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A large boom sounded. She had no idea what it was. It sounded more like something had crashed into the house than thunder. But it convinced her she’d be a fool to waste any more time waiting for him.
Taking only the small flashlight she’d found, she left her charging phone behind to poke through the other rooms.
Surely, she’d find a bevy of stronger flashlights. The house was built on an island, for God’s sake. The only way to reach Mariners was by boat or plane, and bad weather routinely cut it off from the mainland. But no one had spent much time at the cottage since it was gutted and remodeled, so a lot of everyday items hadn’t yet been replaced.
The lights went out before she could reach the second story. She was only halfway up the stairs when it happened, leaving her in a thick humid darkness that felt like plasma. As she listened to the wind howl through the eaves and the house creak in protest, she realized she was going to have to go ahead and use the weak flashlight.
“What a nightmare,” she muttered and hit the switch.
A dim yellow circle illuminated the next step and then the next. The beam couldn’t reach far, which made her nervous. She needed to decide where she’d spend her time until the power came back on, because if she couldn’t find another source of light, she wouldn’t be able to move about in this unfamiliar place. It wasn’t as if she could rely on her phone as a flashlight. She might need what cell power she had for more important things.
Chances were she’d just have to wait out the storm in the dark, hoping the power came back on sooner than later—or that the skies would clear enough by tomorrow morning that she’d be able to see the sun.
Once she reached the landing, she sought out the bathrooms. She was relieved to find several decorative, scented candles by the soaking tub in the master bedroom, but there weren’t any matches. Hoping she might run across a lighter in one of the boys’ rooms, she brought two candles with her and left them near the wall at the top of the stairs before going into the first door off the hallway.
Although this room had been updated, like the rest of the house, there was a graduation picture of Remy on the dresser from when he got his bachelor’s, along with some old baseball and soccer trophies. Remy had insisted she take the master—might as well be as comfortable as possible, Is. We can always switch rooms if my parents make it out to visit us—so she wasn’t staying in his old room, but she knew this had belonged to him. She’d seen it yesterday when she first arrived and explored the house.
She searched his drawers but most were empty, since the furniture was new. She did find several boxes in the closet filled with old clothes and memorabilia and guessed his mother had asked the workmen to put his belongings there for him to sort through the next time he returned to the island.
After digging through clothes, old schoolwork, and things he’d made as a child, she lost confidence she’d find what she needed in those boxes and started to feel along the top shelf of his closet. Could he have hidden a bong or some marijuana with a lighter? He smoked on occasion, and once told her he’d started young.
Although the closet would be the most likely place to find that type of thing, she couldn’t reach all the way to the back, so she climbed up on one of the heaviest boxes and used her flashlight to see.
There was no bong. No lighter or matches, either. She found a ballpoint pen, a random bookmark, and a spiral binder with Remy’s name drawn on the cover in colorful graffiti-like letters and pages filled with incredible drawings.
She’d known Remy was talented. He’d done a number of sketches—including a picture of her dog before she had to put him down three months ago—and quite a few human bodies, showing the detailed anatomy of the organs, muscles, and ligaments. He said it was a great way for him to study, and she could see why that might be the case.
But the drawings in this book weren’t quite so clinical. These depicted violence—knives dripping with blood, torture devices, and mutilated bodies.
With a grimace, she closed the binder and put it back. She couldn’t understand why Remy or anyone else would have the desire to draw such things. But a lot of teenage boys were fascinated with the macabre. Even thoughshefound those graphic images unsettling—disturbing—especially while her flashlight was fading and she was likely to be left in the dark, stranded alone in this “cottage” by the sea, she shouldn’t make too much of it.
Coming to this place had seemed like such a treat before the storm rolled in, she mused. But right now, she’d rather be in the cramped, kitschy, well-loved four-bedroom farmhouse where she’d grown up, even if all her siblings were home and arguing over religion and politics, as they often did.
She was about to scramble down and move on to Remy’s twin brother’s room when a loose board along the back of the shelves caught her eye.There it is.That had to be where he’d hidden his marijuana, she thought.
Lifting the loose board revealed a hole in the wall that contained a small nylon duffel bag, the kind an athlete would use to carry their equipment. She reached for it, then hesitated. She was already a little shaken by what she’d seen in that notebook. Should she really press on? This wasn’t her house. She had no right to invade Remy’s privacy. After all, she’d just seen a part of her fiancé—even if it was from when he was much younger—that she didn’t find appealing. And they didn’t need any more strain on their relationship.
But if this was indeed a bong, and there were matches or a lighter with it, she’d have candlesanda way to use them.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong, she reassured herself, and got down so she could use both hands.
After unzipping the duffel, she pointed her flashlight inside it. But she didn’t find what she’d expected. The bag contained several pieces of cheap jewelry, a torn picture of some girl who looked to be eighteen or nineteen, and a handful of women’s underwear.
She picked up a pair of yellow bikini briefs—and quickly dropped them again. Why would Remy have a bag of women’s jewelry and panties hidden so carefully in his closet?
Her mind raced and her heart began to pound. Like the drawings, the contents of the duffel could fall within the range of what was normal for a young boy to have, couldn’t it? Young boys were, of course, notoriously curious about women.
But what she’d found didn’tfeelnormal. That was the problem. Whose panties were they? Where had they come from? And how long had they been there?
Whatever the answers to those questions, she wished she’d never found the notebook or the bag. She’d lived with Remy for two of the three years they’d been together, but this made her wonder if she really knew him. He was so...highly focused on school, on himself. He didn’t open up a lot. What was going on inside his head?
These items made her wonder like she’d never wondered before.
Intending to get back up on the boxes so she could put the bag away, she turned, but her flashlight died at that moment, leaving her standing in Remy’s old room, blinking widely without being able to see a thing—except those horrific drawings and the yellow bikini briefs in the duffel she was holding, both of which were indelibly etched into her brain.
2
Bo Broussard had seen the woman pull into the drive of the main house yesterday. He’d been watching for her. Annabelle Windsor had called to let him know her son and his fiancée, Ismay Chalmers, would be coming to spend the rest of spring and part of summer, and he’d done his job by making sure the cottage was ready.
