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“Who are you?” His sudden, angry voice shocked Rachel to her feet.
She swung around to confront the intruder but was immediately blinded by a flashlight beam shining directly into her eyes. From what Rachel could make out, he was a heavyset man dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt soaked with sweat so strong she could smell it. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos, and the left side of his face was crisscrossed by the angry ridges of knife scars.
“I asked you a question,” he growled, stepping toward her. Rachel instinctively moved back until her spine was pressed into the timber rail. He pointed his flashlight down to where Rachel had been squatting and moved the beam across the inscription as he read it. He paused the light over the wordsviciously murdered.
“What do you know about this?” he asked.
“Not much,” said Rachel. “I heard she drowned here. Hit her head on some rocks when she jumped off the jetty.”
“People are stupid. They’ll believe anything,” he spat. “There ain’t no rocks to hit. The ocean floor is pure sand around here. And the water is deep. Real deep. If I remember correctly, she was a real good swimmer.”
“If it wasn’t an accident, then how did she die?” Rachel pressed. It was the first time someone had come close to confirming what she was starting to suspect—that Jenny’s drowning had been no accident at all.
“You need to scram,” he growled, taking another step closer. Rachel saw a flash of metal near his leg. It looked as if he was holding a switchblade. “Get out. And make sure I don’t see you around again.”
Rachel’s heart beat rapidly as she stepped away and left the jetty. She headed to her car, walking fast across the beach. She deliberately held back from a full-blown sprint, even though the roar of wind was too loud for her to know if he was behind her. Catching up. She resisted the temptation to look back overher shoulder. She had no intention of letting him think that he frightened her.
When Rachel reached her car, it took all her physical strength to open the driver’s door in the strong gusts. She slid inside and pulled it shut. The deafening howl of wind stopped immediately. Rachel took a moment to revel in the silence before turning on her car engine and driving away. As she did, she looked out toward the jetty. The man was leaning over the rail, watching her.
Rachel drove toward Old Mill Road, where she found the gas station at the corner, just as Hannah had described. Rachel filled up with fuel before going inside to pay. The convenience store was brightly lit, with a white-tiled floor and neatly packed shelves. Along the back of the store were self-service coffee and soft-drink machines. There was a cabinet with a heating rack that contained jelly doughnuts and burritos in silver-foil bags.
“Does Rick still work here?” she asked the cashier.
“Don’t know any Rick,” the attendant said, without looking up from his phone. He shoved across a credit card machine so that she could pay for the gas.
“He owned this gas station, or worked here a few years ago,” Rachel said as she swiped her credit card. More like a few decades, she thought.
“Never heard of him,” said the attendant, still looking at his phone.
“Would someone else here know him?”
The attendant looked up. “Know who?”
“Rick. The man who used to work here,” said Rachel, swallowing her irritation.
The attendant rolled his eyes. “Try Sally Crawford. Her house is about a mile that way.” He jabbed his finger in the direction of town. “First house after the empty block. She’s been aroundfor—ev—er,” he said, stretching out the syllables as if it was a curse word. “If Rick worked here, she’d know.”
Sally Crawford’s house was a single-story home with a ramshackle appearance from several additions built over the years. The lawn was overgrown with long grass and weeds, which also poked out through the packed dirt of the driveway. On the front lawn was a rusty old camper van and a boat hidden under a mildewed canvas cover. Rachel heard dogs barking in the back garden as she walked down the driveway toward the front door.
Rachel pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. She could see light through the frosted hall window and hear enough noise to tell her that people were home. She pressed the bell again, holding her thumb against it for a couple of seconds longer than necessary.
The door swung open to reveal a man in his early twenties, holding an open beer bottle. He wore shorts. No shirt. He had long hair and a scraggly beard.
“You’re not here to sell face cream or some other shit, are you?” he asked Rachel.
“I’m not selling anything. I’m here for a quick word with Sally. It’s kind of private,” said Rachel, trying to give the impression that she knew Sally so that he would let her inside.
He grunted and turned around, walking back up the hall, leaving Rachel to make her own way inside. When Rachel reached the kitchen, she saw a woman she assumed was Sally. She was a large woman with bright red hair and she was standing behind the kitchen counter cutting watermelon with a stainless-steel butcher’s knife. Her son was using his elbow to open the sliding doors to the back garden, where a group of people were standing around by a barbecue.
“Luke said you want to discuss something,” said Sally, without looking up as she cut the melon.
“I was told you might be able to help me with information on the town’s history,” said Rachel.
Sally looked up at Rachel, taking in Rachel’s wild hair and windblown appearance. “You look like you’ve been out sailing in gale-force winds,” she said.
“I was at Morrison’s Point before I came here.”
“It’s not smart to go there at night. The town’s garbage hangs out there when it’s dark. Vagrants. Addicts. I see syringes there all the time when I take the dogs for a run on the beach on Sunday mornings,” said Sally. She cut the watermelon into slices as she spoke, using her whole ample body weight to get the blade through the thick dark green rind of the melon.
