
Annie shot straight up in the water. “The ferry’s coming in. I have to be at the pavilion in fifteen minutes!” She could do it. Max always marveled at how quickly she showered and dressed and was on her way, with her hair damp but curly, a touch of makeup, and a smile. The crisp robin’s-egg blue linen shirt and skirt waited for her in the closet. It was time to share laughter and friendship and food.
In three swift strokes, Annie was at the ladder. On the deck, water streaming in rivulets from her brief hibiscus-bright suit, she looked down at Iris, alone in the pool. Iris had nowhere to go, no one to welcome her, and peanut butter and Ritz crackers in her cabin.
“Iris, please come with me.” Annie’s smile was sudden and warm. “We’re having an oyster roast. Ben Parotti’s sweet tea with fresh mint is the best on the island and the view of the bay from the pavilion is great.” But who was she to tell a native islander? Annie rushed on, aware of Iris’s limited wardrobe. “It’s down home. Everyone will be casual. There’s a mixture of people. You’ll probably know a lot of them.” She made a quick decision to leave the linen outfit in the closet, substitute a striped red-and-white tee, jeans, and red sandals.
“A party at the pavilion.” Iris’s expression was a mixture of uncertainty and trepidation. “The last time I was there…” Her voice trailed away.
“Please come. Then you’ll know you’re home.” The pavilion hosted every kind of event from fund drives to school groups to political rallies to private parties. “Do you remember how the harbor lights spill across the water after the sun goes down?” Annie loved the harbor after dark, the smell of creosoted timbers and saltwater, the soft whisper of the sea against the pilings, an occasional glimpse of faraway lights as cabin cruisers sailed past carrying their passengers to nearby docks or faraway ports.
Iris stroked to the ladder. She looked up, her face resolute. “I’ll come.” She climbed up the ladder. “I’ll be quick.” She walked away.
Annie stared at the thin hurrying figure. She’d hoped to offer friendship, yet Iris seemed grim, as if she were fulfilling a duty.
THE HEAVY THROB OF GUITARS, DRUMS, AND PIANO ECHOED FROM a stage set up halfway between the picnic tables and a grove of pines. A gangly young teenager with a white stripe of hair bristling from a shaved head painted red belted out “You’re Sixteen.” A hand-painted sign hung from the stage: THE RED HOT MOHAWKS, appearing every Saturday night at The Haven, a buck a couple. Max taught tennis at The Haven, the island’s recreation center for teens. Now she understood why he’d casually mentioned the Mohawks over the last several weeks. The vocalist moved back and forth on the stage, bending and stamping, apparently heavily influenced by a vision of an Indian powwow. Annie was glad the band was on the far side of the tables. The sound was loud but not loud enough to make guests shout to be heard.
The pavilion sat on a slight rise overlooking the harbor. There were tables in the open-air pavilion, but Max liked his picnics to be beneath the stars. Their party was set up for the picnic tables that dotted the sweep of sandy ground between the pavilion and the boardwalk. Annie admired the centerpieces she’d designed, hurricane lamps with candles in the center of each table. Black anchor line was coiled around the bronze base of each lamp.
Ben Parotti’s face was flushed from the heat of the roaring hickory fire beneath a sheet of steel balanced on concrete blocks. Bushel bags of oysters were piled nearby and a stack of water-soaked burlap bags. Miss Jolene directed two women behind a line of steam tables. Hot dogs bobbed in bubbling hot water. No Low Country oyster roast was complete without chili dogs and squash casserole, plenty of draft beer and sweet tea.
Sheets from the Broward’s Rock Gazette covered one stone table. Oyster knives paired with stainless steel mesh oyster gloves were ranged around the perimeter of the table. When the roast began, Ben would steam the oysters for five to ten minutes, then shovel them onto the shucking table and everyone would set to work. They had invited forty guests, so Ben had five bags of oysters ready to steam, figuring around twelve to fifteen oysters per guest. Once a plate was loaded with oysters, the steam tables would be next.
