Page 37

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I stared at Reynolds, who still had his back to me, his attention focused on the window.

Blood trickled down my palm, warm and sticky, but I was free—or at least my right hand was.

My left wrist was still secured to the chair arm, but with one hand free, I had options.

The question was, what now? My phone was in Reynolds’ possession, and I had no weapon except possibly the chair I was still technically sitting in, trying not to give away that I’d freed myself.

I glanced around the boathouse, looking for anything that might help me. The place was a graveyard of forgotten fishing equipment—frayed nets, corroded hooks, ancient tackle boxes. Nothing immediately useful, except maybe as a distraction.

“Whoever’s coming,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “they’ll have to get rid of you too. You know that, right? You’re as much of a liability as I am.”

Reynolds spun around, his face twisted with anger. “Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” I countered, shifting slightly to conceal my freed hand. “Whoever this person is, they’ve already killed twice. What makes you think you’re not next on the list?”

“Because I’ve kept his secret for thirty years,” Reynolds snapped. “I’m the one who’s been loyal.”

“And now you’ve led me straight to him,” I pointed out. “You don’t think he’ll be a little concerned about that? The only witness you were supposed to eliminate?”

Doubt flickered across Reynolds’ face, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. He glanced at his watch again, then back at the window. “He’s late. He’s never late.”

“Maybe he decided you’re too much of a risk after all,” I suggested, inching forward on the chair. If I could just get him to turn away again, I might be able to work on freeing my other wrist.

Reynolds pulled out his phone, checking the screen before shoving it back in his pocket with a curse. “No signal out here. Perfect.”

“Why don’t you go outside and check?” I suggested, gesturing toward the door with my chin. “Maybe he’s waiting for a signal from you.”

“And leave you alone? How stupid do you think I am?”

Pretty stupid, considering you kidnapped me in the first place , I thought, but kept that particular observation to myself.

“At least loosen these zip ties,” I said instead, putting a whine in my voice that even annoyed me. “It’s cutting off my circulation.”

Reynolds hesitated, then approached, squinting at my left wrist in the dim light. “It looks fine to me?—”

I struck with all the force I could muster, driving my still-bound wrist upward while simultaneously bringing my freed hand around in a wild swing that connected with his temple.

Reynolds staggered backward, and I took advantage of his momentary disorientation to grab a rusty fishing weight from the tackle box with my free hand. I swung again, catching him on the jaw.

He dropped to one knee, blood trickling from a cut on his face, but he wasn’t out. I scrambled to get the chair between us, my left arm awkwardly angled due to the zip tie still connecting me to it.

“You little—” Reynolds growled, lunging for me.

I sidestepped, dragging the chair with me, and swung the fishing weight again. This time it connected with the back of his head, and he went down hard, sprawling face-first on the dusty floorboards.

For a moment, I just stood there, panting, the fishing weight still clutched in my trembling hand. Reynolds lay motionless, and panic surged through me. Had I killed him? I wasn’t going to stop and check.

Working quickly, I used the rusty nail to free my left wrist from the chair, wincing as the jagged metal scraped my already tender skin. I searched Reynolds’ pockets, finding my phone and his keys. I tried my phone first, but there was no signal. Reynolds’ department-issued phone showed the same.

“Of course,” I muttered. “Because it’s only the modern age of technology. Why would I expect to have cell service in America?”

Reynolds groaned and began to stir. I backed away, heart hammering, and made a split-second decision. The boathouse door creaked as I pushed it open, and I plunged into the darkness, leaving Reynolds and his weapon behind.

The night air felt thick with humidity as I navigated the maze of weathered docks, my low heels clicking against the boards and occasionally catching in the gaps. The moonlight provided just enough illumination to avoid falling into the harbor, but not enough to clearly see what lay ahead.

“At first I was afraid, I was petrified,” I sang under my breath, the lyrics a talisman against the fear threatening to overwhelm me.

Behind me, I heard Reynolds cursing as he regained consciousness. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, sweeping across the wooden walkways like a searchlight.

“Mabel!” he called, his voice echoing across the water. “You’re only making this worse for yourself! Come back now, and maybe I can still help you!”

“Help me right into an early grave,” I muttered and then sang, “ But I will survive. I will survive. Come on Mabel. Get it together.”

