Chapter 37
That evening, after my mother has gone home to plot and scheme, the Parkers and I enjoy a long, silent, awkward meal.
After dinner, I run outside to retrieve wood for the fire.
As I step onto the deck, the dense, dewy air presses against my skin, electric with an impending storm.
Overhead, dark clouds churn, swallowing the last breaths of daylight.
A low rumble rolls across the sky, distant but growing. The deluge is coming.
I scan the yard to ensure no one’s out there.
But it’s just me, the mist, and the whining wind.
I jog through the light sprinkle to the woodpile and work fast, my head on a swivel, stacking split logs under a tarp into the wheelbarrow.
The scent of freshly cut wood clings to my fingers.
As I’m loading up the mix of oak and birch, my gaze snags on the chopping block. The axe is still missing.
I search the ground in the fading light, sift through the pile, circle the chopping block. Nothing. The more I search, the heavier the realization in my stomach. The Parkers’ missing axe is the same axe that killed the Adwanis.
Whoever took it was here, watching…or is inside the house. I wonder if I’m in more danger in the yard or behind four walls.
I think of Eric. The mysterious death of Marjorie Neuman. The flicker of rage when I told him about Vivek.
I think of Olivia’s indifference at Vivek’s and Freida’s murders.
The girls, their laughter ringing as they chased each other around the yard with croquet mallets. I shake my head. They’re too little. Then I remember what Olivia said. There’s probably a harmless explanation: Eric stored the axe in the toolshed so that the girls wouldn’t play with it.
I push the wheelbarrow to the edge of the patio and lean it against the railing. The toolshed stands alone. I glance around to ensure no one is looking. Olivia plays with her phone, while Eric spreads a board game across the coffee table with the girls.
I shuffle to the shed. A Master Lock hangs from a handle, but it’s unlocked. I listen for the sound of someone breathing, sniff for the scent of sweat, but there’s nothing. The door groans open.
Like my bedroom closet used to.
Inside, the air is stale with oil and rusted metal.
It’s nearly pitch-black, but I see the outlines of various tools and machines.
I grapple in the dark, half expecting my hand to stumble onto the murderer’s face, when I touch a string hanging from a light bulb.
I yank the string, illuminating the shed neatly stocked with tools.
A chainsaw hangs from the ceiling. Pliers from the walls.
Innumerable instruments of torture. But there’s no axe. The axe is missing.
Then something skitters across my foot.
I leap, my heart jumping along with me. I throw myself back against the wall and search the floor. A mouse scurries into the corner, its tiny frame quivering. I exhale and place a hand on my chest, my heart thumping.
Then a voice.
“What are you doing?”
I spin. Eric stands in the doorway, his expression pinched and wary. The sliver of moonlight cuts his face in half.
“Oh, nothing. I was just looking for the axe. Have you seen it?”
“The axe? Why? There’s plenty of firewood.” Suddenly, his tall, toned physique seems less attractive and more intimidating.
“I thought it would be nice to chop up a few pieces to replace what I took.” The lie sounds flimsy even to me.
“Huh,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “It’s not on the chopping block?”
“Nope. I didn’t see it.” I pause and let the implication sink in.
He scratches his whiskers. “Strange.” He thinks a beat, then his face eases. “Well, don’t worry about it now. We can search for it in the morning. The girls are champing at the bit to play Clue.”
“Okay,” I say and step out of the toolshed.
He scans the interior and then snaps off the light and slams the doors shut behind him.
He locks the lock and spins the dial, like he does on every question that comes up in his life.
Why won’t he face what’s happening? Eric’s the kind of guy who thinks everyone’s honest because he’s too rich and too oblivious to know he’s been robbed.
Minutes later, the five of us gather in the living room around a roaring fire.
A light scent of woodsmoke fills the room, and the logs snap and crack at steady intervals.
Rain patters against the roof, and thunder rumbles overhead.
Eric and I play Clue with Emma and Penelope, trying to create some sense of normalcy, while Olivia sits curled up on the overstuffed armchair, blowing oversize bubbles, watching the raindrops trickle down the floor-to-ceiling windows, seemingly lost in thought.
I watch Emma and Penelope play the game, their tiny hands moving the colored pawns around the board, and I marvel.
Their dog is dead, their neighbors have been murdered, and by looking at their faces—wide-eyed, intently focused on the game—you would think it was just another day.
They even chew on grapes, triumphantly munching without a trace of irony on the snack that killed their dog.
I glance at Eric. Does he see what I see in these girls?
But he sits down beside me, hands me a glass of red wine, sips his, and watches them dotingly, a soft-yellow linen shirt draped on his tanned frame.
He throws an arm onto the couch cushion behind me.
He notices me staring at him and smiles a glowing white grin—the same as Olivia’s—but then catches himself and drops the smile.
Laelynn’s only been gone a couple of days, but already I feel myself growing closer to him, the deaths on the island encircling us, shoving us together.
As if sensing it, my phone buzzes. A text from Carlos. Sent at noon. A nice seven-hour delay.
Hey, I heard a couple was murdered on Big Island last night.