“Come on, Iris.” Annie ran up the steps to the pavilion. Guests walked toward the pavilion from the oyster-shell parking lot. She had barely arrived in time to greet the first arrivals. She skidded to a stop, stared up at the brilliant banner.
Max strode toward her, grinning, his arms open. The breeze ruffled his thick blond hair. He was handsome and happy, delighted in the banner, in the moment, in her. “One of these days, we’ll greet our guests on our own front porch. Until then, this”—he gestured at the rippling silk—“is the next best thing.”
Annie came into his embrace. “Max, the banner’s wonderful.” She smiled at him. “How did you ever think of this?”
He looked up at their images between the sparkling white Ionic columns. “We couldn’t greet everyone there, so I brought the Franklin house here.”
Song lyrics boomed over the mike. Voices called out. Steps sounded behind them.
Annie remembered Iris. “Come meet Iris Tilford. She’s the one who helped Emma when she was hurt. She’s staying at Nightingale Courts and I talked her into coming tonight. She’s from the island.”
Iris hung back a little. The breeze ruffled her hair, tugged at her blouse and slacks. She looked uncertainly at Max.
Max reached out to shake her hand. “It’s nice to see you again.” He saw Annie’s surprise. “Iris came by Wednesday morning when I was putting up the banner. I told her it was a surprise for my wife.” He grinned at Iris. “Thanks for keeping my secret. It’s great you could come tonight.”
There was a flurry of arrivals and Iris edged away. A little later as the smoke billowed from the hickory fire and the sun spread a glory of rose across the water, Annie saw Iris standing alone near the old live oak that island lore traced back to the days when privateers made Broward’s Rock their base for sorties against the British.
Annie took a step, then stopped. Marian Kenyon, the Gazette’s gimlet-eyed chief reporter, a bottle of Bud in hand, sped across the hummocky ground to plant herself in front of Iris. Whippet lean, Marian always moved fast. Her unruly black hair with its frosting of white appeared either unkempt or windblown depending upon the attitude of the viewer. Marian and Iris appeared to be acquainted. Annie was well aware that the island was a small and tight society, especially for natives. Despite her years of visiting when her uncle was alive and the time she’d spent living on Broward’s Rock, Annie was often surprised at the intertwining of family and relationships that weren’t always apparent to an outlander.
Billy and Mavis Cameron waited until Annie and Max were free before climbing the steps. Billy looked casual and comfortable in a red polo and khaki shorts. Mavis was more animated than usual, her pale cheeks flushed with eagerness. “Kevin’s thrilled that you hired the band for tonight.” She pointed toward the stage where her son thrummed the bass guitar. “Honestly, I hated those Mohawk haircuts at first but they are having so much fun I don’t mind so much now. I just hope he lets his hair grow back one of these days.”
A harsh twang signaled a guitar string out of tune.
Billy clapped Max on the arm. “Good thing you don’t expect perfection.” Billy’s smile suddenly faded. He squinted toward the live oak. “There’s Iris Tilford. I’m surprised she’d come to the pavilion.”
Annie was puzzled, much as she had felt when Iris accepted the invitation to the picnic as if it were a duty. “Why wouldn’t she come here?”
Billy’s face creased in thought. “She wouldn’t have good memories. But I guess there’s a lot of water under the bridge. Or, actually, the pier. It’s good if she’s past all of that.”
Mavis tugged on his arm. “Kevin’s waving at us.” Hand in hand, Mavis and Billy hurried toward the platform.
“Annie, hey. This is fun. I’m so glad we could come.” Liz Montgomery’s conventional smile didn’t reach her wide-spaced blue eyes. She was as always immaculately coiffed, her prematurely white hair bright and crisp, and stylish. Tonight she wore a pale blue linen long jacket over matching trousers. Russell stood a step behind her. His face was somber. Max enjoyed playing golf with him and he’d been pleasant to work with as they restored the Franklin house, but tonight he seemed as distant as the waning crescent moon. He gazed toward the live oak and Iris.
