Chapter Thirty-Four
Outside Paul’s farmhouse, the sky has turned gray as storm clouds sweep in over the foothills. Duncan Gilcrest careens up the driveway, sirens blaring. As I step from the converted barn, the cruiser skids to a stop.
“Where the hell is Freya?” Gilcrest asks.
“At the trailhead,” Paul says as he emerges from the farmhouse behind me.
Gilcrest comes close enough that I can feel his ragged breath against my face.
“Listen close, Charlie,” he says. “Maybe you didn’t understand you were stepping on my turf before, but you do now.
” He shoves his finger into my chest. “First we find you at the scene of an arson and you run around town spreading rumors about your long-lost father. Then you decide to post a podcast about an active investigation. Now you’re right here in the middle of things when Freya is threatened.
Too many coincidences. And if anything happens to Freya, you’ll regret the day you were born. ”
Somehow, I manage to keep my voice steady even as my heart threatens to beat out of my chest. “Save your anger,” I say. “Freya doesn’t need you to prove how masculine you are right now.”
“I don’t take advice on my personal life from a man-child.”
Thankfully, Reid emerges from the house and heads toward his Audi.
“I have questions for you, Reid,” Gilcrest says. “We have you on video filling a gas can at the station in Kingston two days before the fire.”
“Backhoes don’t run on solar power,” Reid says. “And sometimes gas isn’t delivered when you need it. If you have other questions, you know where to find me.”
He slides into the car and speeds off as Seton’s cruiser pulls out of the trees and down the hill toward us. Freya emerges from the passenger’s seat and releases Ginger, who’s on high alert.
“You okay?” Gilcrest asks, keeping his distance.
Freya puts a hand to the dog’s head and doesn’t answer. Gilcrest approaches slowly and gently sweeps a stray lock of auburn hair from Freya’s eyes. Freya steps into his embrace and lets her head fall to his chest.
Score one for the detective.
I approach them. Ginger growls, and Freya lifts her head, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. “Harold,” she says, “thanks for watching out for me. This would have been so much worse if I’d been alone.”
“And you can move on now,” Gilcrest says to me. “I have this covered.”
“Charlie and I are having a tender moment, Duncan,” Freya says. “Don’t be a jerk.”
“I don’t know if he can help it,” I say.
Freya’s eyes flare. “Same goes for you, Charlie,” she says, her voice icy. “In fact, the two of you can have at it, but keep me out of whatever’s going on between you.”
She leaves us in the driveway as Ginger trots after her into the farmhouse.
Gilcrest goes to follow, but Paul stands in the doorway and shakes his head. “Don’t make the situation worse,” he says, before heading inside.
“Good job there,” Gilcrest says to me.
“You’re the one who was a territorial asshole,” I say. “Freya and I . . . we’re friends. Nothing else.”
Gilcrest’s phone rings. “I need to take this. It’s the fucking FBI. When I’m done talking to them, don’t be here. If I have questions, I’ll find you.”
He moves out of earshot as he clicks into the call. I cross to where Seton’s watched us from her cruiser. “He’s protective,” she says.
“You think?”
“But he’s not the only one. Stop acting jealous. It makes you look guilty.”
“I’m not jealous,” I say. “If someone had bothered to tell me Freya had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t have gone home with her in the first place.
I’m not that kind of person. Besides, I was with Freya when she saw what had happened to her truck.
” I hear the defensiveness in my voice. I close my eyes and will myself to calm down.
“If you want to treat me as a suspect, I suppose I could have had a partner,” I say.
Such as my brother.
“Freya told me you were at her apartment yesterday, in her bathroom,” Seton says.
“Where I could have stolen the nail polish,” I say.
“She also said you were the one who proposed meeting up this afternoon.”
“I texted her,” I say.
“If you had a partner, you could have asked him to lurk in the woods and wait for Freya to head up the trail.”
“I could have,” I say.
Seton shakes her head. “Except Freya already told me she checked your phone to see if you’d texted anyone, and you hadn’t.”
“Texts can be deleted,” I say.
“I suppose, and we’d be able to recover them, so there’s that. But if you want to be a suspect, you’re not doing a very good job of it.”
“Tell Gilcrest,” I say.
Seton rests a hip against her cruiser and watches the detective talking on the phone. “You’re an easy target. Gilcrest needs to choose between his ex-wife and Freya, and he keeps messing up the situation so badly he wants someone else to blame.”
“You told me Freya was being stalked when we were on the boat a few weeks ago. Maybe Gilcrest believes I convinced myself that if the stalker returned and I was there to offer comfort, Freya would choose me over a rival.”
“Or maybe Gilcrest told himself the same thing,” Seton says. “As crazy motives go, I don’t hate it. Gilcrest did come barreling in to the rescue.” She lowers her voice. “I don’t know who to trust, so I guess I’m stuck with you.”
“You’re asking for help?”
“Haviland and Kilgore, right?”
“You told me to go with the simplest explanation.”
“Indulge me. Go complex. And I’m asking as a cop, not a friend.”
