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Isabel obviously hadn’t killed Lindsey, since she’d been in prison two months ago.
But she could have had a hand in it.
Or maybe she had seen news of this drowning and simply wanted to mess with Raisa.
“This might sound like an odd question,” Raisa said. “But have you ever heard the name Isabel Parker?”
Helen squinted at her, thoughtful, but then shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Why? Does she have something to do with all this?”
Maybe, maybe not. This could be the first clue Isabel gave them to help solve her murder. Or sending them out here could serve a purpose Raisa didn’t yet understand. Helen didn’t need to hear all that, though.
So, instead, Raisa asked, “Did anything odd happen? In the weeks leading up to her death? Did she act strangely at all?”
“No. Well ...” Helen cut off her knee-jerk denial and stared off into space. “A few weeks before she died, she came home from her job ... rattled. Angry, almost, but also a little scared.”
“Rattled?” Kilkenny asked.
“Yes, and she never let the tourists bother her, so it was strange,” Helen said. “But that can’t be anything, can it?”
Raisa and Kilkenny exchanged glances.
Again, Raisa decided not to answer. “Would we be able to look around her room?”
Helen hesitated, but then nodded. “I don’t see why not, if you think it could help.”
Neither Raisa nor Kilkenny reassured her, but Helen didn’t seem to need it. She just led them down a hallway that ended in a bathroom. On either side was a tiny room, one of which was clearly Helen’s. The other was presumably Lindsey’s, but the door was closed.
“I can’t,” Helen said, waving toward it. “You all just let me know if you need anything.”
And then she was gone.
It was quite the strike of good fortune to be given free rein like this, but Helen didn’t seem to have anything to lose. The two of them must have seemed like a last gasp of hope for someone shouting into the void.
The doorknob gave way easily beneath Raisa’s hand, and she walked into exactly what she’d expected to walk into—a bedroom caught in time. Eventually, Helen might convert it into a shrine, much like she had the living room. But for now, she probably hadn’t even been in here more than once or twice.
There wasn’t much there. A narrow twin bed was pushed up against the window, this one overlooking the road that led into town. Oh, how Lindsey must have longed to rotate the house so she could see the ocean.
“What were you thinking?” Raisa asked without turning around. “When Helen said Lindsey wasn’t scared to go back in the water.”
A beat of silence passed, long enough to get Raisa to look over at him. Kilkenny was standing at the bookshelf, his finger paused where it had been dragging along the novels’ spines.
“I’ve seen people who have lost parents in plane crashes,” Kilkenny said finally. “And they worked for years to conquer that fear and become pilots themselves. I read about a case where a man’s father died of a bee sting, and just the sight of one sent him into near paralytic fear. Then he decided to make honey as a hobby to face that terror head-on.”
“Okay, so not so strange that Lindsey became an avid sailor,” Raisa said.
“Becamebeing the key word there,” Kilkenny pointed out. “Every other instance I’ve heard of like that, it took years for the person to work through their trauma. From how Helen made it seem, Lindsey was back out there the next day.”
Raisa turned fully. “Huh. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Kilkenny said, looking a little cagey right before he shifted so his back was to her.
“What are you theorizing, then?” Raisa pressed.
“Oh,” Kilkenny murmured softly as he pulled something from the shelf. Raisa would have guessed it was a delay tactic except he seemed genuinely interested in the book. He held it out to her. It was one of the more recent, popular true crime novels making the rounds. Kilkenny pulled out another and then another and then another.
“Safe to say she’s a fan,” Raisa said.
“It’s a loose connection, but how many podcasts have come out about Isabel?” Kilkenny asked.