Sunday
Kyra rubbed her eyes and slipped a pod into the coffee machine. A headache throbbed at her temples. She’d stayed up late, reading through her dad’s case notes, then rereading them. She might have finished a bottle of one of the nicer French reds she’d found in the wine cellar, and she felt stiff from dehydration and the death-like sleep brought on by too much alcohol.
Kyra pushed up the sleeves of the oversized Columbia Law sweatshirt she’d found in the dresser in her room. She added almond milk to her coffee and took her mug into Ed’s office. She stood in front of the French doors and looked out onto the cove. Sunlight refracted off the water like dancing white stars.
She flipped the lock and stepped out onto the back patio. The stone was cold under her feet. She sipped her coffee, letting the sun warm the backs of her bare legs.
I’m certain Ed was assembling a story exposing the senator and Wetun. That must have been why he was on that boat. But what did he hope to learn? If it was murder, did someone lure him there? No matter what way she looked at it, she couldn’t sort out how Brendan fit in. There is one person who might know.
Kyra took a sip of her now tepid coffee and hugged her arms to her body for warmth. Despite the chill, she liked it out here. The soft ocean sound, the salty tinge to the air, it was peaceful. I’ll miss this.
She turned back toward the house. “I need to speak to Chase Hawthorn,” she mumbled and slipped inside.
A fluffy white menace was waiting for her in the office, by the door. She stooped down to scratch his ears.
“Time for a different tactic, right, Cronkers?”
He followed her into the kitchen, chirped his agreement, then cast a longing look at his empty food bowl. “No, you had breakfast.” She made herself another cup of coffee. “Come on,” she called to him, walking back to the living room. “Do you know how I can speak to Chase Hawthorn?” The cat jumped onto the couch and blinked. “Me neither,” she said, taking a seat next to him. He turned a circle before plopping down in a tightly coiled ball. “Let’s check Hawthorn’s campaign finances.” What could be more exciting?
Sure enough, Hawthorn’s reelection campaign had received donations from Dr. Maria Alonda and Bea Watson, but neither donation seemed outrageous, and both appeared consistent with other personal donations from corporate executives.
Next, she pulled up the finances for the Energy and Natural Resources Committee and, except for small deposits and debits credited to a lobbyist organization, there wasn’t anything strange about the committee’s finances.
She looked through the deposit and withdrawal history of Brendan’s brokerage account that Tarek had forwarded. She frowned. He had almost nothing in there last spring, then all this activity, and then again nearly nothing. It doesn’t add up. Where did all that money go? Seven million dollars doesn’t just disappear. And if he moved it, why call my dad?
If he moved it.
She texted Tarek.
“Can you ask Brendan’s brokerage firm to provide log-in data? Days, times, and from what IP addresses last summer?”
“Our warrant was served this morning. We should have that data by the end of the day. What are you thinking?”
“It’s probably nothing. I’ll let you know.”
Kyra turned back to her laptop. She was still on the home page for the Energy and National Resources Committee when she noticed the Featured Committee Updates section. She clicked it. As of March, the committee had heard proposals from all the energy contractors and were considering eight different proposals. Wetun Energy and BoSOil Petroleum were the only applicants from the Northeast, and Wetun was the only offshore wind farm proposal. Kyra pressed her lips together, thinking.
There was a noise at the front door and Kyra started. Irritated at the disruption, she walked to the foyer to see Wes Silva trying to open the door.
She yanked it open. “What are you doing here?”
Wes glowered at her. “I told you. I need to check the heating system.” He held up his keys.
“I’ve had the locks changed,” Kyra snapped, pointing to the new keypad. “Your services are no longer needed. Now, kindly get off my property.” She tried to push the door closed, but Wes stopped it with his boot.
“And what are you going to do about it?” He shifted his body, towering over her.
“I’ll call the police.” She stood straighter, challenging him. She didn’t glance behind her, where her phone sat on the coffee table.
“What, you mean the one you’re fucking isn’t enough for you?” Wes sneered.
Kyra reared back like she’d been slapped. She stared him down. “Get. Off. My. Property.” She spoke through gritted teeth, her words slow and measured. “Now.”
Kyra stepped back to close the door. She leaned into it, using her body weight.
Wes grunted and moved his boot.
The door slammed shut. Kyra stumbled against it. She turned the deadbolt. Wes Silva stood on the other side, glaring at her through the glass. With all the self-control she could muster, she turned her back on him and walked to the living room.
