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Nico tried but could only stomach a few bites before it all threatened to come straight back up. How could he eat while Lexie . . .
Setting his bowl aside, he went to join Cora who’d assumed his previous position staring at the board. He could hear Frank and West still talking behind him, their voices muted and garbled. They were discussing options for a manhunt, estimating how many men they would need, how many dogs, and how much time it would take to cover the whole island. Nico closed his eyes. Too long. That was a fact no one could deny, no matter how many suggestions were thrown around. They couldn’t wait. Hell, it might already be too late.
“Logan swears that the blood on his truck belongs to one of the women up the mountain, just a hunting accident,” Frank was saying. “In any case, we can’t hold these guys for more than forty-eight hours, and the clock’s ticking.”
“So, I guess George didn’t do it?” Cora said suddenly.
Nico frowned down at her. “Do what?”
She glanced at the holding cell, her forehead crinkling in confusion. “I saw him in lockup this morning and just assumed you’d brought him in for”—her hand waved uncertainly toward the board—“he is a suspect, isn’t he?”
“No, he—” Nico shook his head. “He got himself into trouble at Wade’s last night and needed to sleep it off, that’s all.”
“Oh.” Cora returned her eyes to the line of victim photos. “It would seem my instincts aren’t as sharp as they used to be.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Between you and me, he’s the one I had my money on. Awful thing, losing a child. God-only-knows how twisted his mind’s gotten because of it.”
“Cora, that’s . . .” Crazy. And yet, something in Nico’s brain twitched. He blinked, his mouth dropping open, his thoughts tentatively dancing around the edge of a possibility he’d never seriously entertained until now. Like a basketball circling the hoop, almost a score but not quite, the idea percolated. “George wasn’t anywhere near the scene of the first murder the night it happened. It couldn’t have been him,” he said, but his voice lacked the proper conviction.
“Well, for everyone’s sake, I hope you figure it out soon.” Cora gave him a sympathetic pat on the back as she walked away.
Nico barely felt it. His mind reeled. Like a carriage with wobbly wheels careening down a mountainside, thoughts raced and converged and slammed into one another. He couldn’t slow it down, could only hold on tight as his brain dragged him along for the ride.
George’s reaction when he’d thought he was being accused of murder had seemed so genuine. So outraged that Nico would have bet his career he couldn’t have faked that level of offense. But that wasn’t what was at stake, was it? Lexie’s life was. What if he’d been wrong? What if—no. It wasn’t possible. The man’s alibi was solid. He had to be removed from the equation, at least as far as Isabelle’s death was concerned. And yet . . . Something about Cora’s hunch held him, tugged at his arm; look this way. Her words rang true even if the theory was flawed: losing a child would be an awful thing. Awful enough to drive anyone mad with rage and sorrow. But to murder? Nico just couldn’t see George doing it. Even if the Rileys did harbor resentment toward their daughter’s childhood friends, perhaps even blame them for what happened, between Esme’s ill-health and—
Nico stopped. He looked up at the board again. Absently, his hands glided up, his fingers pointing and jerking to every photo, every post-it, every shred of evidence as his brain reached the cusp of an unthinkable thought.
No way . . .
“Lieutenant?” Cora asked, having noticed his silent ambivalence. Her voice held an edge of concern, and it caused others to take notice. Nico felt the attention of the room shift.
Frank came into his line of sight. “What is it, kid?”
“I . . .” His eyes squinted as he tried to piece it all together, leaning on every bit of training and experience he’d had to make it fit. Finally, he found something to grab onto, the rock in the stormy sea. “When you arrested George Riley last night, you said he’d never acted that way before.”
“That’s right.”
“So, why would a man who’s never caused any trouble suddenly try to start a bar fight?”
Frank looked lost. “Uh, I don’t know. He was emotional.”
“About what?”
“He didn’t share.”
“Vikki said he yelled out ‘stupid bitch’ before it all went down.” Nico looked past Frank to the autopsy photos. He pointed at Darcy’s gray, dead face; the laceration on her cheekbone that had been cleaned to reveal a deep, swollen wound. “What was it that the ME said about this blunt force trauma?”
“That it likely knocked her unconscious, but it’s not what killed her,” West replied, coming to join them.
“Isabelle Moss had one just like it on the back of her head, didn’t she?” Nico could feel his whole body vibrating as he spoke, the thrill of the chase igniting his bones. “Didn’t she?”
“Yes, she did,” Frank said, wild curiosity in his eyes. “Talk to us, Nico. Where are you at?”
What Nico experienced in the next few seconds was like realizing you’ve just locked your keys in the car, times a thousand: equal shares of shock, awe, and exasperation at himself for not seeing it coming. His brain jolted, neurons fired, a million light bulbs pinged, and everything suddenly became so terrifyingly clear.
“Holy Christ,” he whispered.
It wasn’t Kyle Garrett they were looking for. It wasn’t Bryan Fowler, or Colin Rowe, or Logan Hayes. He’d known the women on that board were not killed out of rage or sadism or any other number of theories they’d come up with, because he’d felt it from the moment he walked into the first crime scene. It was different. More purposeful. Sara Riley had been murdered, passionately and unexpectedly. But Isabelle and Darcy, they were punished. Hate was not the driving force of their deaths, but love. Loss.
“Why?” Nico asked, already shrugging into his jacket. “Why knock them out only to stab them to death afterward? Why not just go straight for the kill?”