Liz’s voice was pleasant. “Everything looks beautiful. I love the way candles glow in hurricane lamps.” As she gestured toward the picnic tables, she saw Iris. For an instant, Liz stood absolutely still, then she turned back to Annie. “The hickory smoke smells wonderful. We haven’t been to an oyster roast since New Year’s.” Her island accent was as soft and throaty as the coo of mourning doves. “Nobody does oysters better than Ben. Oh, there’s Fran and Buck.” Liz lifted a hand in greeting. “Come on, Russell. Fran’s waving at us.”
They moved away and Russell hadn’t said a word. So much, Annie thought, for social graces.
Liz and Fran came together in a social embrace that reminded Annie of the stylized movements of Laurel’s tai chi class. Russell and Buck shook hands.
The breeze stirred Fran Carlisle’s black hair. She and Liz joined a group of women clustered around Henny Brawley. Henny was gesturing toward the water. Russell stood a few feet away, arms folded, and looked determinedly at Ben’s fire.
Iris was alone again. She moved out of the shadows and walked slowly toward the group of women.
Buck’s usually genial face folded into a frown. He glanced at his wife, who was deep in conversation with Fran. Buck hesitated, then stepped toward Iris. They met near a weeping willow. Buck was a big man and his bulk made Iris appear even frailer. She stared up, her face grave.
Cara Wilkes strolled up the steps, smiling. “Hey, guys.” As she looked past Annie and Max, her smile slid away, making her look much older.
Annie knew she was watching Buck and Iris.
Cara’s jaw muscles ridged, then she swung back to her hosts, once again with a smile. “Great day for a picnic.”
“Oysters ready.” Ben’s hoarse shout sounded over the voices and music. He carried a shovel full of steaming shells to the prepared table. Laughing and talking, guests swirled toward the table.
Crackles and snaps and occasional mutters rose as gloved hands poked the short-bladed knives into the shells. As soon as one guest moved on, plate heavy with opened shells, another set to work.
As dusk fell, the picnic tables filled. Annie scanned the crowd. She felt quick relief when she spotted Iris sitting next to Laurel. As always, Laurel was spectacularly lovely, her beauty ageless, golden hair framing chiseled features. Laurel was smiling and listening attentively. Annie felt a surge of thankfulness. Laurel was often unpredictable, but her kindness was a constant. It was no surprise that she was drawn to the loneliest guest.
Annie settled at a far table with Billy and Mavis Cameron, Pamela Potts, Henny Brawley, and Edith Cummings. Edith was both an old friend and the island’s accomplished reference librarian. Edith could discover any fact a patron fancied, including the best wildlife viewing season in Pungo, N.C. (a personal favorite of Annie’s because the best season(s) listed were spring, summer, fall, and winter, and who could quarrel with that?), the highest level in British peerage below a prince (a duke), and the recipe for a Black Russian (11/2 ounces vodka and 3/4 ounce Kahlúa).
Edith pushed aside another emptied shell. “It would be piggy to eat twenty oysters.”
“I don’t think pigs like oysters.” Pamela’s gaze was, as always, serious and sincere.
Billy grinned. “Pigs like a lot of stuff. My dad raised Large Whites. We fed them corn and barley meal, but Big Mama, our sow, was crazy about snails and once she ate a corn snake. She would have loved a good oyster roast.”
Henny wiped a smear of chili from her chin. “Oysters are good. Chili dogs are great.”