Is that true? I’m just checking to see if you’re okay.
I hope it wasn’t someone you were close to.
Btw, I decided to stay for a few days. Headed to Big Island with some friends the day after tomorrow.
If you need an escape, you’re more than welcome to join. Be safe.
I slam my phone down on my leg and clutch my thighs. Carlos knows about the murder already? And he’s coming to Big Island? I like how he says “friends.” Based on the looks of Kenzie, it will probably be a boat full of supermodels. Just what I need.
Penelope points at me, jarring me from my thoughts. Her eyes narrow as she thrusts her finger forward. “You. You’re the killer.”
The room goes silent. The burning wood clicks like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
“What?” I ask, my mind jumping to the Adwanis, Detective Gonzalez, and where his questions will lead.
“You killed Colonel Mustard in the conservatory.”
My gaze shoots to Olivia, who rolls her eyes and chortles at her sister’s enthusiasm.
I sigh and return my attention to the game, scanning my playing cards to see if I have anything to disprove her accusation.
I flash her a card, and Penelope’s lips twist in disappointment.
Emma grins at her sister’s failure. I notice she’s always hanging back, waiting to pounce. Et tu, Brute?
A bolt of lightning rips through the sky, casting light on the darkened room. A gunshot of thunder follows, rattling the house and vibrating the glass on the kitchen shelves. I flinch, nearly spilling my wineglass, but then quickly recover.
“Jesus. I felt that one in my chest,” says Olivia.
Eric raises an eyebrow, then hops up from the couch to stoke the fire. He throws in a piece of birch and stabs it with a poker. I watch the bright-orange ash simmer. Without turning around, he says to me, “Everything all right, Charlotte?”
I cross my legs beneath me on the couch and straighten in my seat. “Yeah, why do you ask?”
“You seem a little off, that’s all.”
Olivia fires a look at her father. “Of course she’s a little off, Dad. Our dog is dead, someone murdered our neighbors, and the police are interrogating her. Not the best vacation.”
I raise a hand to calm her. Emma and Penelope perk up like dogs on a hunt, sensing conflict is in the air.
“Yeah, I can’t stop thinking about what happened to the Adwanis,” I say.
Eric returns the poker to the stand and brushes the dust off his hands. He grabs his wine and sits sideways on the couch. He looks down at his glass and folds his lips inward, his dimples pointing downward like frowns. “I understand. It’s terrible what happened to them.”
“It’s beyond terrible, Eric. It’s—” I steal a glance at the girls, but they’ve returned their focus to their Clue sheets. “Whoever did this could still be on the island.”
He frowns. “You think whoever did…that…is sticking around the island to get caught? I doubt it. We’re surrounded by water and woods. There’s no safer place than here.”
Olivia laughs. “C’mon, Dad. I know you love this place, but this is getting absurd.”
I pile on. “And it’s not just the Adwanis. It’s Heathcliff. The notes on the door. Russ Neuman. Whatever was outside my window.”
He slides away from me. “What are you saying?”
I look into his forest-green eyes, and my stomach twists at the thought of leaving him. “I’m saying I think we should leave the island.”
Emma jumps up from the floor and cozies up next to me.
“Yes, sweetie?” I ask, wondering if she might miss me if I’m gone.
“It’s your turn.”
I move my Clue piece and make a suggestion that Miss Scarlet is the murderer, and Eric shows me a card proving I am wrong. Then he moves his piece and makes a suggestion, which Emma gleefully denies, tongue flipping through her gap teeth.
He takes a sip of his wine, and for a fleeting moment, that same dark look crosses his face.
“Look, if you want to go home, I don’t blame you.
But this is one of the rare chances I get to escape work at the bakery and spend quality time with my girls, and I won’t give it up because of a couple of hiccups.
Besides, how will it look if the day after a murder we flee the island? We have no choice.”
Olivia tilts her head and mouths “I told you so” to me.
“Eric, a double homicide is more than a hiccup.”
“What’s a double homicide?” asks Emma.
“It’s nothing, Emma. Focus on the game.” Eric’s eyes snap to me, filled with fury. “Why do you even care? From everything you’ve told me, Vivek was a terrible man who probably deserved everything he got. You, of all people, should know that.”
“No one deserves to die.”
“Some people do.” He slams his glass of wine and returns his attention to the game, signaling the conversation is over. Olivia looks at me with pity. She warned me, but I didn’t listen.
Emma taps her green pawn into the library. She grins triumphantly, looking as though her patience has finally paid off. “I would like to make an accusation,” she says.
Eric hands me the envelope that shows how the Clue murder went down. “Okay, sweetheart, who is it? Who’s the killer?”
She points at me, her lip curling. “It was Professor Plum who killed Colonel Mustard with the lead pipe in the library.”
I open the envelope, look at the card, and force a smile. “You’re right. It’s me. I’m the killer.”
Eric claps and the girls celebrate. I put the card down and slump in my chair. Olivia returns her gaze to the storm. The text from Carlos stares out at me from my phone.
If you need an escape.
I don’t care what Detective Gonzalez thinks. Tomorrow I’m leaving this island.