Page 33 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

“That’s what you said last year,” Griffin responded with a roguish smile. “I’ll tell you what—I’ll have a few passes held for you and the family. I’m pretty sure you’ll be blown away. We have some amazing bands lined up.”

Remembering what Wren had said, I suppressed a smile.

“Speaking of houses,” Oscar said, changing the subject, “Tate here is staying in a place I think you know pretty well.”

“Oh yeah?” Griffin asked, turning back to me. “Where’s that?”

“The former bed-and-breakfast on Fairview,” Oscar answered.

Griffin blinked. “Seriously?”

“He’s been there for a week.”

Griffin bristled, and a charge coursed through the air. “I’ll have to talk to my attorney about that.”

“Why?” I asked, speaking for the first time.

“Because it’s my house,” he answered with a frown.

Oscar’s gaze flicked to me before returning to Griffin.

“I was told that the place was owned by a trust,” Oscar said.

“It is for now,” Griffin huffed. “It’s complicated, but essentially, I was married to the beneficiary of the trust when she passed away, so it’s considered marital property.”

“Wren?” Oscar asked.

Griffin couldn’t hide his surprise. “How did you know?”

“I heard that the two of you were getting divorced,” I interjected coolly.

He turned to me, a flash of anger—and something else?—surfacing before his expression went back to normal.

“I don’t know where you heard that, but you’re wrong.”

Neither Oscar nor I said anything; instead, we waited.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Griffin went on, raising his chin, “but we were crazy about each other.” He gave an ingratiating smile.

“Every marriage has its ups and downs, and we needed a little space to think clearly about what we both wanted, but just a week before she died, she begged me to give it another go. I agreed to call off the divorce proceedings.”

We were interrupted by the waitress, who arrived with Oscar’s food. Griffin moved aside to make room, and she put Oscar’s plate in front of him. Griffin motioned to the meal, looking relieved.

“Let me get back to my friends so you can enjoy your breakfast, Oscar. I’ll get you those passes—they’ll be at VIP will call.” Then to me, “Nice meeting you, Tate. Take care of my house, okay?”

I nodded without responding, but by then, he’d already turned away. On his way to his seat, he paused at another table, exchanging boisterous greetings and backslaps.

“Way to rattle his cage,” Oscar said, raising a sardonic eyebrow. “I’m sure you’ve got him worried now.”

“I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet,” I protested, still watching Griffin. He paused at another table for more glad-handing.

Oscar followed my gaze. “He doesn’t really strike me as the out-of-control drug user Wren described to you, does he?”

“No,” I admitted. “Honestly, he seems more like a politician.”

“Yeah, he’s a classic narcissist. I knew it within a minute of meeting him. On the surface, he’s very charming, but he doesn’t really care about anyone but himself.” Swallowing a huge mouthful of eggs and lobster, Oscar pointed his fork at me. “That doesn’t, however, mean he’s a murderer.”

I gave a reluctant nod.

“After I finish breakfast,” he said, “we’re going for a walk.”

“Again?”

“We walked two days ago,” he said. “You’re supposed to do ten thousand steps every day. And since I’m going to be stuck in front of the computer all afternoon, you can keep me company. It’ll do you some good, too.”

Though I wasn’t in the mood, I agreed, knowing that Oscar was right again.

· · ·

The streets of Heatherington had been transformed.

Gone were the families and moms pushing strollers; instead, the sidewalks teemed with older teenagers and people in their twenties, many of them wearing masks.

Crowds gathered around street musicians on every corner.

Most, if not all, of the restaurants, cafés, and bars in town had set up sidewalk stands serving beer, cheap cocktails, and fast food.

The noise was cacophonous. Oscar flashed the envelope containing the drawing.

“I want to drop this off in my car, so it doesn’t get ruined,” he called out over the din. “Too many drunk kids who aren’t watching where they’re going.”

“About your house,” I began as we turned onto the side street where Oscar had parked. “I know I’ve been distracted since I’ve been here, but I promise I’m going to do a great job for you.”

“What are you talking about? You’re doing fine.” Oscar waved a hand as if to diminish my concerns.