Furious, she grabbed her phone and called Detective Collins. Before he could say anything, she hissed at him. “What the fuck have you been telling people?”
“What?”
She could hear the confusion in his voice, but she ignored it, scanning her yard. She couldn’t see Wes. Moving quickly, her phone still tucked against her ear, she double-checked the locks on the glass doors.
“Wes Silva tried to get in the house again. What have you been telling people?”
“What? Are you okay? Is he there now?” Kyra froze. The study.
She ran for the office. Her hand struck the doorframe, just as Wes Silva pushed the door open and stepped inside the house.
Kyra heard a whooshing in her ears. Forcing herself to at least sound calm, she enunciated each word, “I have called the police, Mr. Silva. I won’t tell you again. Leave.”
Wes shrugged, a sneer plastered across his mouth. He slung an empty backpack over his shoulder and stepped toward her, his boots thudding on the floorboards, slow, deliberate.
“Kyra!” Tarek’s voice was loud, commanding through the phone she still held to her ear. “Get out of the house. Go to Grace and Charlie’s. I’m coming.”
Kyra backed out of the office, keeping her eyes on Silva. Once her toes touched the living room rug, she turned and bolted for the front door. She had to stop to turn the lock; her hands shook. She threw a glance behind her shoulder. She didn’t see him. Where is he?
Kyra yanked the door open and ran across the front yard toward the path connecting her property with the Chamberses’. She ran down the path and across their lawn, hardly feeling the rough ground against the soles of her feet. She bound up the stairs onto their porch and banged on their door. Nothing. She pressed the doorbell. It rang through the house. Kyra scanned the drive. Their car was missing. She craned her neck for a view of the path, but the house was in the way. Is the following me? Her breathing came fast. Where do I go?
“Kyra.” Tarek’s steady voice came over the phone. He had stayed on the line.
“I’m here,” she whispered, gripping the phone. “Charlie and Grace aren’t home.”
“It’s okay. The Edgartown police are on their way. They’ll be there soon.” She concentrated on his voice. “Kyra, I want you to take their driveway and get to the main road. Go.”
Kyra held in a sob and turned toward the driveway.
“I’ll stay on the line.”
Kyra ran down the gravel driveway and turned onto the street. She followed it around the bend, hoping she was running toward the main road. Her lungs burned. After what felt like miles, she found Herring Creek Road, wide and sandy.
“I’m here. On the road,” she told Tarek, her breathing raspy.
“I’m almost there. Just stay where you are.”
“I don’t think he followed me.”
Kyra looked down the road. She stood on the bike path and willed the police cruisers or Tarek’s Ford Explorer to appear. Kyra heard the low whine of the truck before she saw it. The engine revved. The grill glinted in the sun as it barreled toward her. She dove off the bike path, into the brush, just as Wes Silva sped by. She landed on her shoulder with a yelp at the impact.
Kyra lay on the ground, stunned. She wasn’t sure if Wes had seen her and tried to hit her, or if her brain in survival mode had overreacted. She shifted her arms and legs. Nothing was broken, and she slowly got to her feet. Her shoulder throbbed. Her hands and knees were bleeding. She hobbled back to the street, just as Tarek drove up. The SUV screeched to a stop, sliding on the sandy road.
He jumped out and ran to her. “Kyra!” His arms went around her.
She slumped against him, letting him support her weight.
He pushed her hair away from her face, scanned her body, searching for injuries. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I’m not hurt.” She gave him a weak smile, trying to reassure him.
His hands ran down her arms and wrapped around her waist. “I got you.”
He helped her into his car and called the station. Where were the dispatched officers? What about Silva?
He glanced over at Kyra, scanning her face. A muscle in his jaw moved. He put the car into drive and gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Kyra closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the cool window.
When they arrived at the house, two police cruisers were already in the drive. Three men in uniform were standing outside the open front door, talking. At the sound of Tarek’s car, they turned, and one with a shiny bald head strode toward them, hand raised. Tarek stopped and got out of the SUV.
“Detective,” the first officer greeted him. “The situation seems to have rectified itself.” He waved toward the house. “No one’s home.”
“No shit.” Tarek walked around to the passenger side. He opened Kyra’s door. “Come on, lean on me.” He turned to the officer. “Does she look like she’s fucking home?” Tarek reached for Kyra and, supporting her, led her to the front door. He set her down on the step and motioned for her to stay put. She leaned against the railing. “Where’s Silva?”
