I raise a hand to my brow and squint out the picture window. That dinghy. What’s it doing?
I’m in the living room, coffee in hand. We made the transfer yesterday, as instructed, from Jo’s granny’s account to the blackmailer’s. I woke up feeling optimistic. For the first time in ages, I actually slept well. I figured my luck was turning.
But something’s wrong. The black dinghy keeps coming closer. Close enough to read the letters on its side: glebes bay pd.
Dismay grips me. Three people are onboard, two of them clad in black wet suits. Are they coming to moor on our jetty? But the dinghy stops, just short of our dock. One man lowers an anchor. My gut shrinks. I shouldn’t have drunk that extra coffee.
I set my cup on a side table and walk to the patio door. I unlock it and stride onto the terrace. Two divers shrug on their oxygen tanks and check their equipment. They toss out a dive flag. One diver steps overboard, then the other. The tide’s low. Where they are, the water must be shallow.
I cross the terrace and take the path toward the jetty. Like my stomach, my thoughts are churning. Sour coffee burns up my windpipe.
I push back my hair and remember my tablet. Jo tossed it out back. Damn. What if they find it? How could I explain? Could I say someone stole it? No. I’m getting wound up for no reason. I take slow breaths. I mustn’t panic.
I continue down the path toward the boathouse.
Near the back of the dinghy a head pops up, black and slick. It’s one of the divers. He passes something up to the man still on board. My belly flip-flops. Jesus. What the hell is it?
I’m nearing the rocks. I stop, unsure whether to keep watching or to flee back indoors.
Turning, I spy Detective Shergold off to my left. She’s in front of the Reeves’ place, standing on the rocks exposed by the low tide. Everything’s public property below the mean high-tide line.
I freeze. She hasn’t noticed me yet, her gaze fixed on the dinghy. She’s speaking into a walkie-talkie. The man onboard holds one too. I can’t hear what they’re saying.
Detective Shergold lowers her walkie-talkie. The guy on board nods and does the same. She turns and walks my way, intent on where she’s stepping. The rocks are slippery with seaweed. On a bedrock base, some loose stones are shaky.
I’m turning to go when she looks up. Shit. Our eyes meet. I can’t slink away. It would look bad, like I’m guilty and can’t face her.
She walks faster, with more confidence. After a moment’s more hesitation, I walk her way.
“Morning,” she says when we’re about twenty feet apart.
“Morning.” I stop and shove my hands into my pants pockets. I didn’t plan on coming outside. I’m wearing a sweater but no coat. Despite the sun, it’s cool. The breeze off the water is chilly.
Shergold keeps coming. She’s clutching the walkie-talkie.
“What did they find?” I blurt. “I saw them recover something!”
She squints at the dinghy. “Nothing relevant. Junk. Just a broken car headlight.” In the morning light, she looks tired. Older than when we first met, the skin around her eyes more crinkled. She’s been putting in long hours trying to catch my husband’s killer.
I don’t answer. I hope my relief’s not too obvious. Not that relief’s warranted. It’s not like they’d tell me if they did find something useful! The only reason they’re here is because they suspect me.
Does she really think I dumped Stan right out back of my own house? Do I really look that stupid?
I hunch against the wind. One of the divers pops up, nearer the guesthouse.
I recall the role I’m meant to be playing: the grieving widow, desperate for answers. “Will you tell me when you know who’s responsible—and why? My children and I—” My voice breaks. “We need to know.”
I expect her to show me some sympathy, but her frown deepens. Her voice is flat as she says, “All I can tell you is that we’re getting closer. And you’ll be the first to know. That much, I promise.” Her iron eyes spear me.
I shrink back.
With a nod, I spin away. I can’t maintain my pretense any longer. That sounded more like a threat than a promise.