Annie flashed her old friend a fond smile. Henny looked elegant in a white cotton blouse and twill slacks and a striking black sweater adorned with embroidered white daisies, a perfect accent for her clothes and a perfect weight for the suddenly cooling April evening as the sun began to sink into the Sound. Henny was the kind of woman Annie admired: smart, incisive, quick-thinking, and adventurous, a WAAF pilot in World War II, an English teacher, a two-time Peace Corps volunteer after retirement, and, of course, a mystery authority. She had delighted last week in pointing out to Annie the little-known fact that the office of Charlaine Harris, bestselling author of the Sookie Stackhouse Southern vampire series, was decorated with black-and-white photos of New Orleans grave art. Annie wondered if Charlaine Harris enjoyed Sarah Stewart Taylor’s mysteries that celebrated funerary art.
Mavis leaned across the table. “How’s Emma feeling?” Mavis’s blue eyes were filled with concern.
Henny spooned chopped onions on her dog. “Great. I checked her out of the hospital this afternoon and took her home. She sent her regrets. I’ll run some oysters over in a little while.”
“That’s wonderful.” Annie’s oyster knife slipped and she was grateful for the protection of the glove. “I don’t suppose she remembers anything about her fall?” If only Emma’s memory had returned and the question could be settled.
Pamela swung toward Annie, used her oyster knife for emphasis. “That bruise on Emma’s back worried me to pieces.”
Henny’s eyes narrowed. “Bruise on her back?”
As Pamela described the purplish splotch between Emma’s shoulder blades, Annie pushed away a residue of uncertainty. To suppose Emma had been attacked opened up an ugly chain of thought with no basis in fact.
Billy finished the last of his beer. “Emma fell forward. Traces of blood on the footboard proved that. There was nothing in the cabin to account for an injury to her back.” He mounded mashed sweet potatoes on his spoon. “A bruise like you describe had to be caused some other way.”
Billy’s calm response reassured Annie.
Henny grinned. “She doesn’t remember Wednesday or, oddly enough, her struggle with the Slough of Despond, which, being Emma, was translated into writer’s block. I left her at her desk, fingers flying on the keyboard. She’s started a new book. In this one, a young woman shows up one evening at a tourist court on a sea island riding a bike in the rain. Nobody knows who she is or where she came from.”
Annie looked at Billy.
His blue eyes were amused. A slight nod assured her he would be discreet. “Funny thing how head injuries affect people. Hey, Annie, have you had a piece of Miss Jolene’s Key lime pie yet?”
VELVETY DARKNESS EMPHASIZED GLOWING LIGHTS STRUNG among the live oak trees. Luminarias gleamed every few feet on either side of the paths that bordered the picnic area and led to the boardwalk and the woods. The waning crescent moon seemed pale and distant. It was nearing eleven. Max climbed the steps to the bandstand. He was no more than a dimly seen shadow until he reached the platform and the flash of the strobe lights.
Max borrowed the sticks from the drummer and sounded a brisk rat-a-tat.
Voices murmured as guests, indistinguishable in the darkness, moved nearer the bandstand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight you’ve enjoyed the music of the Red Hot Mohawks. I want you to meet Elrod Phipps, vocalist; Kevin Cameron, bass guitar; and Clint Guthrie, drums. Let’s give them a big hand.”
The applause was strong and mixed with a few cheers. The young musicians beamed.
Annie smelled a faint scent of violets. Without surprise, she heard Laurel’s throaty murmur from the dimly seen figure next to her. “How dear of Max.”
Annie agreed wholeheartedly. She gave Laurel’s slender hand a squeeze.
Ben poked at the mound of ashes beneath the sheet of steel to be sure the fire was doused. Miss Jolene had long since maneuvered the steam tables into the catering van and departed. Ben and two of his staff stayed behind to take care of cleanup. The band folded up the lights and picked up their instruments.
“Good night, my dears.” Laurel blew a kiss to Max and wafted toward the parking area.
As the guests dwindled to a diehard few, Annie moved around the picnic area seeking Iris. Annie walked all the way to the boardwalk, grateful for the luminarias. Uneasiness plucked at Annie when she reached the iron railings, damp from spray as the dark water slapped against the seawall. She looked up and down the boardwalk. Lamplights glistened every hundred feet, shedding a pale radiance. To her left, the shore curved. Midway to the peninsula, Fish Haul pier jutted into the Sound. The boardwalk was empty. Darkness shrouded the pier. To her right, a cluster of lights marked downtown and the ferry dock.
