About the Author

STEVE FRECH lives in Los Angeles. In addition to writing, he produces and hosts the Random Awesomeness Podcast, an improv-comedy quiz show that has been performed at Upright Citizens Brigade, The Improv, iO West, and Nerdist.

Praise for Steve Frech

‘I absolutely LOVED this book … An unputdownable page turner of a read’

‘This book just pulls you right in … I couldn’t put it down!’

‘One of the best thrillers I’ve read this year’

‘So gripping I just could not stop reading’

‘Like riding a rollercoaster … Should be on everyone’s reading list’

‘I burned through this’

‘I was hooked from page one’

Also by Steve Frech

Nightingale House

Dark Hollows

Deadly Games
STEVE FRECH

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Steve Frech

Emojis © Shutterstock.com

Steve Frech asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © December 2020 ISBN: 9780008372200

Version: 2020-10-26

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Steve Frech

Also by Steve Frech

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Extract

Acknowledgements

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To my HQ family and especially you, Abigail;

Thank you.

Chapter 1

My phone pings with a text.

I’m not going to answer it. Not even going to look.

When you’re being led by a detective down a hall at a police station to be interviewed, it’s not the time to respond to what is probably a message from your boss, asking you to come in twenty minutes early for your shift tomorrow.

At the end of the hall, Detective Mendez motions to an open door and I step inside.

The walls are painted cinderblock. The floor is concrete.

In the middle of the room is a metal table with metal chairs on either side. There’s a file resting on the corner of the table.

“Again, I’d like to thank you for coming in and talking to me,” Detective Mendez says, following me into the room. “Please, have a seat.”

He indicates the chair on the other side of the table, away from the file.

“Of course.” The confusion in my voice is genuine as I ease myself into the chair.

He comfortably lowers himself into the chair on the other side of the table.

“I’ll try to make this as quick as I can. We’re just asking some questions, trying to get an overall picture of things.”

“Okay.” I nod. “Um, what things?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together.

“How well do you know Emily Parker?”

How well do I know Emily Parker?

I know everything about her, the same way I know everything about a lot of people. I know their name, their birthday, their kids’ names, where they live, where they work. I know when they get that big promotion. I know how they feel about that cute coworker they haven’t told their spouse about. I know when things are bad at home. Hell, I know when people are on antibiotics. I know all this stuff because they tell it to me; freely, willingly, because everyone wants to be my friend, even though they don’t know a thing about me.

They tell me all these things because I’m their bartender.

Of course, with Emily Parker, it’s a little more complicated but I sort of knew this was coming.

Katie, my coworker, was interviewed earlier this morning by Detective Mendez and as I pulled into the parking lot of the police station, she texted me the heads-up that they had asked her about Emily. She said she didn’t know why they were asking, but that she had kept me out of it; a fact I very much appreciated.

“Mr. Davis?” Detective Mendez asks from the other side of the table.

There are some things about Emily and I that I’d rather not discuss and I know she feels the same way. I need to buy a little more time so I can figure out what’s going on and talk to Emily.

Luckily, I have the training to bullshit all day, if need be.

“You can call me Clay.”

“Your ID says that your name is Franklin Davis.”

“Yeah, but everyone calls me Clay. In my business, you make a lot more in tips with a cool name. I found that out when I worked at one of those corporate chains where you have to wear a nametag and like, buttons with witty sayings, you know? Well, one day, I forgot my nametag, so I had to wear a spare one we had in the office. For one shift, my name was ‘Clay’, and you wouldn’t believe how much more in tips I made that day. So, I decided to stick with it.”

“That’s really interesting,” Detective Mendez says, dryly, while making a note on his pad.

“Thanks.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. He’s got this perfectly neutral, bulldog expression and while bulldogs look kind of dumb, you’re pretty sure they could rip your arm off if they felt so inclined.

“Do you often do that?” he asks.

“Do what?”

“Lie to people.”

Is he being serious? What is happening, right now?

“It’s just a work thing.” I shrug.

He makes another note and looks up from his pad.

“So, Mr. Davis … I’m sorry, Clay,” Detective Mendez says, maybe sincerely. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m sorry. What was the question?”

“How did you know Emily Parker?”

“Well, she’s a regular at my bar. She comes in from time to time. She’s one of my best regulars, actually— Wait … Wait. What do you mean ‘how did I know Emily Parker’?”

Detective Mendez gets a slight, pained expression and his eyes inadvertently glance at the file resting on the table.

“Mr. Davis, we’re just asking some questions and we know that she was at the bar two nights ago,” he says, trying to be reassuring.

“No. What did you mean by that?” I can’t help the worry that finds its way into my tone. “Has something happened to her?”

“Mr. Davis, I’m not sure it’s the right time—”

“Please. Tell me, did something happen to her?”

Detective Mendez sighs, reaches over, flips open the file, takes out a photo, and slides it in front of me. And then another. And another.

At first, I can’t process what I’m seeing. Then, it becomes clear. The horror sets in and bile climbs up my throat.

This can’t be real. It can’t be, but it is.

Oh my god.

Cold beads of sweat pop from my forehead. My heart is slamming into my chest.

Detective Mendez leans forward further.

“Mr. Davis … Clay … How did you know Emily Parker?”

Let me back this up to that night.

“Goose martini. Filthy. One olive!” Mr. Collins calls over the din of the crowd.

“You got it.”

Good. He’s in a chipper mood. Things must be going better at home.

Mr. Collins, a retired fifty-something aerospace engineering consultant, has been coming to The Gryphon for years. A filthy Goose martini was his standard drink and I used to start making it the second I saw him walk through the door, but for the past few weeks, he’s been drinking cheap scotch, neat. He and his wife have been having problems. He’s never told me this, directly, but it’s obvious to me. He’s been down, quiet, and the times he’s come into The Gryphon recently, he goes outside whenever he gets a phone call. He doesn’t want anyone to hear him, which is what you do when it’s personal. On slow nights, I’ve watched him through the window while he was on the phone. The body language, the pleading posture, all point to problems at home. This is the kind of stuff you notice when you work behind the bar; the stuff that you as a patron don’t realize you’re doing, but your bartender sees all of it. And if Mr. Collins is back to his favorite drink, that means he’s happy, which means I’m happy, because he’ll be tipping big.

I head to the well and start working on his martini.

My partner in crime, Katie Watson, one of the main attractions at The Gryphon, is holding court at the end of the bar. She brings in tons of business and I’m the one to grind out the drinks. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a good-looking guy. I’ve got a thick, sculpted beard, sleeves of tattoos, keep a regular schedule at the gym, and I’ve got a sharp wit that has earned me my own little knot of admirers, but Katie is straight out of a 1950’s pinup calendar, and she’s wearing a black leather corset that is fighting a losing battle with her breasts.

I can’t keep up with that, not even going to try and that’s what makes us a perfect team.

“Coming right up!” Katie shouts to someone and goes for the beer taps behind me. “Clay!” she calls out as she approaches. “Can you make me a Bullet Rye Old Fashioned while you’re at the well?”

“Yep.”

“Thank you,” she says, and slaps my ass as she passes.

I do not recommend doing this at your place of employment, but this is not sexual harassment. I’m not going to call HR. This is bartending. When you bartend with someone, you’re going to experience a lot of physical contact with them; a lot of physical contact. Your bodies are going to press together and you’re gonna bump uglies as you try to get around each other. You have to get physically comfortable with your coworkers very quickly. Katie and I passed that obstacle a long time ago. We’ve been working together for years and we do it so well, people have nicknamed us “The Dream Team”. We’ve developed such a rhythm that we know when to help each other without asking, we silently agree on who should handle which customers, we know when the other is having a bad night, and out of that working relationship, we’ve grown into best friends.

The group of guys standing near the well are staring at me with what I can only describe as the equivalent of high-fives.

“You have the best job in the world,” one of them says.

“Damn right,” I reply.

It is pretty great.

The Gryphon is a block from the ocean in the town of Avalon, which is about halfway between San Francisco and Monterey. I literally found this place by throwing a dart at a map. Not kidding. I had gotten fed up with living and working in Los Angeles. All the bartenders who were waiting to be discovered by a casting agent had done my head in. I pinned a map of the US to my wall, took a couple steps back, and fired. I knew I wanted to stay in California, so I took a general aim in that direction. The nearest town to the point of the dart was Avalon. That was that. I didn’t worry about finding a job. I had the experience where I could walk in and get a job at any bar that was hiring, and people drink everywhere. They drink when times are good and when times are bad. Bartending is the only job that is bulletproof.

So, I packed up my stuff, moved to Avalon, and found my current employment: The Gryphon.

This town is a mix of everything, and from the first time I stepped through the door of The Gryphon, I knew I had found something special. Nowhere on the building does it say “The Gryphon”. It’s too hip for that. Instead, there’s this cool neon sign in the shape of a gryphon above the door as you enter. I’ve been working here for five years and it’s by far the best gig I’ve ever had. It has this cool, library vibe with some subtle hints of steampunk thrown in. It brings in everyone from locals, to surfers, to hipsters, to yuppies, to businessmen, to you name it.

Such is life on the central California coast.

