Page 23

Claire

Now

Be careful.

If my gut is right, Nick wasn’t the person who killed Phoebe. Or Hari. Nor did he trap me in the mine.

Which means the person who did all those things is still in Jagged Rock, and they’ve made very clear what they’re willing to do to stop me from discovering the truth.

The thud of a glass on the counter shakes me back to the present.

“Thought you could use another,” the kind worker says as he plunks down a fresh rum and Coke in front of me. “That looked intense.”

“Thank you,” I say, realizing I’ve somehow drained my first glass already. “It kind of was. And I appreciate you looking out for me over there.”

“Can never be too safe.” He pulls a beer from the cooler behind him and takes a long pull from it. “What’s your name?”

“Claire,” I say, taking a sip of the strong cocktail.

“So, I’m guessing you’re here because of the body they found up by the Inn?”

I swallow. I’m afraid to admit it after Nick just explained how we helped ruin this town.

“She was my friend,” I say, carefully. “Phoebe. We were on a study abroad program here the year she went—” I catch myself. “The year she died.”

“Oh, I know it. That was the last year they did that program. The hotel used to make good money off you lot, this being the only bar where you can get loose in the whole town.”

The guilt slices at me, and I clear my throat. “Did you work here back then?”

“Honey, I’ve been working here since I was born.

This son of a bitch is a family business,” he says, holding his arms out to gesture around him.

“I use that term business quite loosely, of course.” He chuckles.

“My great-great-great grandfather built it back when the mine was still in business. But we shut down the hotel portion a few years back. Now it’s just the bar and restaurant.

Our clientele is mostly locals and some folks like you who are passing through. ”

I don’t know if it’s the honey, or the sass with which the man talks, but it jiggles something loose in my memory.

“Wait, you said you worked here when Phoebe went missing. You weren’t… I mean…the karaoke you used to have here, did you…?”

“Oh, did I ever. You, love, are looking at none other than Miss Daisy Dukes herself.”

He does the signature pose of the drag queen I so vividly remember—hip popped, elbow cocked, hand propping up his chin—and I picture him back up on that stage, decked out in a waist-length bleach-blond wig and those shorts I swear he painted on.

“No way.”

“Mmhmm, I know, I know. How the mighty have fallen, right?”

“No, that wasn’t what I…” But my eyes catch again on the dust draping heavily on the liquor bottles. “I’m so sorry,” I say, and I am. If I had done something different that day, not only might Phoebe still be alive, but this poor guy could have a thriving business.

“It’s not your fault that I’ve turned into a gay Ms. Havisham, honey,” he says, and despite the depressing subject matter, there’s a twinkle in his voice.

I want to believe him, but he doesn’t know the truth. Instead, I settle on another question. “Can I ask why you’ve stayed here so long?”

“I inherited this place from my grandma. I owe that woman everything. She raised me after my parents cut and run to Melbourne. She wanted a safe space for me to grow up. A place I would feel at home, where I could be myself. Drag karaoke was her idea.”

“She sounds like a great woman,” I add.

“That she was. Even after everything started drying up, I couldn’t bring myself to let this place go. I owe it to her. I know our days are limited, but if the bank or this town wants this place, they’re going to have to pry it away from me. Although, I’d be lying if I said they didn’t try.”

I look at him curiously, silently begging him to continue.

“When the hotel stopped bringing in money, the locals turned against me a bit. They weren’t totally on board with having a ‘queer’ in their midst,” he says, throwing up air quotes as if it’s a swear word, “but they could at least look the other way when this place was supporting the town’s economy.

Once that stopped, they didn’t hesitate to make their feelings known.

Let’s just say, there’s been a few times now I’ve had to get these here windows repaired.

” He gestures to the large rounded glass windows behind him that face out onto Main Street.

“But if they think some graffiti and broken glass is going to stop me, they don’t know the half of it. ”

“Wow,” I say. “I don’t know if I would have the strength to stick it out after all that.”

“Sometimes you don’t know what you’re capable of until you’re tested,” he says with a wink.

If he only knew.

“So, what is it you all are planning to accomplish by coming out here?” he asks.

“Well, uh…Daisy, that’s actually what all this was just now,” I say, gesturing back to the door that Nick walked out of minutes earlier.

“Oh Lordy, just call me Luke, darling. I haven’t been Daisy Dukes in quite some time now.”

I nod. “Luke. I came back to try to find out who killed my friend.” I feel my cheeks flush at the admission, skirting over my role in Phoebe’s death.

I rush to continue, before Luke can notice.

“I was actually wondering if you remembered anything about her. The whole group came in here a few days before…she died.”

Scenes of that night snap through my head. Daisy Dukes crooning at the microphone as I spun around on the dance floor.

I fumble in my pocket for my phone, pulling up a photo of me and Phoebe in Cairns, the night of the bungee jump. Happier times. I divert my eyes from it, unable to bear the pain it elicits as I hand the phone over to Luke.

He shakes his head, disappointed. “I remember the night the whole group of yous came in. It was one of the last times we were that busy. But no, I can’t recall seeing her.”

“I get it; it was a long time ago, after all,” I say, but my shoulders slump in defeat.

“Thank you for all this, but I should be going,” I say, realizing how much I still need to uncover if I’m going to figure out what really happened.

I move to pull my wallet from my bag, but Luke reaches his hand out to stop me.

“It’s on the house, hun.”

The kindness pricks at my eyes.

“Listen,” he says, placing his hand on mine, “you’re staying over at the Inn, right? Randy’s place?” I nod. “Are you sure you all are safe there?”

