Page 97 of Deadline

“The guy who tends the gas pumps ran out to tell the boater that he was out of luck if he needed fueling. The power was out, so the pumps were shut down.”

“I must have been his last customer,” Dawson remarked.

“You were. He confirmed that to Tucker. Anyhow, the boater—only person onboard as far as the gas guy could tell—said he was just waiting out the storm.”

“Did the gas guy note what time the boat pulled out?”

“No. He closed down and retreated to his one-room apartment behind the bait shop. He says he curled up with a book and a Coleman lantern, read for a while, then went to bed. The CandyCane was gone the next morning. That’s all he knows. But I doubt Jeremy hung around for long after killing the girl.”

Every time Amelia heard words to that effect, they jarred her. She was functioning as she must, speaking her lines correctly, but whenever Jeremy was cited as Stef’s murderer, she underwent a cruel reality check. She was still finding it impossible to accept.

It had been a crime of such deliberate but detached violence, she tried to imagine it of the sweetly smiling man with whom she’d exchanged wedding vows, who’d held Hunter for the first time with endearing awkwardness, who’d swung Grant in his arms until he’d squealed with delight.

In her mind these images of Jeremy the husband and father, and Jeremy the killer, were irreconcilable. It was even hard to imagine that level of depravity from the man she had fled the night he struck her.

How many faces had Jeremy worn? Which was the real Jeremy? Would she ever know? Did she want to?

Her mind came back to the present and to Dawson, who was asking Headly why Tucker hadn’t bothered to ask before now about boats that had docked at Saint Nelda’s on Sunday.

“He did. People who live or work around the dock were canvassed. The gas guy mentioned the CandyCane, but Tucker didn’t follow up because he didn’t think he needed to. You and Arneson were better prospects.”

Amelia asked, “What did this boater look like?”

“Stocky, full beard.”

“Stocky doesn’t sound like Jeremy.”

“Weight gain is as easy as growing a beard,” Dawson said. “It just takes longer, and he’s had time.”

Headly finished his hot chocolate and pushed the mug aside so he could lean forward on the table. “Amelia, I need you to tell me every single thing you can possibly remember about him.”

“I have.”

“Not even close. You gotta dig. Friends, enemies, likes, dislikes, fears, phobias, people, places, and things, anything he ever mentioned to you, any name he ever dropped. A receipt you found on his dresser. Matchbook. Post-it note. Movie ticket. Itinerary.”

“You’re talking about years,” she exclaimed.

“I realize that. But he’s proven himself to be incredibly resourceful. He’s successfully faked his death for more than a year. He might have been shadowing you for all this time, and you never knew he was there. He wants his children and—”

“You don’t know that.”

“Then why isn’t he long gone from this area? Why did he kill a girl he didn’t even know unless he mistook her for you?”

She looked at Dawson, who said, “You know what I think.”

Yes. He had already argued these same points with her.

“He wants his kids, Amelia,” Headly said gently. “And you’re an obstruction he must eliminate.”

She hugged herself tightly. “You’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared,” Dawson said. “You need to be. Because this guy is not screwing around, and if you ever doubt that, you only have to remember how viciously he killed Darlene and then Stef. Defenseless women. In cold blood. Think about that. Remember who his father was.”

Thinking back to the photograph of Carl Wingert, which had held an inexplicable fascination for her, she recalled the ruthlessness that had defined his features. She pictured Jeremy as he’d looked during one of his rants, and while their facial features bore no resemblance, the intensity of their malevolence was identical.

She exhaled and said with resignation, “Of course I’ll do whatever I can to protect my children.”

Headly appeared satisfied. “With any luck, he’ll make a mistake and trip himself up. He did with the fingerprint. Same as Carl.” He chuckled. “The slippery bastard had never been fingerprinted, which was a major frustration to those of us trying to catch him.