The Gryphon isn’t a dive, so I don’t have to deal with the bums or the seedy crowd, and it isn’t corporate, so I don’t have to worry about ridiculous oversight, company mantras, or secret shoppers coming in to make sure I was pushing the specials. The money is really good for how easy the work is. Of course, I don’t want to bartend forever, but for now, I’m perfectly happy where I’m at.

I pop the shaker tin onto the cup containing Mr. Collins’ martini, raise it above my head, and start to shake it. The rattling ice makes a sound like maracas.

Before I get started on the Old Fashioned, I glance to the slender guy with the shock of wiry red hair, long, spindly nose, and tortoise-shell glasses sitting at the bar, writing in his little notebook.

“You doing okay, Mr. Loomis?” I ask.

He nods without looking up.

Sydney Loomis is a weird dude.

He’s been coming to The Gryphon since before I showed up. He walks in, sits in the same chair, orders three gins on the rocks with lemon over the span of a few hours, simply watches everyone and everything, but never says a word, only writes in his notebook, and then leaves. He’s incredibly out of place, but he’s an institution at The Gryphon. The one night a week that we’re closed, he drinks at a bar down the street. He’s not a big tipper, but he always tips, and any bartender will tell you those are the people who pay the rent. You always make sure they are happy, and since Mr. Loomis is happy, it’s time to start the show.

With my free hand, I begin to build the Old Fashioned. I glance down the bar to my left to make sure a certain someone is watching.

She is.

Emily Parker.

She’s in her forties and impossibly sexy. She’s got blond, wavy hair, and a body born of yoga and morning jogs on the beach. She’s watching me with an appreciative eye as she takes a sip from her almost spent vodka tonic.

I bring the martini down, hit the shaker against the side of the bar, which causes the tin to jump off, and strain the martini into the chilled glass. Then, I grab a cherry and toss it high in the air above the Old Fashioned. I quickly dump the shaker into the sink next to me, snatch an olive, and drop it into the martini, just as the cherry falls into the Old Fashioned with a light plop.

The crowd around me applauds and I take a bow.

Katie finishes pouring the beer and joins in the applause by adding a loud “whoop”. With her free hand, she slaps my ass, again, and reaches around my waist to grab the Old Fashioned.

“Thank you, Clay!” she says.

“Can you take this martini over to Mr. Collins?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, carefully adding the martini to the drinks she’s carrying. “By the way, can we switch ‘out-times’ tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah. I want to go home early.”

“You want to leave early, but you’re not going home,” I say with mock disapproval.

“Not really your business, but you owe me for all the times I’ve traded with you so you could ‘leave early but not go home’.”

Damn.

I do owe her for multiple occasions in the past where she’s traded with me so that I could leave early.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Okay. Fine.”

“Thanks,” she says, kissing my cheek and carrying the drinks away.

Time to deliver some bad news.

Avoiding all the outstretched hands and requests for drinks, I slink down the bar to Emily.

The one person I make certain to avoid is the customer that I’ve labelled ‘The Blonde’. She’s been coming in from time to time over the past couple of months, always on her own. Unlike almost everyone else in here, I don’t know who she is or what she does. She’s never hung out at the bar or tried to strike up a conversation with me. She keeps to herself, which I would totally respect, except for the fact that she’s insistent to the point of being rude if she’s not served right away, even if the bar is busy. Also, she doesn’t tip, and carries herself with a “holier-than-thou” air. One time, she felt that I took too long getting her a Cape Cod and complained to our manager, Alex, about my service. She treats Katie the same way. So, we’ve had a not-so-pleasant relationship. I still haven’t caught her name. Kind of don’t care, but unfortunately, I’ve accidentally locked eyes with her as she uses her elbows to knife her way to the bar.

“Can I get a Stella?” she asks.

“You got it!” I reply and keep moving.

I have no intention of pouring her beer.

Katie can take care of her, but that’s only if Katie wants to, which I doubt. If she tries to get Katie’s attention, there’s enough people for Katie to pretend like she didn’t hear her. We bartenders do it all the time to customers we don’t care for.

“Doing okay over here?” I ask, pulling up across the bar from Emily.

“Just fine, Mr. Showoff.”

“Gotta give them what they want.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” she says, giving me a seductive glance and taking the last sip of her drink.

“Another one?”

She ponders the wet ice in her glass. “Nah. I’ll settle up.”

She reaches into her sleek, expensive handbag, extracts a couple of twenties, and hands them to me.

I reach for the cash. “Listen, I’m gonna be a little late, tonight. I have to close.”

She pulls the cash back. “I thought you were going to be cut first.”

“I was, but I kind of owe Katie for our last time … and the time before that.”

Emily gets a dreamy, far-away look. “I remember those times.”

“Sorry. You know that I would do anything—”

“It’s okay,” she sighs. “I may just get started without you.”

“I promise I won’t keep you waiting.”

“You’d better not.” She hands me the cash.

“I’ll be right back,” I say with a sly smile.

After closing out her tab at the register, I put the change and receipt into a faux-leather check presenter embossed with The Gryphon logo. Even though there’s nothing for her to sign, I slip a pen into the presenter and lay it on the bar in front of her.

“Have a good night.”

“I’d better,” she replies.

We hold each other’s gaze before the surrounding requests for drinks become too much.

I turn to the thirsty crowd and start knocking them down, taking three orders at a time, mentally triaging them to be the most effective with my time. I bury myself “in the weeds” and do what I do best, which is crank out drinks.

Occasionally, I’ll steal a glance back towards Emily to catch her watching me, but finally, after a blitz of pouring beers and shaking cocktails, I turn to look and she’s gone.

The countdown to last call begins …

The evening settles into a steady hum.

Katie takes advantage of the lull and begins clearing the bar top of empty pints and highballs. She reaches for the check presenter left by Emily on the bar.

“No, no, no! I got that one. That’s for me!” I call out, quickly moving towards her.

She picks up the check presenter and turns to me.

“You two are ridiculous. You know that, right?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” I reply as though I’m offended.

“Cut the crap, Clay. Yes, you do.”

Of course, I do. Others may have their suspicions, but Katie is the only one who knows for sure about Emily and I.

“Okay. Fine. You think we’re ridiculous?” I ask.

She nods, emphatically.

“Two words, Katie: Nick McDermitt.”

Her cheeks flush with anger.

Nick McDermitt is an ex-ballplayer for the Giants. He and his wife used to occasionally stop by The Gryphon until the night Mrs. McDermitt found Katie and her husband in the parking lot being a little too flirty. In fact, they were being waaaaaay too flirty. After that, we never saw the McDermitts again.

Our manager, Alex, who’s in the office right now, had a talk with Katie. He wasn’t going to fire her. She brings in too much business for that, but it was a bad look for the bar. Since then, there has been an informal “Please Don’t Bang the Spouses of Our Customers” policy.

Katie presses the check presenter into my chest.

“Just be careful, okay?”

“If by ‘careful’, you mean ‘no nookie in the parking lot’, I think I can do that.”

She groans and walks away, remembering to toss up a middle finger at me over her shoulder.

I laugh and open the check presenter.

Emily has left all the change, which comes out to about a fifty-dollar tip on a thirty-five-dollar tab. I toss the cash into the tip jar to split with Katie. The receipt is what I’m after, and I’m not disappointed.

Written on the receipt with the pen I provided is a message: “Seaside Motel. Room 37. Don’t keep me waiting. You promised.”

Tucking the slip of paper into my wallet, I glance up to see Katie shaking her head at me in disgust.

I make the sign of the cross and press my hands together, as if begging for forgiveness.

She gives me one last shake of her head and goes back to cleaning bottles.

It’s five past midnight. I’m wiping down the bar while Katie enters her credit card tips into the register. We’ve stopped serving and the few remaining customers are finishing up their drinks. The music has been turned off and the lights are turned up, which is the universal sign for everyone to get out.

Alex emerges from the office.

“Okay, who is leaving first?”

Katie raises her hand. “That would be me.”

Alex pops open Katie’s register and runs her sales report.

They disappear into the office to do her checkout. A few minutes later, she reappears, holding her check presenter and counting her credit card tips. She tips out Tommy, our barback, who is mopping the floor, and comes to sit at the bar.

“You want to hand me the tip bucket?” she asks, settling onto a barstool.

Instead of handing it to her, I extract the cash from the bucket and lay the bills on the bar in front of her.

“Keep it. It’s yours.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I still owe you.” I tip the bucket over in my hand. A mass of coins slides into my palm and I deposit it into my pocket. “I’ll keep the change.”

I really do owe her and I’ll still get my credit card tips for tonight. Besides, I love taking the change. I keep it in a jar on my dresser. Every month or so, I’ll cash it in. It’s usually a couple hundred bucks and I treat it like that ten-dollar bill you find in your jacket pocket at the beginning of autumn. I’ll go out for a steak dinner or take a day trip to Napa.

“Thanks,” she says, placing the bills in her personal check presenter, which is already stuffed with slips of paper.

“How many numbers you stack?” I ask.

We each have our own check presenter where we keep our change, credit card receipts, cash, order pad. A bartender never wants to leave their check presenter behind. It’s also where we keep the phone numbers customers give us. Katie and I have our own little rivalry. We call it “Stacking Numbers”. At the end of the night, we’ll see who got more phone numbers. It’s always Katie, to the point that I have a “ten-phone-number” handicap.

“You don’t want to know,” she replies, confidently.

“I would like to know who you’re having dirty sex time with tonight.”