“I still haven’t started the schematics or the renderings,” I apologized.

“Don’t worry about it,” Oscar said. “Another few days won’t make any difference in the long run. And anyway, Luca’s had a fever, so our discussions about the house were minimal over the weekend. I feel like I should be apologizing to you.”

“Never,” I said.

We reached Oscar’s car, where he placed the drawing on the passenger seat.

Up the street in Liberty Park, a pair of older men were playing chess; not far from them, an elderly woman in a bright tie-dyed T-shirt sat in a lawn chair with a hand-painted sign next to her.

Oscar closed the car door and turned to me as we started walking, his expression serious.

“I need to ask you a question,” he said, “but I don’t want you to get offended.”

“Yeah?”

He drew a breath as though to steel himself. “How well do you really know her?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, even with real people, you need to know them awhile before you can really get a sense of how dependable they are. And Wren isn’t exactly a real person…”

He trailed off, as though still collecting his thoughts.

“Go on,” I finally said, bracing myself for what I knew was coming.

“My point,” he said, “is that Griffin’s account in the restaurant was entirely different than Wren’s, which means that one of them is lying.

I know you’ll say that Wren is telling the truth, but I’m just trying to point out that you’ve talked to Daytime Wren…

what? Five or six times? And Nighttime Wren is downright scary.

What if neither version of her has the best of intentions? ”

“I know that’s not the case.”

“Do you?” He gave me a sidelong look.

We took a few steps before I finally answered. “One of those three murdered her,” I said.

He merely stared at me, but I understood the point of his silence. Eventually, I heard him sigh.

“As we move forward,” he said, “and yes, I’m still going to help you—I just want you to remember that everyone, including Wren, has their own agenda on this.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“On my end, I’ll talk to Aldrich and the police chief. They might have some useful information.”

“I appreciate your help.”

“So what’s the plan exactly? Whose day are we going to ruin tomorrow?”

I thought about it. “Nash,” I said. “Might as well start there.”

“Then look for that file Wren mentioned, the one with the copies she said she made. It’ll help.”

“And if I can’t find it?”

“Then I guess we’ll have to wing it. Do you want me to pick you up in the morning?”

“How about you text first?”

“In case Wren is there? Because you want to play strip poker or make a Denver omelet together?”

“I want to talk to her,” I said. “She might have more information I’ll be able to use.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearly not believing me. “Right.”

· · ·

I was home right around lunchtime, but Wren was nowhere to be seen.

I spent more than an hour looking for the file, searching every cabinet and drawer on the main level as well as the cellar without luck.

Afterward, I wandered from room to room, waiting for her to appear, but when she didn’t, I ruminated on Nash, Dax, and Griffin, wondering if any of them had enough reason to have murdered Wren.

Would you kill someone to stop a lawsuit? Or to thwart a divorce that might deprive you of property worth millions, even if your case wasn’t very strong?

At first glance, Griffin seemed to have a more compelling motive, but for Nash, losing his reputation might have been all that mattered. Dax’s possible motivation, on the other hand, was less easily explained. Would he kill someone he supposedly loved because she rejected him?

I considered the possibility that Wren’s death had resulted from an argument that escalated out of control. Had Dax surprised her at the house and made yet another attempt to convince her they were meant to be together? And had her additional rejection caused him to lash out?

Maybe. As I replayed my encounters with Nighttime Wren, I began to think they were memories that suggested a particular sequence of events.

She’d decided to take a bath, during which an intruder had entered the bathroom.

She’d screamed at him to leave, and sometime during the ensuing altercation her hair had been grabbed from behind—the image of her arching her back haunted me—and in the struggle, her head hit the faucet.

I was curious, too, about the extent of the investigation Louise had mentioned.

Had forensics searched for fingerprints or DNA or hair fibers?

Was it possible to find evidence on a body after it had been in the water more than two days?

I hoped Oscar would be able to deliver some of those answers after speaking with the police chief.

As always, my thoughts circled back to Wren—I ached for her return with a pain that was almost physical. I berated myself again for trying to kiss her, wondering, again, where she had gone and whether she would ever return.