I moved as silently as possible, making my way toward what looked like a cluster of small buildings farther along the marina. One had a light on—a small, shabby structure with a sign identifying it as the harbormaster’s office.

The beam of Reynolds’ flashlight swept dangerously close, and I dropped to my hands and knees, crawling beneath a pier. The water lapped at the wood just inches below me, and something slimy—I refused to think about what—pressed against my cheek as I flattened myself against a piling.

Reynolds’ footsteps thudded overhead, boards creaking under his weight.

Through gaps in the planks, I could see the flashlight beam playing across the water, so close I could see the particles of dust dancing in its glow.

I held my breath, counting the seconds, certain he could hear my heart trying to pound its way out of my chest.

“Stupid woman,” he muttered above me. “Where did she go?”

I remained frozen until his footsteps receded, then counted to thirty before daring to move. My muscles screamed in protest as I uncurled from my hiding spot, knees and palms scraped raw from the rough wood.

I emerged onto the walkway, orienting myself toward the harbormaster’s office, then made a desperate dash for it.

My heel caught on a loose board, sending me sprawling forward with a startled cry.

I landed hard, the impact driving the air from my lungs.

For a terrible moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

When I managed to get up, I realized my left shoe had broken beyond repair.

I quickly slipped off both shoes—better to run in bare feet than with one heel missing—and continued toward the harbormaster’s office, splinters immediately pricking the tender soles of my feet as I ran across the rough wood.

The door was locked, but through the window I could see an elderly man with a shock of white hair dozing in a chair, a portable TV flickering silently on the desk before him.

I knocked frantically, startling the poor man so badly he nearly fell from his chair. He squinted at me through the glass, clearly trying to make sense of a bedraggled woman appearing at his door in the middle of the night.

“Please,” I mouthed, gesturing urgently. “Help.”

He hesitated, then shuffled to the door, opening it just enough to peer out. “Marina’s closed,” he said, his voice gravelly with age and cigarettes. “Come back in the morning.”

“I’ve been kidnapped,” I said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “By a police officer. He’s after me right now. Please, I need to use your phone. Please.”

The man’s eyes widened, taking in my disheveled appearance, the blood on my wrist, the wild panic I knew must be written across my face. He stepped back, opening the door wider.

“Come in, come in,” he said, locking the door behind me. “Phone’s on the desk. You want me to call 911?”

“No,” I said quickly, lunging for the phone. “I need to call the sheriff directly. The one who’s after me, he’s with the department. I don’t know who to trust.”

The old man nodded, understanding darkening his weathered face. “Not the first time Grimm Island’s had trouble with its lawmen,” he said. “Make your call. I’ll keep an eye out.”

My mind went blank as I tried to remember Dash’s number. I visualized it in my mind, a trick I’d learned in college, and dialed. My hands shook so badly I misdialed twice before finally getting the number right. He answered on the first ring.

“Beckett.”

“Dash,” I gasped, relief flooding me at the sound of his voice. “It’s Mabel. I’m?—”

“Mabel!” he interrupted, tension vibrating through the connection. “Where are you? Are you hurt? We’ve been searching everywhere.”

“I’m at the harbormaster’s office at the marina,” I said, words tripping over themselves. “Reynolds kidnapped me. He was going to hand me over to whoever killed Elizabeth. Dash, I think he’s still out there looking for me.”

“Stay where you are,” Dash ordered, and I could hear the sound of a car engine revving in the background. “I’m five minutes out. Harris and Jackson are closer. I’ve given them the address. Do not leave that building, you understand?”

“Understood,” I said, peering anxiously through the window. “How did you know I was missing?”

“The Silver Sleuths,” Dash replied. “Deidre got worried when you didn’t come back with Reynolds. When they couldn’t reach you they called me and we tried Reynolds’ radio and it was turned off. Deidre’s threatening to shoot Reynolds on sight.”

Despite everything, I smiled. “That sounds like Deidre.”

“Stay on the line with me,” Dash said, his voice gentler now. “I’m almost there.”

The harbormaster tapped my shoulder, pointing urgently toward the window. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered.

I peered carefully through the blinds and my blood froze. Reynolds was approaching the office, his service weapon drawn, a dark stain visible on the side of his head even in the dim light.