She tuts her tongue at me and takes my hand. “Oh, Clay. Are you jealous?”

“Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m having my fun.”

“Yeah,” she says, sadly. “But it’s not with me, is it?”

I snatch my hand away. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” She laughs and gives me a knowing wink.

“Then get out of here before I do.”

She hops off the stool and heads for the door. “Good night, Tommy!”

“Good night, Katie!” he replies, bent over the mop.

“Good night, Clay!”

“Good night, Worst Person in the World!”

She stops in the door, turns, and blows me a kiss. I grudgingly return the gesture. She “catches” it, slaps it on her backside, and heads out into the street.

“You two are a walking lawsuit.”

I spin around to see Alex standing at the end of the bar.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go,” he says, popping my drawer and running the sales report.

I grab the drawer and follow him into the office.

Alex sits at his computer, working on the inventory while I count my drawer.

I quickly make sure that the amount in the drawer is the same as when I started, minus my sales and credit card tips.

“I’m dropping four-hundred-twelve dollars and sixty-two cents and my credit card tips are two-seventy-four-eighty,” I announce and hold the drawer out to Alex.

“Give me a sec,” he says, slowly pecking away on the keyboard.

I keep the drawer right where it is, hovering near his face, and don’t say a word.

Unable to ignore it any longer, he looks at me. “You got somewhere to be?”

“Maybe. And she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

He snatches the drawer. “I don’t want to know.”

He double checks my figures and counts the money.

“Perfect, as always,” he says, signing my drop slip. “Get out of here and do whatever it is you need to do.”

I pop out of my chair and head for the door. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist getting one last dig before I go.

“I’ll tell her you said ‘hi’.”

He jams his fingers into his ears. “La-la-la-la-can’t-hear-you-la-la-la-don’t-want-to-know-la-la-la.”

“Have a good night!” I shout as I exit the office.

A couple minutes later, I’m driving past the gazebo in the town square, which is festooned with lights, as I head towards to the ocean. I’m already anticipating the sex that is mere minutes away.

Emily and I have been seeing each other for months and it hasn’t lost any of its shine. It’s fun, thrilling, and a challenge in its own way. It’s almost entirely physical. That’s not to say that I don’t care about her. I do, but we’ve laid our cards on the table and “love” was not one of them. We are fine with it.

I didn’t even know that she was married the first time it happened. She conveniently forgot to mention it. She came into the bar by herself, we flirted all night, and ended up in bed together. It was fun and I thought it was a casual, one-night stand.

Then, a few nights later, she came into The Gryphon with her husband. They were a total physical mismatch. She was stunning, sensual. He was a short, thin, balding man. He was also arrogant, demanding, and eager to show her off. To put it another way, he was that stereotypical short, incredibly insecure guy with a massive chip on his shoulder, but as a hedge fund manager, he possessed the one asset that levelled the playing field: money. For Emily’s part, she was bored.

I was speechless.

She and I kept exchanging glances while he would speak too loudly about his business deals in an attempt to impress those around him, many of whom were also millionaires and didn’t care for his grandstanding.

At one point, he theatrically announced that he was stepping outside to take a phone call about a “billion-dollar project”. After our shared glances, I took the opportunity to approach her.

“So, who exactly is that?” I asked.

“My husband,” she casually remarked.

“You didn’t tell me you were married.”

“You didn’t ask.” She smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re not in danger of breaking up a happy family or anything. There’s no kids. We’re only married in a legal sense.”

“Isn’t that kind of the only sense that matters?”

“Do you regret the other night?”

My hesitation was all the answer she needed.

“Good,” she said with a look that intimated we were just getting started.

I liked her little game. I liked her confidence. I liked her.

Just then, her husband re-entered the bar with a swagger and a sense of self-congratulation that was almost comical. He ordered a round of shots for the bar in celebration of the deal he had just closed. I was pretty sure he was lying but he paid the exorbitant tab and insisted that Katie and I join in by taking a shot. We were more than happy to oblige. Emily and I locked eyes as we took our shot.

In that moment, I knew that what I had thought was a one-night stand was far from over.

When they closed out their tab, I thanked them, saying I hoped they would be back soon, all the while keeping my eyes on her.

A week later, she did come back, sans husband.

“No date, tonight?” I asked as she settled into the bar, surprised at how happy I was to see her.

“Nope.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Isn’t it? I’m so distraught. I’m going to be so lonely.”

“Tragic.” I nodded. “Well, I suppose I can keep you company if you don’t mind me working for a bit.”

She gave me a hungry look from head to toe. “Not at all.”

She and I continued our parries and jabs of innuendo all night.

When I got off work, we went back to her place. Her husband was in San Francisco at some conference, so we had sex on his prized pool table. I was in a little bit of a dry spell, but from our two encounters, it was obvious that she had been starved for a long time.

Ever since then, we had seized every opportunity offered to us.

I turn right onto Kensington, which runs along the beach, and will take me right to the Seaside Motel. If I had kept going straight instead of turning, I would have eventually reached the Parker house.

When we first started sleeping together, that’s exactly what I would have done, but not anymore. We’ve stopped meeting there. We had been on a mission to break in every room in the house while her husband was away. It was fantastic. We’d have sex, and afterwards I’d walk naked out of their bedroom onto the massive balcony, which was cantilevered out over the sea, and marvel at the view. Then, I’d go back inside and we’d have sex in another room. I would spend the night. We’d fall asleep around eight in the morning. I’d wake up and leave from her place to go to work in the afternoon with a flushed glow and receive looks of scorn from Katie and Alex. Alex knew I was seeing someone but he didn’t know who. Katie figured it out because she had seen us flirting at the bar multiple times.

Emily isn’t a fan of being a trophy wife. In fact, she hates it and she’s most definitely not a fan of her husband. She’s talked about leaving him, but she loves the perks and she’s not in a hurry to part with them. Eventually, she began swinging from paranoid about being caught to “devil-may-care”. Sometimes, she would be overly worried about someone finding out and cancel plans at the last minute. Other times, she would rail about how much she didn’t care and we’d take ridiculous risks, like the time during one of my shift breaks when we had sex on the hood of a car on a side street next to The Gryphon. Then there were the times when we’d just go back to her place.

But we were sloppy and almost got caught at her house.

After that, she decided that we would only meet up at motels, and not good ones, either. In my opinion, I think it’s lame but after a world of fine Egyptian cotton sheets, marble floors, and a private wine cellar, she finds it a turn-on to meet at these “seedy” establishments. Whatever. I’m not going to say no to getting the chance to see her.

Which is why I’m already fantasizing about what I’ll find in room 37 as I pull into the Seaside Motel parking lot. It’s an L-shaped, single-story structure forever stuck in the 1960s, but it’s not without its charm. They’ve embraced the retro look and there’s a stunning view of the ocean across the road. Avalon is full of places like this.

I park in one of the numerous open spots. The air is heavy with the taste of salt, churned up by the low tide. I notice that there’s another gray Honda Civic just like mine occupying one of the spaces near the office. I don’t see her car, which is not a surprise. Like I said, since we were almost caught, she’s become much more paranoid. She always pays cash at the bar. She also bought a burner phone for us to text each other. She finds Uber and Lyft drivers that will accept cash to drive her to our hookups. There’s always a handful of them outside The Gryphon. They don’t want to split the fare with the rideshare company. They also don’t want to pay the taxes and their riders don’t want anything showing up on their credit card statements for their spouses to find. Emily also discovered that motels like the Seaside often don’t need to see your ID or make a record of your stay if you offer to pay double their nightly rate in cash. She’s become very good at making sure that her husband’s assistant won’t find something that will raise any red flags on her credit cards, which her husband pays, and that he won’t see anything in her bank accounts, which he controls.

I stroll down the row of numbered doors. Next to each is a large window. Some have the curtains drawn and are illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of a television but at this hour, most of them are dark.

I arrive at number 37.

The lights are on inside.

On the other side of this door, I’m going to find her on the bed, naked, lying on her side, head propped up in her hand. She’ll ask something like “What took you so long?”. That’ll be the extent of our conversation. I’m already anticipating her hungry touch, her skill, and reveling in the abandon that comes from two people who are comfortable with the fact that they are using each other for physical pleasure.

I push on the door, but it doesn’t budge. She normally leaves it open a fraction of an inch so that she doesn’t have to get up to let me in, but there’s a problem; the deadbolt is engaged.

What the hell?

I check the number on the door.

Yeah, this is room 37.

I lightly knock.

“Emily?”

There’s no answer.

Maybe she fell asleep.

I knock again. No response.

I take out my phone, dial her burner phone, and press my ear to the door. There’s the sound of a cellphone ringing inside. If she fell asleep, I’m hoping the call will wake her up, even though the knocking should have.

The call goes to the generic, automated voicemail.

I glance around. The Seaside Motel is quiet. There’s only the soft buzz of the lamps in the parking lot and the crashing of waves from across the road.

I’m about to knock again when my phone pings with a text message.

I don’t want to do this tonight.

Damnit.

Sorry I’m late, I text back. But it doesn’t have to ruin our evening.

I hit send.

I’m too tired, is her reply.

My thumbs fly across the screen. Okay, but can you please open the door?

There’s a long pause and then my phone pings again.

No. Leave me alone.