A solitary man walked a black Lab. He was the only moving figure on the boardwalk.
Annie turned and hurried back to the picnic area. The last farewells were sounding. “…had a great time.” “The men’s grill at eight?” “…a real feast…”
When she reached Max, she felt breathless. She gripped his arm. “I can’t find Iris. Have you seen her?”
ANNIE HUNCHED OVER THE WHEEL OF HER CAR, BRIGHTS on as she searched the road ahead. She didn’t dare drive faster. Deer crossed the winding roads after dark, deer and possums and raccoons, sometimes even cougars and wild boars. Annie clung to the hope that Iris had chosen to walk back to Nightingale Courts and not thought to tell Annie. The countervoice in her mind argued, “That would have been rude. Iris wasn’t rude.” Even if Iris had not enjoyed the evening—Billy was surprised she’d been willing to come to the pavilion—she’d been appreciative of the invitation and would surely have known that Annie planned to take her back to her cabin.
The dark tunnel beneath live oaks ended finally. The headlights illuminated the honeysuckle bower that marked the entrance to Nightingale Courts. A single lamplight shone. Annie wheeled into the drive, saw cars parked in front of two cabins. She noted that the old car Emma had borrowed to come to Nightingale Courts on Wednesday was no longer in front of Cabin Seven. She braked at Cabin Six, left the Volvo’s lights on. They shone on the green bicycle on its stand by the steps. The windows to Cabin Six were dark.
Annie’s throat was dry as she slammed out of the car and ran up the steps. The door was locked. She knocked and called. “Iris? Iris?”
There was no answer.
Annie took the extra time to get a key and open the door. The cabin was empty.
Annie stared at the place on the floor where they’d found Emma and felt a cold rush of fear.
MAX QUARTERED THE PICNIC GROUNDS, THE BEAM FROM his flashlight sweeping below tables, behind trash bins, under shrubs, around trees.
Max’s cell chimed. Annie had made certain he had it on before she left. He flipped it open. “Annie?”
“I checked the cabin. It’s empty. Max, where can she be?”
Max looked out at the dark water with foreboding, but he kept his voice even and measured. “She could have gone home with someone she knew. It’s not like she’s a stranger on the island…. Rude? Yeah, I guess. Sometimes people don’t think…. Right. Call Billy if you think you should. I’ll keep looking.”
“SHE MAY HAVE GONE HOME WITH A FRIEND.” BILLY’S VOICE was patient.
Annie gripped the cell with one hand, the steering wheel with another. Once again, she held her speed in check and was able to jam on the brakes as a deer turned a startled face into the lights, then bolted into the woods. Annie pushed on the accelerator. “I don’t think she had any friends.” Annie knew her voice was thin. It was Iris’s loneliness that had cried out for comfort when Annie saw Iris on the cabin deck after Cara Wilkes left. “Emma got hurt in that cabin. I’m afraid for Iris.”
“What’s Emma got to do with Iris?” He sounded bewildered.
“I don’t think Emma fell.” As Annie spoke, she felt certainty. “It’s like Ben says, Emma’s sure-footed as a goat. She didn’t fall down, she was pushed.”
“Annie, you aren’t making sense.” Billy sounded irritated.
“What if someone was hidden in Iris’s cabin Wednesday morning? Emma came in and somebody whammed her from behind and she fell into the footboard and that’s how she hit her head and got a bruise on her back.”
He took a deep breath. “There’s no proof that bruise didn’t happen another time. But let’s say you’re right and somebody was in Iris’s cabin. Why knock down an old woman? Why not say, ‘I’m waiting for Iris. She’s not here right now.’”
“Maybe the person was determined not to be seen.”