“He’s not here. I did a walkthrough of the house. It doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed,” a younger officer said. “Wes is a good guy, ma’am. I’m sure this was all a misunderstanding.”
“He broke into my house. He threatened me,” she said, unable to keep her voice from shaking. “He’s been trying to get inside since I’ve arrived.”
The three officers exchanged a look.
“There’s no evidence of a break-in,” the third officer said and shrugged.
“The way we’ve heard it is you’ve been real nasty. Won’t let Wes do his job,” the bald one said. “He’s got his tools and gear here, and you won’t let him have his property back. From where I stand, that’s theft.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt.
“I beg your pardon?” Kyra gaped at them.
“We’re just telling you what we’ve heard,” the third officer piped in. “Wes don’t want no trouble. He’s just an honest guy trying to get by.”
“You summer people.” The bald officer clenched his hands into fists.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Kyra pulled herself up using the railing.
Tarek stepped in front of her. “That’s enough.” He nodded toward the cruisers. “You can leave. I’ll take care of her.”
“I’m sure you will.” He sneered and spun on his heel.
Kyra’s cheeks heated with shame. She shook her head unable to understand what was going on, what these men were implying, or why.
The third officer snickered as he strode to his cruiser and got in. The second officer, the young one, followed the first, avoiding eye contact with either Tarek or Kyra.
Once the cars left her driveway, she snapped at Tarek, “What the fuck was that?”
“That,” Tarek said, turning around, “was a giant asshole.” He ran his hands through his hair and reached for her, helping her into the house. “They’re all friends with Silva. I knew they wouldn’t arrest him, but I didn’t think they’d be so hostile. I’m sorry.”
He guided her to one of the kitchen stools.
“What’s going on, Tarek?”
He moved to the sink and dampened a paper towel. With a sigh, Tarek kneeled down and cleaned the scrapes on her knees and feet. Despite his gentle touch, she still flinched. “Sorry,” he mumbled, and reached for her hand. He picked away the gravel imbedded in her palm. “There’s a strange social balance between the summer crowd and the islanders. The island relies on the money brought in by the tourists, but it’s hard to depend on people who don’t see you. It fosters a lot of resentment.”
“But I’m not a summer person. I’ve never been here in the summer. And even if I was, that doesn’t give anyone the right to break into my house.”
“I’m not sure he was talking about you. But you’re right.” He started on her other hand. “You’re lucky. You could have been hurt.”
Summer people. Off islanders. Mainlanders. If their intent was to make her feel unwelcome, alone, and vulnerable, they’d succeeded.
“It’s fine,” she lied, pulling her hand back. “It doesn’t hurt. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Tarek muttered, standing up, but his brow was still furrowed, his jaw set.
His phone rang. He glanced at it and frowned. “I’ve got to take this.”
“Go ahead. I’m fine. I’m going to take a shower.” She pushed herself off the stool and headed toward the stairs, trying to hide the stinging in her feet.
The hot water bit at her scrapes, and the river-stone flooring irritated her raw feet, but Kyra found some small comfort in the mild pain and more in the hot water sloughing off the trauma of the morning. She was thankful Tarek had stayed. He was getting in touch with a security company now. She’d heard him calling as she’d changed out of her clothes. Clearly, he was more concerned than he’d let on. She didn’t believe Silva was trying to collect tools he’d stored at the house. A normal person would have said that days ago. What’s here that he wants so badly? Her mind went to the screwdriver she’d found yesterday, and a shiver ran down her spine despite the hot water. Silva’s? Had he tried to break in while she was in Boston?
Kyra rinsed the suds from her body and turned off the water. She dressed in comfortable slacks and a soft sweater—clothes that didn’t catch on her torn skin.
Tarek was sitting at the island on his phone when she entered the kitchen. He looked up and ran his eyes over her, his gaze assessing. He looked like he was going to ask how she felt, but instead he glanced at the basement door. “I want to check the house, see if Silva really did leave his things here or if he took anything. You should call your lawyer and insurance provider, let them know what happened. And you’re getting a security system. I mean it,” he said, his voice stern.
She nodded. Yeah, I know. Kyra sighed at having more things added to her never-ending to-do list.
They went downstairs, Tarek’s hand on her elbow offering support if she needed it. Other than the wine cellar, Kyra hadn’t really come down here. Not since Grace had given her the tour. The basement was broken up into three rooms: the wine cellar, a storage room, and the utility room containing the HVAC, water heaters, and electrical panel. The storage room contained cleaning supplies, beach stuff, various boxes with labels of things typically stored in basements, like Christmas and Cables. Tarek gave the room a cursory once over, while Kyra stood in the doorway.