Great. She’s having one of those nights, but even on nights that she’s suddenly canceled plans in the past, we’d at least talk for a little bit.

It’s no good trying to get her to reconsider. She’s made up her mind.

So, that’s tonight down the drain. It’s a little weird but I’m not gonna waste any more time with this. If it’s not happening, it’s not happening.

Good night, I text.

She doesn’t answer.

Once inside my apartment, I head straight for the bathroom. I hop in the shower, scrub down, towel off, and climb into bed, not a little frustrated.

She’ll be back at the bar in a week or two, and we’ll pick up where we left off.

Still, that was odd.

She’s run hot and cold but that felt different.

Oh, well.

As I drift off to sleep, I think about what was behind that door, waiting for me …

Sitting across from Detective Mendez, staring at these photos, now, I know.

Even though there is a Post-it Note covering a section of the image, I can see Emily’s face.

Mechanically and in utter shock, I reach towards the photo.

“Mr. Davis, I’m sorry but you can’t—”

I remove the Post-it.

There’s Emily, just as I had envisioned her, lying naked on the bed, but her throat has been cut by an angry slash across her windpipe. Her lifeless eyes stare up at the ceiling. The mattress is soaked in blood.

“Mr. Davis!”

The photo is snatched away but the image is seared into my brain.

“I’m— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I stammer. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s my fault,” Detective Mendez says, replacing the photo into the folder. “I shouldn’t have shown you that.”

While he collects himself, I stare at the other photos which show the rest of the room; there’s her clothes placed neatly on a chair, her purse, keys, and cellphone on the table.

I’m able to choke down the bile in my throat, but my hands continue to shake. The beads of sweat that popped on my forehead have run down into my eyes. In all of this, there’s this strange thought in my head amidst the chaos that something was wrong about the photos; something other than the woman I was sleeping with lying naked on the bed with her throat cut. Something was missing.

“Mr. Davis? … Clay?” Detective Mendez asks.

Of course, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him everything; the affair, the sneaking around, the motels, all of it but with everything that’s happened in the past thirty seconds, I’ve forgotten how to speak.

Wait. I know what was missing in the photo: Emily’s burner phone.

I check the photos again, to be sure. There’s no sign of it.

Which means whoever killed her took it and …

I suddenly remember the text I received as I was walking down the hall into this room.

My brain on autopilot, I reach into my pocket for my phone.

“Clay?”

“I’m sorry, Detective. I just need to check something …”

Detective Mendez may as well be on the other side of the world, and it’s a good thing that my expression is already at “maximum bewildered” because this text message, sent from Emily’s burner phone, has taken what was a surreal situation and turned it into a nightmare.

Keep your mouth shut or I’ll tell them about the blood in your car, MY SWEET LITTLE CUPCAKE.

This can’t be happening.

Another realization causes my stomach to plummet into my shoes: last night, as I stood outside the door of number 37 at the Seaside Motel, it wasn’t Emily that I was texting. It was this guy. He knows who I am. He knows my number … and he knows about “my sweet little cupcake”.

That’s impossible! It was a joke!

“Clay? Are you all right?”

My mind snaps into horrible focus.

Whoever this is can easily make the cops think I killed Emily. I didn’t, but how can I explain that to Detective Mendez? Yes, we were having an affair. Yes, I was at the Seaside Motel and yes, my fingerprints are on the door, but I didn’t kill her. And if I show him this text, and there is blood in my car, how do I explain that? Even if there’s not, he’s going to ask what “my sweet little cupcake” means, and if I tell him, that’s it. I’ll be locked up in a cell and whoever did this to Emily goes free.

“Mr. Davis?”

Some sort of survival instinct is triggered. The chaos happening in my head is swept away and I see my situation, clearly. If I try to tell him everything and show him the text, they’ll think I did it. I’ll be locked up. No one will ever believe me and this guy, whoever he is, walks away.

I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I see no other option.

I have to lie.

I blink my eyes and shake my head in an attempt to concentrate.

“I’m sorry, Detective Mendez. I just—I can’t believe it.”

“It’s all right,” Detective Mendez says, picking up the rest of the photos and putting them back in the file folder. “I know it’s a shock but I need you to tell me: how did you know Emily Parker?”

“She, um, she was a regular at the bar.”

“That’s how you met?”

“Yeah …”

All I can do is keep the panic at bay. This guy, whoever he is, knows who I am. He knows things about me and Emily that no one could possibly know.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Um … two nights ago when she came in.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Yes. I served her some drinks.”

“How many drinks?”

“A couple of vodka tonics.”

“How many?”

“Like, maybe four.”

“Did she seem strange to you?”

“No.”

“Did she say if she was meeting anyone?”

“No.”

He nods and makes a note on his pad of paper. “Who texted you?”

“It was a work thing.”

He nods again, not looking up at me.

I’m keeping my trembling hands under the table so he can’t see them. I don’t know if he believes me. Is he like this all the time, or is this an act to get me to break?

“So, you two were … friendly?”

“I’m a bartender. I’m friendly with everyone. It’s my job.”

Something about his question causes my mind to click.

What can I get you?

It’s the old bartender question. I know it sounds like I’m being subservient to you when I ask, but your answer, what you ask for, your body language, your tone, tells me everything I need to know. Are you happy? Sad? Do you have money? Do you want someone to talk to or do you want to be left alone? You tell me everything about yourself and I’m going to use that to get what I want, which is the biggest tip. But now, looking at Detective Mendez, I think, “What can I get you?” What is it that you want that I can give you that will get me what I want, which is out of this room?

His demeanor is infuriating. He’s not intense. He’s not digging too deep. He just wants some answers. He seems like kind of a loner, someone without many social skills; a Sydney Loomis-type. I need to be casual with him. Make him forget about his social awkwardness.

“Did she ever come into your bar with anyone?” he asks.

There. Right there is my “out”.

I try to relax or at least appear to relax because relaxation is not possible under the circumstances, and treat the table between us like it’s the bar. I slip into my bartending persona, which makes me feel gross, but I have to get out of this room.

“Yeah,” I say with a slight roll of the eyes. “Her husband. Have you seen that guy?”

The change in him is instant. He loosens up.

“Yes,” he says, mirroring my eyeroll. His lips tighten into something almost like a smile.

My tactic worked. Now, we’re just two guys talking.

“He’s a piece of work.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he says, making another note. “How did they seem to you?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m only asking for your opinion.”

“They were … not great.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah, but nothing like that,” I quickly add, pointing to the file. I may have overplayed this. I wanted to get on Detective Mendez’s good side to loosen him up so I can get out of here, but I don’t want to insinuate some other innocent person is guilty of Emily’s murder.

“I see,” he says, taking more notes. He’s much more at ease. “But she came in by herself two nights ago?”

“Yes.”

“And where did you go after you got off work?”

“Home.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“Bachelor for life,” I reply with a shrug and a sheepish grin.

He makes a note. “Okay. That’s all I’ve got for now.” He takes something from his pocket and slides it across the table. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please tell me.”

There are a million things I could tell him, right now, a million things I want to tell him because I want him to catch whoever did this to Emily, but if her blood is in my car, he will never believe me. No one will.

“Okay.” I deposit the card in my pocket and try not to rise too quickly from my chair. I have to get to Katie. I need to know what they asked her. Why did Detective Mendez show me those photos? There’s no way he showed them to Katie because she would have said something. So, why me?

Detective Mendez stands. “And let me know if you plan to go out of town any time soon, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” he says, extending his hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I mean ‘Clay’.”

“No problem,” I reply, shaking his hand. He’s got a grip.

I begin walking towards the door.

“I’m sorry, Clay. One last question.”

Well, there it is.

He’s done it. He’s spotted a crack in my story. He’s been playing me. I don’t know what this question is, but I’m sure it’s going to pin me to the wall and slap handcuffs on my wrists.

“Yeah?”

“Your bar; The Gryphon. Is it any good?”

Seriously?

“… yeah.”

“What makes it good?”

“Me.”

He laughs, proving it was the perfect response.

“What’s your favorite drink to make?” he asks.

Bartenders hate this question. It’s like someone asking you what’s your favorite sales report to compile. There are drinks that we know we make well, but that’s different than what’s our favorite drink to make. I always give the smart-ass answer of “bottles of Bud Lite”, but this is the one time that I’m relieved someone is asking me this question. This guy wants a friend.

“I make a mean margarita.”

“Really? Well, I may just have to come by and see if you’re telling the truth.”

The way he says that last part about telling the truth, I’m back to not knowing if he’s messing with me, but I’ve already committed.

“The first one’s on me.”

He smiles. “Well, all right. Thanks for coming in and, remember; if you think of anything, don’t hesitate to call me. I mean that.”

“Will do, and I mean it about the margarita, too.”

He nods and I head out the door.

I’m staring at my Civic like it’s radioactive. My initial urge was to search the inside of the car right then and there, but it would look really suspicious right in the middle of the police station parking lot. I do a quick scan through the windows. I don’t see anything, but it could only be a drop or two somewhere. Or there might not be any blood at all.

I didn’t see anything when I drove over here but I wasn’t really looking for—

My phone pings again.

It’s another text from Emily’s burner phone. Up until a few minutes ago, I would have expected it to have been a flirtatious message about how she couldn’t wait until she saw me again and I would try to convince her to meet up with me as soon as possible.

