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“Yeah, okay,” he said, backing off. “Whatever you say, Frank.”
He stalked away. Nico glanced over to where Lexie was standing seconds before only to find her gone.
Frank slapped him on the back. “Welcome to Mercy Cove.”
Lexie watched Nico leave from her hiding spot by the restrooms, her heart in her throat. She hadn’t noticed Kyle come in, had no idea how long he’d been here, but could guess at least long enough to see her emerge from the back office with Nico. Knowing him, he’d probably dropped his drink on purpose just for the excuse to get in Nico’s face. She tried to tell herself that she’d scurried out of sight to avoid a scene, but the truth was, she was ashamed. It wouldn’t take long for Nico to find out exactly who that little altercation had been with. After that, well, he’d likely avoid her like the plague. Just like they all did. Just like Dalton had . . . in the end.
When she was certain Nico was gone and the crowd had returned to their food and drinks, she ventured out. At least three tables needed clearing, so she got to work stacking plates on top of one another until she heard a derisive voice drawl, “So, who’s your new friend?”
Lexie paused but didn’t turn around, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her upset.
“Go home, Kyle. You’re drunk.”
He scoffed but left her alone.
It was all Lexie could do to keep the tears at bay as she ran out the back.
Chapter four
Nico woke before the sun, a pit of dread heavy in his stomach.
After a thirty-minute run along the gray-lit beach—every step a teeth-gritting effort to ignore the pain in his thigh—and a hot shower, he still couldn’t stand the thought of food, so he jumped in his car before he lost his nerve and started the engine.
Even this early, the town was a spate of morning rituals, from the fishermen readying their vessels for a day of deep-water trawling to the kid on his bike throwing newspapers onto as many lawns as he could before school. The air coming through the open window was brisk, but dewy enough to tell of the warm day ahead. In his rearview mirror, Nico watched the orange ball of light break the horizon, spilling hues of soft pink and gold across the world. Any other time, he would have pulled over to enjoy the spectacular sunrise, but he knew if he stopped, he might yield to his better judgment and bow out.
But he couldn’t do that. Not only because it would make him a coward, but because he’d just be delaying the inevitable. They would find out he was here soon enough—assuming they hadn’t heard already—and Nico wanted to pay them the proper respect before then.
Leaving the township behind, Nico drove west toward the center of the island, climbing the crest of the first peak and following the asphalt road back down the other side. He moved through the thick tree line and continued until the aged wooden sign that read Fate’s Crossing came into view. He’d read about the legends of this place before he came, about how wives of lost fishermen would claim to have seen the ghosts of their husbands wandering here. It was said to be a sacred place. A place where both the living and the dead might meet one last time before the great beyond—at least that’s what they wrote in the tourist brochures. Being a man of faith, Nico wasn’t sure how much of it he believed, if spirits truly did wait here to bid farewell to their beloveds, or if it was just one of those stories parents told their children to ensure they never strayed too far into the woods. Either way, he preferred not to stick around to find out.
Turn after turn, Nico followed his GPS until he found Oak Drive. By the time he reached the green mailbox with number two printed on the front, his palms had begun to sweat, and it occurred to him that seven a.m. might not be the best time for an uninvited house call. He was expected at work by eight, so it was now or never. His tires crunched along the gravel drive as he slowly passed under the barnwood arch. A sign hung from two old chains in the center with a name painted in a neat, rustic font.
Riley.
His other unfinished business.
Nico swallowed hard, fighting against the barrage of memories trying to stampede through his mind. Dried blood against bone-white flesh. Cold, vacant eyes staring at nothing. Her silent scream . . .
He shook his head.
Get a grip.
Nico parked a good twenty paces away from the two-story farmhouse. The yard was overgrown, shrubs and climbers alike taking up as much space as they wanted in concrete garden beds that no longer held their sway, some latching onto the house itself, their tentacle-like shoots taking grip wherever they could. It reminded Nico of pictures he’d seen in books as a child, when a giant squid attempted to take down a ship in the deep, dark sea. Left to rot in the elements, the building itself was also in a major state of disrepair, white paint flaking away from the weatherboarding in large chunks, the blue shutters sitting crooked—one having fallen off completely. A dilapidated barn sat further back on the property, its roof peppered with holes and its walls on enough of a lean that Nico wondered if it would blow over in a gusty storm. Even the warmth of morning sunbeams couldn’t lift the depressing feel of this place.
Nico sighed. Was this his fault too?
Grass whipped his knees and softened his footfalls as he approached, but, before he reached the porch steps, the door opened with a slow groan from its aged hinges, and George Riley stepped outside.
It was an effort for Nico to contain his wince.
The man had aged ten years in the space of less than two; his once clean-shaven face now coated with a thick ginger beard that had turned white at the ends. His hair had grown out too, the disheveled mop of copper falling well below his ears. His hazel eyes—half-hidden behind lazy lids—swept over Nico, first with suspicion, then recognition, and finally, lifeless condemnation. Nico almost buckled under the weight of it.
“Detective,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
“Hello, George.”
The few seconds of silence that followed could have been an eternity. George’s features were unreadable, but Nico got the distinct impression he’d rather swallow razor blades than invite him into his home.
He asked, “Why are you here?”