He made no reply, but Annie felt his resistance, solid as a boulder. “Iris said she came back to the island”—Annie turned into the parking lot behind the pavilion—“because she wanted to find out if something she remembered or didn’t quite remember was true.” It was hard to give a sense of Iris’s uncertainty and worry and ultimate decisiveness from those moments of honesty in the cool water of the pool. “She said people didn’t want to talk to her. What if somebody was afraid of what she might remember and came to her cabin to be sure she didn’t have something written down? Maybe tonight Iris remembered.”
“If she remembered, so what? Do you think somebody pushed her off the pier? Did you see anything tonight to suggest she was in danger?”
“People weren’t friendly, the ones I think she knew.” How threatening did that sound? Maybe she was conjuring trouble out of nothing. “Liz and Russell Montgomery. Buck and Fran Carlisle. Cara Wilkes.”
“They knew her.” His tone was cool. “Maybe they didn’t have any reason to be happy she was back. What happened? Any quarrels?”
“No.” The admission came reluctantly. “I think that Iris,” Annie spoke slowly, trying to communicate the force of Iris’s determination, “knew something that troubled her, something really bad, but she wasn’t sure.”
“Maybe something tonight triggered a memory,” Billy suggested, “and she went home with somebody and they’re talking it over. Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell you she was leaving. She was caught up in the past. And maybe,” Billy’s voice was matter-of-fact, “she couldn’t stay away from the sauce.”
Annie stopped next to Max’s Jeep in the parking lot behind the pavilion. “Oh.” It hadn’t occurred to her that Iris might have lost her never-ending battle, the hunger for alcohol, the quivering need for a drug. Maybe that was the sad answer to her disappearance.
“She’ll turn up.” Billy was relaxed. “You’re chasing shadows, Annie. There’s no reason to worry about Iris.”
MAX SWUNG THE FLASHLIGHT TOWARD THE BROODING darkness of the pines. “I’ve looked everywhere but the woods. She’s not anywhere on the picnic grounds.”
Annie stared at the towering pines, a dark mass beneath the starlit sky. The breeze rustled the limbs high in the air. Frogs chortled from a pond.
“Let’s go home, Annie. Maybe Billy got it right. Maybe being back on the island was too much stress and she started drinking.”
Annie remembered Iris’s thin face and burdened eyes. “She was making it. One day at a time.” But what if she hadn’t made it? What if she had wandered into the woods, collapsed in a stupor? Annie thought about snakes and alligators and bobcats. She would never be able to sleep, imagining Iris passed out in the woods, vulnerable to attack. “Let’s take the path through the woods to the pier.” Billy had alluded to the pier; something there had been bad for Iris. If she had too much to drink, maybe she had been drawn to the pier.
When they reached the pines, the sounds of the night enveloped them, courting frogs, wind-stirred palmetto fronds, cooing chuck-will’s-widows. Max’s flashlight poked a beam into a tunnel of darkness created by the forest canopy above and the heavy undergrowth bordering the path. They moved slowly, swerving here to avoid a fallen limb, there to jump a dank puddle. A nearby thrashing signaled a creature alarmed by their presence, a deer or raccoon or possibly a cougar.
With every step, Annie looked for any evidence of a plunge into the forest, smashed ferns or broken saw-palmetto fronds. Nothing appeared disturbed. They were nearing the end of the path and the opening on the other side of the woods near the harbor. Tension eased out of her neck and shoulders. If Iris wasn’t in the forest, they would have done all they could to search for her.
Suddenly Max’s hand closed hard on her wrist. His light swept up toward the canopy, leaving the trail in darkness, but she’d already seen Iris, lying facedown, unmoving, hands splayed on either side of her head.
Annie made a small whimpering sound and found herself in Max’s tight embrace. “Don’t look.”
But she had looked.
Iris wasn’t facedown dead drunk. Iris was facedown dead, her dark hair ruffled, a shiny black cord tight around her neck.