I’ll never receive another message from her like that again.

Instead, this one reads:

447 Sweetgrass Road. Evergreen Terrace Apartments. #208. Inside the apartment you’ll find something that will help you. It’s blue. You’ll know it when you see it. The key to the apartment is under the doormat.

Once more, I glance to the packed park across the street and the countless cafés and restaurant patios that stretch into the distance.

He’s here. He has to be, right? He had to have been watching me as I walked into the station. That’s how he knew when to send that first message. How else—

Another text message arrives and answers my question.

You look nervous. Don’t be nervous. It’s time to play.

Chapter 2

“What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?” I panic-mumble for about the seventieth time.

What else can I do? My head is still spinning. I can’t have this guy tell the cops about “my sweet little cupcake” or the blood in my car. I have to buy time until I can figure out what to do, and the only way to do that is to play his game, for now. This might be stupid but I don’t have any options at this point.

From my vantage point, parked across the street, Evergreen Terrace Apartments doesn’t look to be anything special; just another faceless courtyard building of units whose best feature is that it’s perched on the edge of Avalon, and you can sort of see the ocean from here. The banner out front announces that they have a vacancy. The bunches of balloons, tied to the railings leading up to the front door, bob and bounce off of each other in the sun-soaked breeze.

The glass doors lead to the lobby, which is nothing more than a room with some older couches. Set into the side wall are the mailboxes for the apartments. Another set of glass doors leads me to the open courtyard. The leasing office is to the left. There’s a small pool that takes up most of the courtyard, where two kids are splashing while their mothers sit in patio chairs, talking. They notice me. I smile at them, trying to play it cool, but I’m worried they can tell that I’m barely holding myself together.

After crossing the courtyard, I take the stairs up to the second level.

Number 208 is in the corner. The red doormat on the floor proclaims “Welcome!”. I glance around. The only signs of life are the kids and moms at the pool. I quickly reach down and flip up a corner of the doormat. Sure enough, there’s a gleaming, metal key. I snatch it up, slide it into the deadbolt, and twist. The bolt slides back and I push open the door.

I’m expecting a million things: a torture room, someone pointing a gun in my face, or even the police. The one thing I’m not expecting is exactly what I get: a boring apartment. From the front door, I can see almost the whole interior. The furnishings are spartan. There’s a couch and a loveseat in the living room in front of a television. In the kitchen, there’s a table and chairs. Past the kitchen is a short hallway, leading to a bedroom.

“Hello?” I call out before setting foot in the apartment, which is, of course, a stupid thing to do if the killer is waiting for me, somewhere inside. But I can already feel it. No one’s been here in a while.

A quick search of the apartment confirms my suspicions.

There’s a king-sized bed in the bedroom. The closets are empty. In the small bathroom, there’s some toiletries and two toothbrushes in a cup next to the sink. Two towels hang off the rack. I head back to the kitchen, which is almost bare. There are a couple of plates in the cabinets and utensils in a drawer. The fridge is empty. So is the pantry.

I don’t see anything that could “help me”, much less anything that is blue.

In the living room, I check under the cushions of the couch and behind the television. Nothing. At least nothing that looks like something I would “know it when I see it”.

What is this guy talking about?

I open all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen. I check the undersides of the shelves in the pantry to see if there is something written or taped to them, like a piece of paper, telling me what to do next.

Back in the bedroom, I pull the sheets off the bed. Nothing. There’s nothing on the walls, either. It’s the most basic apartment imaginable. Revisiting the bathroom, I check under the sink, in the tub, and the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. I even check the toilet tank. There’s nothing here.

After my fruitless search, I find myself back in the living room.

Frustrated, I send a text to Emily’s burner phone: What am I looking for?

I hit send and wait … and wait …

Are you there? I type and hit send.

The tumbling nerves in my stomach solidify into a knot, which grows into a sense of dread that courses though my limbs.

I make another search of the apartment as I wait for a response that I’m certain isn’t coming.

“This is a waste of time,” I say aloud as I rifle through all the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, again. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve made a terrible mistake in coming here.

Another search of the closet in the bedroom yields nothing.

I’m left standing in the bedroom, scrutinizing the bare walls.

Goddamnit!

I take out my phone and text.

What am I looking for?!!

I hit send and wait.

The cursor blinks at me.

My dread turns to anger.

This guy is messing with me.

There’s nothing here and there’s probably nothing in my car. I had just believed him when he said he put blood in it, and his knowledge of “my sweet little cupcake” caused me to panic and lie to Detective Mendez, when I should have come clean.

I know how to fix this.

There’s an easy way to prove this guy is full of shit, and when I do, I’m going right to Detective Mendez. I don’t care how this guy knows about “my sweet little cupcake”. It was a joke. Detective Mendez will understand.

Let’s settle this.

Stepping out of the lobby and into the Avalon sunshine, I stride purposefully across the street towards my Civic.

There’s no blood in my car. Once I prove it, I’m going to tell Detective Mendez about the affair. It doesn’t make me a killer. Yes, I was at the Seaside Motel, but I didn’t kill her. I’ll show him the texts. No, I don’t know who they’re from and no, I don’t know where the phone is now, and yes, I lied before, but he’ll understand. I’ll tell him about “my little cupcake”, which will be difficult, but I’ve got to do it. This guy said he put Emily’s blood in my car. I’ll show Detective Mendez and he’ll see that there’s no blood in it. Sure, he’ll be skeptical at first and it’ll take a lot of explaining, but he’ll believe me. He’ll understand why I lied and I’ll admit that it was a terrible mistake.

I unlock the car doors and open all of them. I begin meticulously inspecting every inch of the interior. My car is pretty tidy and any blood is going to stand out against the cloth seats. When I don’t find anything, I’m going straight to Detective Mendez.

There are no signs of blood on the dashboard. No signs of blood on the seats. There are no signs of blood on the floor, either, only some wayward nickels, two pens I swiped from The Gryphon. These spots right here? They’re from a while back when I spilled a little bit of energy drink.

Each passing moment of non-discovery adds to my confidence.

I pick myself up from inspecting the floor of the back seat, go to the driver’s side, and pull the handle to pop the trunk.

I’m already rehearsing what I’m going to say to Detective Mendez.

“First off, Detective, I want to apologize. I lied to you but I hope you understand. You see, Emily Parker and I were having an affair, but I didn’t kill her. It was someone else who is now using our relationship to set me up. They said to keep quiet or else they would tell you about the blood in my car, but as you can see—”

I lift the lid of the trunk.

My lungs seize up.

There’s a moment of shock and revulsion. Then, I slam the lid closed but continue staring at the trunk.

I can’t go back to Detective Mendez. Not now. Not ever.

The inside of the trunk of my car is covered in blood.

Chapter 3

My knocking on the door goes unanswered for two seconds, so I knock again.

“Katie? Katie, it’s me.” I’m trying to keep my voice somewhere between making sure she can hear me and not alerting the neighbors.

I rap on the door, again.

“C’mon, Katie. Open the door.”

She’s home. I know she is. This is the only night of the week that The Gryphon is closed and there’s a car parked in the spot outside her apartment.

“Katie, please, op—”

The door flies open. Katie is staring at me with wide, furious eyes and flaring nostrils.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks, breathlessly.

“I have to talk to you. Can I come in?”

“It is really not a good time.”

“Listen, I have to know: what did the police ask you about Emily and me?”

“Clay,” she says, quickly glancing over her shoulder. “This is not the—”

“Please. It’s important.”

“They asked me about the other night at the bar and I said that I didn’t talk to her and that you were the one taking care of her.”

“Did you tell them that we were … you know?”

“Sleeping together? No. I didn’t. Now, can we talk about this later?”

“Did they show you the photos?”

“What photos? What are you talking about?”

“Katie, Emily Parker’s dead.”

She freezes, her mouth hanging open.

“Someone killed her at the motel where we were going to meet, and when I spoke to the police today, I didn’t tell them about us.”

Katie finally finds her voice. “You have to go back, right now, and tell them.”

“I can’t. Something’s happened and I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Clay—”

“Katie, please listen to me. I know I screwed up, I do, but if the police ask to speak to you again, I need you to do something for me.”

She begins to shake her head. “Clay, stop.”

“Please, please, don’t tell them or anybody else about Emily and me.”

“Shut up, now!”

“Katie, please listen to me; I had nothing to do with this. I swear to you I didn’t, but something happened, and I need some time to figure it out. All I’m asking is that you don’t tell anyone about me and Emily.”

“Clay, stop!” she hisses through clenched teeth.

“Katie? Everything okay?” a voice asks from the inside of her darkened apartment.

For the first time, I notice what Katie is wearing: a long T-shirt and apparently nothing else. Her hair is disheveled and her cheeks are flushed. Also, that’s not her car in her parking spot.

Over her shoulder, a man appears from the doorway to the bedroom. He has sharp facial features, a chiseled, hairy chest, and he’s wearing jeans he hasn’t bothered to button.

Katie closes her eyes and hangs her head in resignation. “Everything’s fine. I’ll be back in a second.”

The man and I lock eyes.

Oh, this is sooo bad.

“Hello, Mr. McDermitt,” I say in a quiet mixture of panic and mortification.

“Clay,” he responds. He’s obviously not my biggest fan at the moment.

