Page 88 of Secrets Along the Shore (Beach Read Thrillers #1)
I don’t interrupt him to say that we had no way of knowing what jewelry Kam was wearing when she was killed, so we had no way of knowing whether something had actually been taken or not.
The only reason we knew about the ring and earrings from the earlier victims was because Aria’s family told us the ring she always wore wasn’t found with her, and Haley and Teresa were found with orphan earrings.
“…If you all went looking for another killer besides Fogerty, I knew you’d probably find me. I panicked…came up with the idea to try one more time—to frame Fogerty so well that no one would question it…” His words float away, and he searches my face, a haunted expression wrenching his features.
What exactly does he want from me?
Understanding? Absolution? There’s probably a textbook answer for what you should say to de-escalate this situation. Whatever it is, it’s not coming to me. My instincts tell me to keep quiet and let him squirm. Let him give in to the need to fill the silence. I press my lips together and wait.
“So I did it again.” The admission buckles his knees, and for a second, I think he might crumble.
“I used a tarp and left her farther from the highway, like Kam, so they would match. So it would look like Fogerty just changed his behavior up a little. And then…I took her earring…the last girl’s…
and a few hairs, and hid them at his place.
I would’ve done Kam too, but it felt too risky to go back. ”
When I still don’t speak, when I don’t offer any solace, his face reddens and words burst from him like shrapnel from an explosion.
“I didn’t want to do it! You have to believe me!
You weren’t getting anywhere in the investigation into Fogerty.
You thought it was him, knew it , the way you told it—the way James told it—you just couldn’t prove it.
I needed it to be him so you—so everyone—would think you had your killer. ”
In my mind’s eye, I see the faces of Teresa Anders’s parents. Their little girl died so Matthew could keep his horrible secret.
Revulsion breaks to the surface, and I know he can see it on my face.
His head cocks, lips quivering, his mouth fighting against itself to hold back the emotion overtaking him. “I had to, Soph.” He pauses, sucking in a quick, agonized breath. “I had to,” he whispers.
An overwhelming urge to rail at him rips through me—to scream, condemn, and shame. Every fiber yearns to emotionally eviscerate him. Physically punch him so hard he can’t breathe. Kick him until he stays down. Inflict the pain his victims never got the chance to.
But I won’t. I couldn’t if he closed his eyes and told me to take my best shot. It’s not who I am, even if my lesser angel sometimes wishes it’s who I would be.
The edges of my vision are less fuzzy now. My thinking is clearing. My goal should be leaving here still breathing. I focus.
His rationale—the rationale that led to Teresa’s death—is so flawed.
No matter how alike the scenes were, the victims were, the evidence was, there would have been an independent investigation—which is what happened and how we got where we are now.
But I can’t point out that killing Teresa changed nothing, regardless of how much I want to.
That won’t get him where I need him to be.
“If you’d just left it alone,” he says, stepping closer and turning the pistol on me again, but holding it loosely. “Kurt Fogerty was evil. If you’d just let him take the blame?—”
A phone buzzes and he freezes momentarily before extracting it from his pants pocket. He glances at the screen, then at me, then at the phone when it buzzes again.
“Matty?” I prod gently.
From somewhere on the other side of the front door, a voice calls out, “Matthew?”
My head snaps to the door, then back to Matthew, who is pedaling backward toward the kitchen, distancing himself from the small den where I am, the front door, and whatever waits on the other side. He brings the barrel of the pistol up.
“Matthew, we know you’re in there.” It’s Cole’s voice, low and steady.
Thank you, God.
“We know you’ve got Sophie with you, Matthew.”
“Cole…he’s got my Sig.” I utter the words with composed calm, so as not to set Matthew off, but loud enough, hopefully, for Cole to hear.
Matthew’s eyes flash to me, flooded with perceived betrayal.
“Matthew, it’s over,” Cole says. “We know everything. Please, put down your weapon and come out. There’s no need to hurt anyone else. We can help you, but you’ve got to stop.”
Several beats pass as Matthew eyes the door.
“Matthew?” Cole calls out again.
The pistol starts to lower.
“Matthew, you love Sophie. I know you do,” Cole says. “You don’t want to hurt her. Please, Matthew, for everyone’s sake, put down the gun and come out.”
Matthew’s face twists into something tight and tortured. Then he charges.
I shoot up out of the chair, my breath catching in my throat before ripping into a scream over the sound of Cole ramming into the door.
The heel of my palm makes contact with Matthew’s nose just as he reaches me—and throws his arms out to wrap me in a hug, sobbing as he lets the Sig clatter to the floor.