“Doesn’t look like anything’s been disturbed. I doubt there’s anything valuable down here. Nothing worth assaulting someone over.” Her voice sounded forced and strained. She pointed. “The HVAC is in there.” Kyra tried the knob, and the door swung opened. It was locked. Kyra wrapped her arms around herself. How many times had Wes Silva been in the house and she hadn’t known about it? When she’d been sleeping? The thought made her sick.
Tarek stepped in first and turned on the light.
The HVAC system consisted of two large units from which duct work spidered out in all directions. Behind the units was a large wall panel full of dozens of valves, switches, and pipes.
“Does this mean anything to you?” she asked, taking in the organized chaos.
“Nothing at all.” Tarek snapped photos of the system with his phone. “I’ll send this to the office. See if someone can find an expert.”
“There isn’t anything here he could have left, right?” she asked, looking about the room. “I don’t see any tools or…” She didn’t know what she was looking for. “Should we check the wine cellar?”
Tarek ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”
They retraced their steps to the temperature- and moisture-controlled room.
“I can’t tell if he’s taken anything,” she said, surveying the racks of wine and stacks of cases pushed to the side. “There’s enough here to get the island pissed a hundred times over.”
“I almost hope he was sneaking in to steal bottles of rosé.” Tarek mocked, and Kyra let out a weak laugh. He grinned at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes, still full of concern. “We should check the rest of the house.”
They inspected the first floor, leaving the office for last. Kyra walked around the room, eyeing the piles and clutter.
“It was a mess before,” she said, shrugging. “It’s still a mess. Wait, my laptop.”
She returned to the living room and found her computer where she’d left it on the couch, partially covered by the throw blanket. “Nope, he didn’t take it.” She made sure it turned on. “I’ve no idea what he was looking for.”
Her eyes went wide. Her heart jumped into her throat.
“Where’s the cat?”
“You think he stole the cat?”
“No, but what if he got out?” she asked, her voice shrill, as she succumbed to panic. But she didn’t care how she sounded. Images of Cronk being hit by a car, his broken body flashed before her eyes. “Cronk!”
“I’m sure he’s here.” Tarek’s long fingers wrapped around her wrists. “Calm down. We’ll find him.”
Kyra, caught in his dark-green eyes, nodded even as she swallowed back tears.
He let her go and called for Cronkite. “Where’s his food?”
Kyra showed him. Sure enough, once a few kibbles hit the bowl, they heard a thump from above. Kyra let out a breath, relieved, embarrassed. How can I be so attached to a cat I’ve had for less than a week? I don’t even want him.
She blamed it on the surge of adrenaline that had left her jittery, but when Cronk finally ambled in, she scooped him up, hugging the wriggling demon to her chest. She cradled him as she sat on the couch, crooning softly, promising she’d always keep him safe.
Tarek’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. “Collins. Yes. Really?” He sat next to Kyra on the couch. “You’re sending that over? For how long? Yeah, and it was widely communicated? No … yes … yes.” Kyra listened to the one-sided conversation with increasing impatience. “Thank you. Evans? Good work.” Tarek hung up and turned around.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” he asked. The side of his mouth twitched.
Kyra pouted, annoyed.
“Fine.” He grinned as if pleased to have coaxed her out of her meltdown. “It turns out that the phone your father was calling was, in fact, Brendan’s, which we knew, but now it’s officially confirmed. It was paid for by the senator’s office, and it had been since the number was issued about eighteen months ago and assigned to congressional aide, Brendan Delaney when he started on the senator’s staff. They pulled the call logs. There are four calls in October to his brokerage account, right after he bought the car. He’d never called them before, at least not from his cell phone. About a week after he bought the car, he made his first call to Ed Gibson but to his regular phone, the one that’s missing. After that, he made dozens of calls to your dad’s burner phone.”
Kyra pressed her lips together.
“Another thing. We got some more information about the storm. The one that would have allegedly caused your dad to seek refuge on The Island Pearl. It wasn’t sudden, but slow-moving. It would have worsened over the course of the night. There was a weather warning, and many of the businesses on the island closed early. The storm hit around midnight.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Tarek frowned. “But it sure as shit means your dad wasn’t on that boat because of any storm.”