I wanted to talk to Katie to keep anyone else from finding out about Emily and I. Instead, I’ve added one more person.

He turns and goes back into the bedroom.

“Seriously?” I ask Katie.

“I told you it was a bad time.”

“That his car in your spot?”

“Yes. Mine’s in the shop. Nick’s been giving me rides to and from work. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to switch out-times the other night. He gave me a ride to the station this morning and we came back here.”

“And what does Mrs. McDermitt think about this?”

Katie crosses her arms.

“I wouldn’t know because they split last month and are you really going to try to lecture me on this particular subject at the moment?”

I take a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m being an asshole.”

She takes it down a notch as well.

“You want to tell me what happened?” she asks.

If I tell her about the text messages and the blood in my car, she’s going to call the police, and I wouldn’t blame her.

“I can’t tell you right now.”

“Clay—”

“I can’t but I need you to know that I didn’t kill her, okay? You know I could never do that, right?”

“Of course I do.” She sighs. “But you know something, don’t you?”

“Not me, but someone does.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, I don’t understand. Why don’t you go to the police?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t.”

She shakes her head, unhappy with my answer but knows it’s all she’s going to get. “Fine … But tell me; are you okay?”

I’m not sure how to answer, but decide to be honest. “I don’t know, but, Katie, please promise that you won’t tell anyone about Emily and me.”

She tilts her face towards the ground.

“Katie?”

She looks up at me with eyes that are filled not only with worry, but with hurt. “Clay, if they ask me, I’m not going to lie to the police … and I can’t believe you would ask me to do that now, when she’s dead.”

“Please, Katie, it’s really—”

“I’m not going to lie to the cops,” she says quietly, but forcefully.

She’s right. I can’t ask one of my best friends to risk getting herself in a lot of trouble for me. I rapidly come up with a middle ground.

“I apologize. It was wrong of me to ask you to lie to the cops.”

She won’t make eye contact.

“Katie, please look at me.”

She reluctantly does.

“You believe me when I tell you I didn’t kill Emily, right?”

“Yes, of course, I believe you.”

“Okay. How about this, if they ask you about us, don’t lie, but please promise me that you won’t say anything unless they ask. Is that fair?”

It’s a really fine hair to split, but I’m hoping our friendship wins me the benefit of the doubt.

She considers it. “… okay.”

“Yeah?”

She shrugs. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you knowing something else that you wouldn’t want to lie about.”

There’s a long, awkward pause as we’ve hit a wall where I won’t say anymore and she won’t promise anything else.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll let you get back to … that,” I say with a wave of my hand towards the bedroom door.

Katie scoffs in disbelief.

“See you at work, tomorrow,” she replies and closes the door in my face.

My apartment has never felt so small. So claustrophobic.

I pull the shades on every window but can’t shake the feeling that there are eyes watching me.

Dinner consists of some reheated leftovers and a beer, but I hardly touch either one as I obsess over watching the news on television and checking the news on my phone. There’s nothing about Emily’s murder, but it’s only a matter of time. A millionaire’s wife found naked in bed at a seedy motel with her throat cut? It’s a true-crime podcaster’s dream.

Midnight hits and I’m still wide awake, trying to imagine what a conversation with Detective Mendez would look like if I tried to come clean now.

I could possibly explain away one thing or maybe two, but there are so many things that I would have to explain. Even if I try to plead that I cared for Emily, it would make me sound crazy, especially when you threw in the blood in my trunk and “my sweet little cupcake”.

The ship where I tell everything to Detective Mendez has sailed.

I go to the bathroom and take a shower. I open the small window to the blind alley behind my apartment building to let out the steam.

While standing under the stinging hot water and trying to think my way through this, I realize that even the text messages don’t really help me. How can I prove it’s her phone? I mean, it’s a burner phone that no one else knew about. Also, where is it? If I admit that I was at the motel that night, wouldn’t Detective Mendez assume I took it, and maybe I’m sending the messages to myself to try to lamely throw him off the scent?

There’s no way around it.

This guy has me in a corner and there’s no way out.

I climb into bed and hit the lights, but sleep is an impossibility.

Lying in bed, phone in hand, I scroll through the text messages. For the first time in my life, I’m having a panic attack. I can’t breathe. My chest hurts and my stomach is boiling. I’m lying here, stewing in my bed, going around in circles, and have no clue as to what I should do next. I want to vent to someone, but who? No way I talk to Detective Mendez. I tried to talk to Katie and that made it worse. There’s no one to—

No. There is someone to talk to.

I quickly begin typing into my phone. The letters appear under my last text to Emily’s burner phone.

What was that at the apartment?

Send.

I stare at the cursor and start typing again.

Why did you want me to go there?

Send.

I pause … and then begin furiously typing.

Why did you kill her?

Send.

Why are you doing this?

Send.

What do you want?

Send.

WHO ARE YOU?!!

Send.

Even though I’m lying in bed, I’m out of breath and gripping the phone so tightly, I feel like it’s going to break. Under the string of messages, the blinking cursor patiently waits for some more unhinged typing.

Minutes pass.

Finally, my phone goes into sleep mode, darkening the room.

Exhaustion crashes over me. I put the phone on the bedside table, pull the sheets up to my chin, and roll onto my side. My body is drained but my mind is still spinning out of control.

My eyes start to close. I just want to sleep, to escape for a little—

Ping.

I’m instantly alert. I roll over, grab the phone, and unlock the home screen.

There’s one new message from Emily’s burner phone.

It’s a single emoji reply …

Chapter 4

So, it’s no surprise that I didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night.

I don’t know how long I stared at my phone, but eventually, I started to fall asleep and dropped it on my face, hitting my nose and bringing tears to my eyes.

Don’t laugh. You’ve done it, too, and I’m not in the mood.

I didn’t reply to the pyscho’s text and I’m not going to. It would only give him the chance to further mess with my head.

I slept in fits and starts. Every time I woke up, I was certain I had been asleep for hours, only to check my phone and discover that it had been a few minutes. Then, I would check the news. Around four in the morning, the dam broke.

There it was.

Murder in Avalon! read one headline. Wife of Hedge Fund Manager Found Dead read another, which kind of pissed me off; that their best description of Emily was the “wife of hedge fund manager”. That’s really the best they could do? And on it went. Each article was accompanied by photos of Emily’s smiling face and the exterior of the Seaside Motel. Thankfully, the details of her murder were sparse. She had been discovered by a cleaning lady in the early hours of yesterday morning. There were some mentions of her throat being cut, but nothing about her being found naked on the bed.

Needless to say, I was up and out of bed in minutes. I chugged coffee and watched the local morning news, which didn’t have anything on the murder, yet. The next few hours were spent scrolling through the news but there were no updates. By noon, I realized that I was driving myself crazy. I had to get away from it, just for a bit, and did everything I could to get my mind on something, anything else. I cleaned my apartment. I tried to go for a jog but was nearly run over by a car because I wasn’t paying attention. Then, I went to the gym, only to half-ass a few machines, and walk out.

I’m just going through the motions.

It’s all I can do.

Four o’clock. Time to open The Gryphon.

I’ve done this so many times, it’s become mundane. I could do it in my sleep, but now it’s surreal. Everything looks the same as those hundreds of other times, but feels different, like everyone is watching me. Every window, every alley, every parked car that I can’t see the inside of holds a pair of spying eyes.

The blinking white figure of a stickman tells me it’s safe to cross the street, but I hesitate.

The Blonde is on the other side of the crosswalk, but she doesn’t start crossing. She’s waiting. What is she doing? Is she waiting for The Gryphon to open? She’s never done that before.

No. It looks like she’s waiting for me.

I cross the street and try to avoid eye contact as I step onto the curb to walk past her.

“Clay?” she asks.

I pretend I don’t hear her as I reach the door, extracting my key ring.

“Clay Davis?”

“We open in an hour,” I reply, fumbling with the key.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

“Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t get your Stella the other night. I was busy and—”

“No. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She’s obviously not going away, so let’s get whatever this is over with.

“Okay … What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Emily Parker.”

On second thought, let’s not even start this.

“Absolutely not.” I hasten my efforts to open the door.

“Please. Just a few questions.”

“‘Just a few questions’? I’m sorry. Who are you?” I ask.

“No, I’m sorry. I totally messed this up,” she says, reaching into her pocket and holding out her card. “My name is Genevieve Winters. I’m with the San Francisco Herald.”

Of course, she’s a reporter. Of course she is. I don’t even reach for the card.

“Not interested.”

“I saw how you two acted towards one another at the bar,” she says.

Get away! Get away from her! my mind screams, which only adds to the trouble with the key. Talking to a reporter isn’t going to help me figure out who killed Emily. It can only get me into more trouble.

“I have nothing to say.”

I’m trying desperately to open the door, but my hands are shaking so bad, that when I attempt one last time to get the key in the lock, it slides off to the side and I stab the glass, thankfully not hard enough to break it. That’s it. She’s got me.

I finally look up.

She’s staring at me like a ravenous cat eyeing a one-legged mouse.

“How well did you know her?” she asks.

“I said I’m not talking to—”

“Were you sleeping with her?”

There’s no use trying to hide the fact that she’s rattled me. I give up with the keys and give her my full attention.

“What makes you ask that?”

“Like I said, I saw you two together. You seemed pretty … friendly.”

“I’m a bartender. ‘Friendly’ is kind of my job.”