I open my mouth to answer, to assure him we’ll be fine, but I can’t. It looks like Luke is about to say something, but he seems to shrug it off. “This is just me being paranoid. I’m sure you’ll be fine, but in case you need it, here’s my number.”

He hands me a faded business card with The Royal Hotel inscribed in dusty pink letters at the top and a jumble of numbers and email addresses below it.

“Thank you,” I say, more grateful than he can know.

I’m almost out the door when he calls after me. “Claire, just… That guy was right before. You all should be careful.”

***

My mind is buzzing by the time I return to the Inn, likely from a combination of the two drinks and everything I’ve just found out over the last hour.

I feign something resembling a smile, expecting Randy to be at his usual post, but the front desk is empty.

Instead, there’s a piece of computer paper taped to it, proclaiming in prickly handwriting that he will be Back by 17:00 .

I breathe a small sigh and start heading to my room.

I’ll use the restroom and then head out, look again for the knife.

But a movement outside catches my eye. The others are draped over chairs, beers in hand, talking excitedly.

I must have been so caught up in my conversation with Nick that I never saw them walk by the Royal on their way back to the Inn.

I consider joining them, telling them about my conversation with Nick. But then I remember the caginess I’ve picked up on since I arrived at Kyan’s the other day. Josh’s lies about interviewing with the AFP. And Villanueva’s veiled warning against sharing the news of Phoebe’s pregnancy.

The thought stings me.

I can’t trust them.

I head up to my room instead. As I start up the stairs, I realize how quiet it is.

I’ve never experienced the Inn like this during working hours.

The last time we were here, someone was always around, slamming doors or running up or down the stairs, talking excitedly about something or other.

Our group, though small, filled almost all the rooms. But now it’s desolate, quiet enough that I can hear the dull thrum of flies and conversation outside.

Once back in my room, I lie down, the prongs of the mattress sticking into my back.

I take a deep breath and think, replaying everything I’ve learned the last few days.

As I try to work through it all, I let my eyes roam the room before they land on that painting of the raven.

Again, something about it just seems off.

I stand up and walk towards it, until it’s only inches from my eyes. I raise my hand, my fingertips tracing the canvas, the thick black paint on the bird’s wings. It’s not a print, like I expected, but an original.

A sudden thud from the door startles me, jarring my arm and knocking the painting from the wall, sending it spiraling to the floor with a loud crash. The noise comes again, breaking through the pounding blood in my ears.

“Claire?” The familiar voice filters through the wall. “You back?”

Shakily, I open the door, finding Josh once again standing in the doorway. He’s wearing a small smile, and despite everything, I can’t ignore how handsome he looks. He hasn’t bothered shaving since he arrived and the scruff on his chin lends his boyish face a more manly quality.

“Hey,” he says. “I tried you when we got back, but you weren’t here. I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

I think of his lie this morning and consider whether I should avoid being alone with him. But then I look at his sheepish grin and remember all the times he’s been in my bed back home. I open the door wider, beckoning him in, and we both take a seat on the bed.

“Have a bit of an accident?” Josh asks, nodding towards the fallen painting.

“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, leaving it at that.

“Listen, I have something to tell you. It’s been eating me up since our conversation this morning.”

I don’t respond, leaving him to fill in the silence.

“I lied to you about going to the AFP office when I first got into Sydney the other day. I should have just told you the truth.”

“Which is?” I prompt.

Josh sighs. “I’ve never been a huge fan of the cops. You remember that friend I told you about, a while back? The one who was like a brother to me?”

I think of that emotional story he’d shared when he’d come over to my place, drunk. About the friend who’d died in a car accident. I nod.

“Well, I always suspected there was something off about his accident. Things just didn’t add up to me.

I told the police my suspicions, how I thought there’d been some foul play or something like that.

They just shrugged me off, acted like I was a stupid kid.

Never even bothered to investigate. And then, the cops here were completely useless after Phoebe went missing…

” Josh trails off. “I don’t trust them, the police.

I know that may be unfair, but I didn’t want to spend what little time I had back here talking to the AFP, just for them to get it wrong like they always do. ”

I think about this for a second. “So why did you come back at all?”

“I missed this.” He gestures around.

“Jagged Rock?”

He laughs. “No, definitely not. I mean having this close group of friends. It’s pretty much the closest I’ve had to a real family.

The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to come back and experience that again, even despite the horrible circumstances.

So I cancelled that work conference I had at the last minute and flew over.

I didn’t really want to get into all the reasons why I wasn’t planning on talking to the police or listen to why I should—you know how Ellery can get—so I just lied when Adrien asked if I’d already talked to them.

Truth was, I got into the airport around three in the afternoon and went straight to Kyan’s. ”

I nod, thinking it through. It makes sense and somehow I feel even guiltier, something I didn’t think was possible. This was Josh after all. Did I really think he was capable of killing Phoebe?

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why are you apologizing?” He laughs. “I’m the one who lied. Listen, we’re all outside, reliving some of our wilder times from back then. Why don’t you come down and grab a beer?”

“Maybe. I’m a little tired. I might take a nap. After I hang this up, of course.” I gesture to the painting sprawled on the floor.

Josh offers to help, but I shrug it off. And then I’m alone.

God, I really am losing it. All this suspicion is really screwing with my head.

I stoop to pick up the painting. As I do, I notice a wire sticking out from the frame.

From the bed, I assumed it was something to help affix it to the wall, but upon looking closer, it appears to poke through the canvas.

I flip the painting over until I’m staring directly into the raven’s dark eye.

And that’s when I see it. A small, spherical, almost imperceptible object.

I trace my fingers over it. It’s cold to the touch, like a marble.

I suck in a deep breath, understanding washing over me as I recognize it for what it is.

A small camera. Someone has been filming me.