Page 169 of Secrets Along the Shore

I bought it for James as a joke during an impromptu trip to Gatlinburg. It’s the one he drank his green tea in two nights ago, still unwashed because I haven’t run the dishwasher yet.

My blood runs cold as I scan the results.

The fingerprints on the tarp belong to James.

My phone rings, but the sound seems to come from far away, as if the phone is in another room—not in my hand. Cole is calling, and I don’t have to wonder why. He wants to make sure I’m still breathing.

I let the call go to voicemail. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

Well…therearea couple of people I want to talk to. Cole just isn’t one of them.

Cole might have submitted this as a John Doe request under an informational field report, but now that there’s a match for the tarp fingerprints, he’ll have to take the information back to Sheriff Vickers. He can’t keep this development to himself, and I wouldn’t ask him to.

Soon, the decision about what happens next will be out of my hands.

If I’m going to do something, it’s now or never.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-NINE

When I getto Edward’s house, as expected, Valentina’s car isn’t parked in its usual spot on the side. It’s Wednesday, one of her two days off. That’s a good thing. This will be easier if she’s not around.

But God, please let Edward be here.

When I called Edward’s office looking for him, they said he was working from home today—not unusual for a Wednesday, because he has the place to himself. Edward parks his BMW in the garage around back. There aren’t any windows in those doors, so I won’t know until I go inside whether he’s here or not.

I need him to be here. I need to confront him, figure out what’s going on, and find out if it’s possible to salvage this. To have an answer for the questions that are going to be asked, before news of James’s fingerprints on the tarp spreads like wildfire and his future burns down.

I could try to talk to James, but I don’t trust myself to have clear eyes when it comes to him, or what he might say. Besides, there’s no scenario where interrogating your own fiancé constitutes good police work. I’m not sure talking to Edward is all that different, but I have to do something.

Like last night, no one answers when I knock on the side door. After first taking a deep breath, I use my key to open the door.

“Edward? You here?”

I slip into the kitchen and wait, closing the door behind me. No response follows, only an oppressive silence that squeezes the air out of the room. I start moving, heading for the stairs. “Edward?”

Still nothing.

My phone buzzes as I reach the bottom step, this time with a text from the sheriff. I ignore it, just like the four texts before it. And his three calls.

If I talk to Sheriff Vickers, he’ll order me to stand down. I can’t do that yet, not when I’m one of the few people who might be able to coax an honest explanation out of EdwardbeforeJames is arrested.

James said he would be working out of Calder Industries’ factory office in Riverview today. Deputies could already be on their way there—could arrive at any minute—to slap cuffs on him. I would hope the sheriff would wait to talk to me before setting that in motion, even if he does realize I’m stalling, but I’m not sure he would.

The thought drives me forward, and I bound up the last few steps, my hand gripping the wooden balustrade.

“Edward? You up here? I need to talk to you.” In the face of the answering quiet, I push on.

Edward’s office door is open.

The room is empty.

Dread swamps me—along with more than a little panic—as my brain spins like a game show wheel, me waiting to see what it lands on to determine what my next move should be.

I shift into the room’s center. Richly-stained shelves line the walls, displaying a selection of books, memorabilia, and framed photos of Edward with a slew of politicians and other famous people. Sunlight streams through the windows, flooding the room and drenching everything in it. The radiant light is jarringly at odds with the storm raging within.

Maybe he’s somewhere else in the house.Though why he hasn’t heard me…