“All I know is the threats against Freya mostly stopped after she left Scene of the Crime, but they started again when she met Gilcrest on the set of that true-crime pilot. Ask Freya who had the idea for her to leave New York, to leave her life behind, and move to a place where she’d be dependent on one of the few people she knows.
Maybe it’s love, or maybe Freya really did need a change, or maybe—”
“A controlling prick has been manipulating her.”
“You said it, not me.”
Seton keeps her eyes on Gilcrest. “Leave the rest to me,” she says.
“I don’t need things to be worse than they already are between you and Gilcrest. Lie low for the next day or so.
When this is over, you can play detective all you want.
And don’t think I’ve forgotten about that podcast you unleashed on the world. ”
I rub the bridge of my nose. “My producer posted it without telling me.”
“There wouldn’t have been a trailer to post if you hadn’t come up with the idea in the first place.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Try starting with the apology next time around,” Seton says. “And I guess you’re forgiven, though I don’t have much of a choice. This town’s too small to have enemies.”
Freya and Paul emerge from the farmhouse with Ginger in tow. Gilcrest finishes his call. “We can grab some things from the condo before we head to my place,” he says to Freya.
“Is your wife there?” she asks.
“Nicole has her own house,” Gilcrest says. “You know that. How many times do I need to tell you we’re only married on paper. And you can’t stay by yourself tonight, safe room or not. Either come to my house or I’ll stay with you.”
“Paul,” Freya says, “you’re getting a houseguest for the night. And when can I have my truck?”
“We’ll process it for evidence as quickly as we can,” Seton says. “Give us till the morning.”
“Call me if you finish earlier. As soon as I have the truck, I’m taking off for New York and my beloved co-op. Paul was right—at least in the city there are people wherever you go.” Freya looks at Gilcrest. Off in the distance, thunder rumbles. “And plenty of assholes to date.”
“Don’t do this,” Gilcrest says.
“I’ll see you around, Duncan. You, too, Harold.”
Freya retreats to the farmhouse. Fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky, and the fog that swept in with the storm hems us in.
Gilcrest stares after Freya, his expression cold.
I imagine he’s seeing two versions of his future laid out in front of him—the one he wanted with Freya, and the one he has now.
“I just got off the phone with the FBI,” he says.
“They’re sending an agent, and I’ll be taking lead on the stalking case.
You’re free to go, Chief. Take Mr. Kilgore with you so I don’t have to look at him anymore. ”
“I’ll be taking the lead,” Seton says. “Tell your contact at the FBI we’ll coordinate from the station.”
“Back off, Chief,” Gilcrest says.
“You’re the one who needs to back off, Detective,” Seton says. “Get in your car and drive away.”
Gilcrest makes a move toward the farmhouse, but Seton blocks his path. “Freya puts up a good front,” she says, “but she’s scared out of her mind. If you care about her, that’s what you should remember.”
“I love her,” Gilcrest says, the words catching in his throat.
“Then stay as far from the investigation as you can. You aren’t objective.”
The detective takes another step toward the house. “Duncan,” Seton says. “Stop. Be smart.”
For a moment, it seems as though Gilcrest might try to force his way past her.
He gives one last look toward the front door, then gets in his car and leaves.
Seton waits until he’s driven out of sight before sending a text.
“That was to Paul,” she says. “I told him to call me if Gilcrest shows up again. Jealousy makes people batshit crazy.”
“This whole situation makes me feel helpless,” I say.
“You feel helpless?” Seton says. “Imagine how Freya’s felt all these years, and multiply that helpless feeling by infinity. Get out of here, Charlie, and don’t come back.”
She watches, arms folded, standing guard, as I drive away in the Volvo and rain splatters the windshield.
Nothing will happen to Freya. Not tonight.
When I arrive at the turnoff by the bungalow, I pull to the side of the road while the rain pounds at the roof of the Volvo.
I delete text messages from Reid, Seton, Paul, and Gilcrest, all expressing some variation of What did you do?
about the podcast trailer. I delete the messages from Julian, too, where he rationalizes posting the trailer without telling me first. When I come to a message from Mrs. Haviland that reads Call me when you get this, I nearly delete it.
Something stops me, though, and I click on her name.
“Charlie,” she says, “you made it onto the Hero Board. Vote’s split on whether or not to run you out of town.”
“Which side are you on?” I ask.
“You can stick around, for now,” Mrs. Haviland says. “You asked me to look at the books for Reid Construction. Wait till I tell you what I found. I really should have been a forensic accountant.”
After we hang up, I make another call. Thirty minutes later, I park beside a construction site in Finstock, where rain falls in sheets across mounds of earth.
Idle equipment dots a recently cleared landscape, and a sign advertises a new outdoor mall and residence.
Placards advertise a rival construction firm.
Rain soaks through my clothing as I make my way to where a cement foundation and cinder blocks mark the perimeter of what will eventually be a big-box store.
As I emerge on the other side, footsteps squelch through mud. I swipe wet hair from my eyes and spin to face Vance Moodey.