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Sam shifts his feet, stabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “We can do this in the other room if you prefer.”
Chet points to the stove. “I’ve kind of got my hands full. Ask away.”
I set everything on the counter with a hard clatter, glaring at Sam as he flips through a notepad to a page filled with his tiny scribbles. He sinks onto the counter stool next to Micah. “Want to tell me what you were doing at the Crosby Shores B and B Monday night?”
Chet shrugs, sliding a steaming pancake onto the pile on a platter. “Playing darts and drinking half-priced beer, like pretty much everybody else in town. The place was jammed.”
“Did you talk to anybody?”
“Dude. I talked toeverybody. They were short-staffed and folks were starting to get rowdy, so I gave Piper a hand behind the bar. She paid me in booze. Is that what this is about? Because I didn’t drive home. Piper told me I could sleep on the cot in the back.”
Sam digs his cell phone from his pocket, pulls up a picture. “According to multiple witnesses that night, you spent quite a bit of time talking to this woman.” He slaps his phone to the marble, faceup. I take in the blond hair, the light blue eyes on a pretty face, and my heart clangs to a stop.
It’s her. The woman in the lake. And Chet was talking to her.
“Do you recognize her?” Sam says.
I stare at Chet’s back, willing him to not turn around, to shake his head, to say no, he’s never seen her before.
He peers over his shoulder at the photo and his mouth curls in a sheepish grin. “Hell yeah, I talked to her. As you can see, she’s smoking. What’s her name? Savannah? Sierra?”
“Sienna,” Sam says.
Chet points at Sam with the spatula. “Sienna, that’s right. What happened? Did she rob a bank or something?” He laughs for a second or two until it dawns on him that no one else is joining in. He looks at me, and the smile drops off his face. “What? What’d I say?”
“Chet, that’s her,” I say, my cheeks stiff. “The woman Micah pulled from the lake.”
Chet blinks. His mouth goes slack. He looks from Sam to Micah to me, then back to Sam. Behind him, the pans hiss and sizzle.
“No shit. Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Sam watches him with an expression that’s wiped clean, a blank slab—somehow scarier than his usual scowl. “And now I’d like to know the last time you spoke to her.”
I scurry around the island, stepping in front of my brother like a shield. “Samuel Anthony Kincaid, now you’re justtryingto piss me off. You know Chet as well as I do. You know full well he didn’t have anything to do with how that woman ended up in the lake.”
“Fine. Then let your brother answer.”
I fold my arms across my chest, but I don’t move out of the way. “Fine.”
From behind me, Chet says, “What was the question again?”
“Oh my God.” I whirl around, my hands flying up at my sides. “The last time you spoke. When did you last talk to her?”
“That night. She paid her tab and went upstairs, at well before last call. She didn’t even drink that much. Said something about needing to be sharp the next day. She made it sound like she had a big meeting.”
Sam squints. “Did she say with who?”
“No.”
“Anything else?”
“No. She was alive and eating breakfast the next morning when I left, around eight or so. I haven’t seen or spoken to her since. I swear.”
Sam scribbles everything onto his notepad. My heart thuds as I stare across the island at the paper, trying to read the words upside down. Something about the security cameras—a reminder to check the feed? I look at Chet, who’s turned back to the pans.
“She had a blow to her head,” Sam says, “a good-sized lump and a fresh concussion. It wasn’t what killed her, but it was hard enough to knock her out. Her lungs were full of lake.”
“Which means?” I say.