“I’ve also heard some things.”

“Have you?”

She nods.

That question pops into my head; the question that changed the dynamic with Detective Mendez: What can I get you? What is it that I can get you that will get me what I want, and what I want to know is where she heard anything?

I take her card and stuff it into my hip pocket.

“Tell me where you heard that.”

“If I tell you, will you answer some questions for me?”

I make a small show like I’m thinking it over. “Sure.”

She smiles triumphantly, confident that she has a story.

“I’ve been asking around. People said you two were friendly. Some people were suspicious that she was having an affair. Even the police know about it.”

I scoff. “The fact that she was found naked in a dive motel wasn’t enough to tip them off that she was having an affair? You are some reporter.”

“How did you know she was found naked?” Genevieve asks.

This is exactly why I didn’t want to start talking to her.

She waits.

“Are you gonna answer my question or—?”

“Nope,” I reply, finally sliding the key into the lock.

“‘Nope’? What do you mean, ‘nope’?”

“I’m not going to answer your questions.”

Her initial shock quickly gives way to anger. “We had a deal.”

“Yeah. I know.”

I’ve gotten what I needed and it’s clear that I know more than she does.

“Are—are you serious?”

“Yep,” I say, opening the door.

She’s royally pissed and not without justification, but I don’t feel sorry for her.

She gives me a furious stare. “You open in an hour?”

“That’s what the sign says.”

“Well, maybe I’ll come back, have a drink, and talk to some of your customers to see what they might know.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you harass them like that. If you come back, I’ll call the cops.”

“Fine,” she fires back, not missing a beat. “Maybe I’ll just have a drink. It’s a free country.”

“Yeah but, see, it’s not a free bar.” I step inside the door.

“You need to talk to me! I can get your story out th—”

“There’s a TGI Friday’s up the road. It strikes me as a little more of your kind of place.”

I close the door and lock it.

There’s a brief staring contest through the glass before she turns and leaves.

Once she’s out of sight, I sprint to the bathroom and vomit.

This is the longest damn shift of my life.

Katie and I have barely said two words to each other. I want to ask her for more details about her talk with Detective Mendez yesterday, but there’s no time for talk and she doesn’t seem very receptive. We’re still putting on our little show for the customers, but the ass-slaps are half-assed, the innuendo is weak, and I’m on a short fuse, which is obvious to all.

Things that I normally let slide are setting me off.

A group of office bros order a round of drinks but only one at a time, which is a massive headache. I make one drink, bring it to them, then they order another drink. If you’re in a group, order your drinks all at once. Good bartenders can work on three or four drinks at a time. They’re going one by one.

“Come on, guys,” I sigh after their fifth drink order. “Let’s act like we’ve been to a bar, before.” That stops them in their tracks. Katie shoots me a look.

Later on, a man studying the bottles in the display asks, “What’s the cheapest thing you’ve got here?”

“You,” I reply.

He blinks like I just slapped him in the face, which I sort of metaphorically did. He walks back to his table, has a quick word with his friends, and they collect their things and leave.

To top it all off, I’m catching snippets of customers talking about Emily’s murder. It’s not much. Not everyone knew her, but there’s enough that I try to discreetly eavesdrop on the conversation, only to find that, like Genevieve, I know more about what happened than they do.

An hour later, a young-looking girl orders a Long Island. I ask for her ID and she hands me this utter monstrosity of a fake. There’s no hologram. The picture is dark and obviously photoshopped. And here’s the secret to spotting a fake ID: a blind person can do it. It’s not how an ID looks, but how it feels. Is it flimsy or hard? When you handle hundreds of IDs a night, you know what a real one feels like in your hand. This thing is as hard as a rock. Avalon is a wealthy town, so we get our fair share of rich kids who have spent a lot of money on fake IDs and I’ve seen some damn good ones, but this is laughable. Normally, I’d hand the ID back, and wish her good luck someplace else, but tonight ain’t that night.

“Are you kidding me?”

“What?”

“What is this?” I ask, holding the ID.

Her eyes go wide. “It’s, uh … It’s my ID.”

“Okay, I don’t know how much money you paid for this, little girl, but you should ask for a refund.”

She wilts but for some stupid reason keeps pushing it. “It’s … It’s real.”

I sigh. “The image is shopped and too dark. It’s hard as a rock and there’s no hologram.”

“I—I left it in the wash.”

“Now I’m worried that you don’t understand how a washing machine works.”

“Okay … okay. I’m sorry,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’ll take it back.”

I nonchalantly toss the ID into the trash behind the bar and nod at the door.

“Get out.”

Stunned, she turns and quickly leaves.

Wonderful. I’ve turned into the asshole bartender I’ve always hated.

“Clay?”

Alex is staring at me from the end of the bar. He’s been watching me and obviously doesn’t like what he sees.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

I walk over. “What’s up?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. You want to take a break? I know it’s been a crazy forty-eight hours.”

“No. It’s okay. I don’t need a break.” It’s getting late in the evening and the last thing I want to do is stop working because I’ll start thinking.

“All right,” Alex says, “but if you could do everyone a favor and stop being a jerk, that would be great.”

“She was trying to use a fake ID.”

“I get that, but she’s not the only person you’ve been a jerk to this evening, is she?”

My shoulders drop. There’s nothing to say in my defense.

“Sorry. I’m just on edge.”

“Listen, I know that Mrs. Parker was one of your regulars and these past few days have been kind of crazy and if you need a break to calm down, that’s fine. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

As I turn back to the bar, I catch a glimpse of a lonely figure sitting at a high-top table against the wall across the room.

Genevieve Winters.

She’s sipping a cocktail by herself, eyes locked on me. In front of her on the table is a notepad.

There’s a knot of businessmen two tables over, sizing her up, deciding who’s going to make a move.

How did she get in here without me seeing her?!

Once our eyes meet, she casually glances down and starts writing in her notepad.

“Alex! Alex, hold on.”

Alex halts his retreat to the office.

“What’s up?”

“See that woman sitting over at table twenty-four?”

He glances over and definitely sees her.

“What about her?”

“We have to kick her out.”

“What are you talking about? She’s been here before.”

“She’s a reporter. She was waiting for me when I opened up and started harassing me. She said that she was going to ask customers about Mrs. Parker’s murder. She’s gotta go.”

He takes another look.

“She’s not talking to anyone right now.”

“But she might.”

“We’re not kicking her out. She’s minding her own business.”

“But—”

“Clay, we’re not kicking out someone for calmly having a drink at a table, especially if they’re a reporter. I wouldn’t want her writing about it.”

“She’s a reporter, not a Yelp reviewer.”

“Whatever. If you’re not going to take a break, then you need to calm down, stop being a jerk, and do your job, okay?”

With that, he turns and goes back to the office.

Through the sea of people, Genevieve has been watching my discussion with Alex. She can tell from my expression that she won and gives me a light wave with her fingers.

I fight the urge to wave one finger at her and get back to work.

The hours drag on.

Alex’s little admonishment worked for a time, but the simmering frustration is building into a flame and it’s fanned every time I look over and see Genevieve watching me. She’s been here for six hours. It feels like twelve. Every drink order is tedious. Every special instruction for a martini or a Manhattan is a chore. Every question is inane.

“What do you have on tap?” a customer asks while looking directly at the beer taps.

“What can you make?” a girl asks, which is like asking an accountant what they can “math”.

Business picks up steam. Katie and Tommy are pulling my dead weight. I botch one drink order after another. People are simply yelling their orders at me before I acknowledge them.

“Can I get a beer?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

“Can I get a Jack and Coke?”

I grit my teeth. “One sec.”

“Hey, man! We want to do a round of shots!”

“I’ll get to you in a minute,” I mutter through a clenched jaw.

“Buddy, we’ve been waiting here forever.”

Okay. To hell with this. To hell with Alex. To hell with Katie. To hell with The Gryphon.

“Can I get one of those margaritas you were telling me about?” someone asks behind me.

And to hell with whoever this clown is.

I turn from the beer I’m pouring and look back over my shoulder. “Yeah. Can you hold on for one damn sec—”

Detective Mendez sticks out from the crowd like a sore thumb. He’s short, stocky, alone, and smiling at me like we’re long-time friends.

My heart takes the stairs to my throat.

“S-sure …” I manage to sputter. “Be right there.”

I finish the beer, drop it off, take a breath, and then start his margarita while keeping a side-eye on him as he surveys bar and the crowd.

I take my time. This will be—no, this has to be—the greatest margarita I’ve ever made.

I salt the rim of a glass, then fill it and a shaker with ice. Using the most expensive tequila we’ve got, I pour a shot into the shaker … better make it a double. This would normally be a sixty-dollar drink, but it’s on the house. Alex and the inventory will have to suffer. I add the Cointreau and our own special margarita mix, squeeze a few lime wedges in there, give it a vigorous couple of shakes, and strain it over the ice in the salted glass. After popping a lime wedge on the rim, I set it on the bar in front of him.

“There you have it,” I say. “The Clay Special.”

He regards it with that infuriating neutral expression, but thanks to Genevieve, I know that he knows or at least suspects that Emily was having an affair.

“You weren’t kidding,” he says with a gesture to the crowd. “This place is great.”

“Wait until you try the margarita.” I smile. It’s unnerving how quickly I’ve slipped back into my bartender persona.

He brings the straw to his lips and takes a sip. He leans back and his eyes light up.

“Whoa! That packs a punch.” He takes a second sip. “But it’s really smooth,” he adds before going in for a third sip.

“The trick is to really shake it. It makes it ice-cold and knocks down the heat of the alcohol but not the flavor of the tequila.”

He raises the glass. “Mr. Davis, you are an artist.”

I execute a humble bow as he takes another healthy pull on the straw, and sets the drink on the bar.

“This is the perfect end to the work day,” he says.

“How’s that going?” It’s not the most subtle transition I’ve ever made, but I need to get him talking, and fast. At any moment, I’m expecting Genevieve to come crashing over.

He considers the straw sticking out of the margarita. “I probably shouldn’t say anything.”

Yeah, he probably shouldn’t, but I can tell he really wants to. If he didn’t, he would have looked me in the eye. That’s something you notice on this side of the bar. As I’ve said before; you know more about what someone wants from their body language rather than the words they use.

“I completely understand.” I nod, sympathetically. “A lot of people here have been talking about it, though.”

“Really? What are they saying?”

I shrug, trying to play it cool.

“Just rumors about her … personal life.”

He leans in. “What kind of rumors?”

I slyly look to the left and right, making sure no one will hear our conversation. “You know, like maybe she was having some fun with someone on the side.”

He’s enjoying this. We’re conspirators, again, just like back at the station.

“Well … that might be true,” he says.

“Yeah? What makes you say that?”

He takes another long sip of his margarita, which is now almost finished. “Well, we were looking at her accounts yesterday for anything suspicious and found out that she was renting an apartment, just outside of Avalon.”

An apartment? She never told me about … Oh, shit … Shit … SHIT!

“We were at the apartment this afternoon,” he continues. “We found her fingerprints and the fingerprints of one other person. Looks like they were using it as a little bootypad.” His eyes go wide and he covers his mouth in embarrassment, but can’t resist a short laugh. “Okay, I definitely shouldn’t have said that.” He laughs, again. “Whoa! Clay! What did you put in this margarita?”

I’m laughing with him but I want to scream.

I know the apartment. Of course I do. I was there, yesterday, putting my fingerprints all over everything. Through my nervous laughter, all I see is that damn winky-face emoji.

Detective Mendez catches his breath and wipes his eyes. “That’s our little secret, okay?”

“Of course.”

He polishes off the margarita and sets the glass down on the bar. “Mmmmmm. That is delicious. You do know your trade, Mr. Davis.”

“Thank you,” I say and want to add, “but if it’s all the same, I want to curl up in a ball and die”.

They’re not closer to catching the psycho who killed Emily. They’re closer to catching me.

He stands up and steps away from the bar. “Well, I should go. Wouldn’t be a good look for a detective to get pulled over for a DUI, but thank you for the drink.” He extends his hand.

“My pleasure,” I say, shaking it, because of course, Detective Mendez is the kind of guy who thinks I pay my rent in handshakes.

Someone moves behind me.

Detective Mendez glances past me to my left. “Ah, Ms. Watson.”

I turn in time to see Katie stop dead in her tracks, almost dropping the drinks she’s carrying.

“Oh … hi, Detective Mendez.”

“We’re still on for another discussion at the station tomorrow, right?”

“… of course,” she says, trying not to look at me.

“Great. You two have a good night,” Detective Mendez says, turns and walks out the door.

I stare at the door, unable to move. Now my heart is taking the elevator to my feet.

He knows that Emily was having an affair and he’s already asked Katie for another interview. It has to be because of the apartment and the rumors. He’s going to ask Katie, and Katie isn’t going to lie.

“Clay?” Katie asks from a million miles away. “Clay, I was going to tell you but he called me this morning bef—”

“It’s okay,” I reply, mechanically.

In the span of two seconds, I’ve already forgotten her and Detective Mendez and the blood in my car and the fact that I’ve been set up by a murderer. I’ve forgotten all of it because moments after Detective Mendez walks out the door, someone else walks in.

Henry Parker; the husband of the late Emily Parker.

And he’s walking right towards me like he has something to say.

Chapter 5

He’s wearing jeans and a button-down blazer.

I quickly shoot a glance to my left. Genevieve’s head is up, watching us, completely ignoring the middle-aged business guy who’s trying to talk to her.

STOP! TURN AROUND AND WALK OUT THE DOOR, PLEASE! I mentally plead to Mr. Parker.

Unable to read my mind, he continues towards me, stopping directly across the bar from where I’m standing. He sizes me up like he’s looking at an unwashed child.

My response is instant, automatic, ingrained, and under the circumstances, ridiculous. “Good evening, sir. What can I get you?”

“I understand that you knew my wife,” he says, quietly.

“Sir,” I say, lowering my voice to match his. “I’m sorry but this is not the time—”

“Shut up and listen to me.”

I’m too stunned to respond.

“I know. I know everything about you and Emily.” He pauses, and snorts in derision. “Do you do that often? Hmm? Screw other men’s wives? Does that make you feel important? Like you’ve actually done something with your shitty, wasted life?”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“No. You listen to me,” he insists.

There’s a couple sitting at the bar two seats down from where we’re standing. I don’t think they can hear what we’re saying, but they’ve definitely noticed the tension and they’re trying to hide the fact that they’re watching us.

Sooner rather than later, and by that, I mean a few seconds from now, people are going to start recognizing him like Genevieve has.

“Sir,” I repeat with emphasis. “I’m not going to ask you again—”

“‘My sweet little cupcake’,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.

My knees buckle momentarily, but I’m able to stay upright.

He continues to pin me to the spot with an intense stare.

“I know the trouble you’re in … That we’re both in … And as much as I hate to admit it, Mr. Davis, we have to work together, all right?”

We have officially crossed into The Twilight Zone.

The trouble that we’re “both” in? What does that even mean?

“I … I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No, not yet. That’s why I need to talk to you. You need to know what’s going on. It’s the only way you and I get through this.”

“‘You and I’? Is there a ‘you and I’, here?” I’ve gotten good at telling when people are lying and he’s not. He’s tense, earnest, and maintaining eye contact.

“I need your help with something,” he says, reaching for his inside breast pocket. “We have to figure out what this means so we—”

“Stop, stop, stop,” I insist.

He blinks at me with his hand just inside his blazer. This is a guy who is not used to being contradicted.

“Not here,” I say.

Another quick look over the crowd reveals that Genevieve is out of her chair, notebook in hand, poised like she’s about to charge us.

“But I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, but not here. Too many people are going to see us and it’s only going to make things worse. We have to meet somewhere private.”

He considers and comes to a conclusion. “All right. Once you get done with work, come to the house.” A disgusted expression crawls across his face. “You know where the house is, right? You’ve been there?”

I lightly nod. “Yeah. It might not be until around midnight, though.”

“Fine. Midnight.”

He turns, walks straight to the door, and out into the night.

There’s movement out of the corner of my eye. Here comes Genevieve.

She stands at the bar, and looks from the door to me, frantically trying to make a decision; stay here or follow Mr. Parker.

“Okay. Kick me out if you want, what just happened?” she asks breathlessly. “What was that about?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, come on. Mr. Parker. The guy who was just here, talking to you. What did he say?”

“Was that Mr. Parker?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Cut the crap. What did you two talk about? Why did he leave so quickly?”

“He asked if we had root beer. I told him ‘no’, and he wasn’t happy.”

She glares at me, turns, and hurriedly fights her way to the door, rudely shoving people out of her way.

Good.

She’s figured I’m not going anywhere for a while, so she’s going after Mr. Parker, who I assume is going back to his house to wait for me, but she doesn’t know that.

I need to get out of here before she comes back.

I find Katie on the other side of the bar. Thankfully, she missed my brief interaction with Mr. Parker and Genevieve.

“Katie, I need a favor.”

“What is it?”

“I need you to close for me tonight.”

She tilts her head in disapproval at me. “Clay, I know that you stayed for me the other night, but Nick’s picking me up tonight, and I don’t want to make him wait.”

“I know, but it’s really important.”

“Is it about …?”

“I can’t tell you, not when you’re going to talk to the police tomorrow.”

“I told you; I’m not going to lie.”

“No, and I don’t want you to, but I might be able to clear this up.”

She wavers.

“Katie, if you close for me tonight, I promise, I will take all of your closing shifts for the next month and you and Mr. McDermitt can have all the dirty sex time you want.”

Business slows to a crawl. Katie accepted my offer and I’m able to cash out a little before eleven. After checking out and running my report, I give my credit card tips to Katie because, hopefully, she really is saving my ass.

We wish each other a perfunctory “good night” and I hurriedly walk out the door.

Instead of going straight to the Parker house, I park down the street from The Gryphon, amongst the Lyft and Uber drivers, and watch the door, praying that my hunch is right.

About an hour later, my patience is finally rewarded.

There.

A green Hyundai parks in The Gryphon parking lot. Out jumps Genevieve Winters. She hurries to the door since the bar is about to close and goes inside.

I twist the key in the ignition.

She must have followed Mr. Parker, waited for a while, decided that he had just packed it in for the evening, and come back to the bar to harass me a little more.

Too bad. I hope Katie tells her that I left an hour ago.

I pull a u-turn and drive off towards the cliffs.

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