Page 8

Claire

Now

“Good morning.”

His voice is soft and sleepy, and for a moment, I anticipate the feel of his arms around me, his palms on my stomach, pulling me into a tight embrace just like he used to do when we would wake up entwined on one of our small twin beds.

But this time, there’s nothing but the brush of air as Declan walks past the stool I’m perched on in front of Kyan’s massive granite kitchen island.

“Good morning,” I say as he pours himself coffee.

“How’d you sleep?” Declan asks, turning around and leaning against the counter. His ease stings the back of my eyes, as if all of this is normal. The two of us waking up in the same house, sharing a cup of coffee in the kitchen before starting our day.

What might have been if we hadn’t ruined everything.

“Pretty good.” I hesitate, preparing myself to ask a question I haven’t quite formulated yet. One that would resolve all the thoughts that have been floating around in my head the last hour, since I heard Declan and the mystery person whispering.

It was ten years ago, and no one even suspected.

It shouldn’t be surprising that Declan’s been keeping a secret from me.

We’ve barely spoken in a decade, our communication relegated to messages in the group chat (none of which directly responded to the other, of course) and social media stalking (on my end at least).

But even so, his secret still comes as a betrayal.

But before I can begin to articulate any of the questions I have for him, I’m interrupted.

“Ah, God, I would marry that bed if I could.” Ellery’s upbeat voice cuts through the kitchen. She stops and gives me a hug on her way to the coffeemaker, apparently oblivious to the awkward silence in the kitchen.

When she turns around, her cheerful tone and smile are gone.

“So, are you guys ready?”

***

Two hours later, the five of us are squeezed into Kyan’s Tesla Model S, weaving through the narrow hills. He whips around the turns, accelerating whenever a straight stretch of road makes it possible, making my unsettled stomach even queasier.

None of us have spoken since getting into the car.

The atmosphere in the house this morning was tense to say the least. No one was particularly talkative, Kyan least of all.

Hari apparently never showed last night, something that Kyan assured us repeatedly was “normal,” but which seemed to have lodged a permanent crease between his eyes.

After several more gut-crunching turns, we’re thrown into the bumper-to-bumper traffic of the city center. Moisture pools in my palms as Kyan pulls into a parking area. In front of us looms a massive glass-windowed building, far more modern than the run-down police stations back in Chicago.

I inhale deeply and hear Ellery do the same next to me. I think again of the others’ discomfort last night, the whispers this morning. Are they simply dreading having to relive the night Phoebe disappeared or is it something more?

We pile out of the car and head in. In the lobby, Adrien takes the lead, the rest of us following her to the front desk, where she explains who we are to the severe-looking receptionist.

“Take a seat in the corner over there,” the brunette says in a clipped accent as she motions to a sterile area that wouldn’t look out of place in a hospital waiting room, decorated with hard-cushioned chairs and end tables stacked with outdated magazines.

“Leading Senior Constable Sawkins will be with you in a moment.”

We each take a seat, the nervous quiet clawing at us. After a few minutes, our eyes collectively dart across the lobby to the elevator as it dings.

Out walks a man who I can only presume is Sawkins. He’s tall, lanky enough that his khaki pants and dull blue button-up shirt seem to hang off him. He appears to be in his midthirties—probably only a few years older than we are—but his receding hairline paints him as older.

“Good morning,” he says stiffly upon reaching us.

“I’m Leading Senior Constable Arnold Sawkins.

” He flashes a badge. “I’m very grateful that you made the long journey to assist us in the investigation of Ms. Barton, and thank you also to Mr. Quek,” he says, nodding towards Kyan, “for providing accommodation.”

I sneak a glance at Kyan, who remains uncharacteristically quiet.

“My colleague Inspector Villanueva and I will question you each individually. It should take about thirty minutes per person.” I cringe inwardly at the thought of staying here for two and a half more hours.

“We do have coffee while you wait.” Sawkins gestures to a counter in the corner of the sitting area, laden with an outdated Keurig machine and a handful of single-serve creamers that look far from tempting.

“We’d like to start with Mr. Walsh.” Sawkins’s eyes flick around our little group before coming to rest upon Declan, who stands.

“If you could please come with me.” He gestures back towards the elevator, and Declan turns, shooting us a look of mild fear and resolution.

Ellery gives him a thumbs-up. All I manage is a weak smile.

Time passes unbearably slowly. The only noises punctuating the uncomfortable silence are the breeze of the automatic door as people enter the lobby and the buzz of the daytime television show from the TV on the other side of the sitting area.

After nearly thirty minutes, Declan returns, Sawkins again by his side.

Adrien is next. She stands, poised as ever, her height allowing her to meet Sawkins’s gaze directly, and follows him to the elevator.

“How’d it go?” Ellery asks in a rushed voice. “What kind of questions did they ask you?”

“It was fine,” Declan responds. “They just wanted to retrace those last few days we spent in Jagged Rock before Phoebe…went missing. Nothing unexpected.”

Ellery nods, returning to her in-depth examination of her cuticles, but my eyes stay on Declan, his faraway gaze, his hands constantly fiddling. I can’t help but wonder what it is he’s not sharing.

Eventually Adrien returns, and Ellery leaves. Then it’s Kyan. None of them talk much or even make more eye contact than necessary when they get back. All the while, anxiety rises in my chest, filling my lungs like a balloon in serious danger of popping at any moment.

I can’t help but wonder if this is part of Sawkins’s plan, questioning me last. Does he suspect me?

I keep trying to silently reassure myself. They don’t know anything. They can’t. But each time I repeat it in my mind, I believe it less and less.

Finally, it’s my turn. I stand abruptly as I hear the elevator ding once again and head towards it before I’m even summoned, ready for whatever is about to happen to be over as quickly as possible. Kyan nudges me as I walk by him. “Good luck,” he whispers.

“Ms. Whitlock, right this way,” Sawkins says, leading me into the elevator.

As soon as the doors shut, I’m trapped. It’s just him and me in this confined space, no attempts at small talk, not even the soft rhythm of Muzak to alleviate the pressure. I feel my heart bang rapidly against my chest.

Finally, the door opens. I step out the elevator first, eager to get out of there, even though I know what’s coming next will be much worse.

Sawkins leads me down a nondescript hallway as people walk briskly past us in and out of the offices that line either side. Eventually, he stops before a closed door.

“Right this way,” he says as he opens it, gesturing for me to enter.

I take a deep breath.

The room is small, windowless, with painted white brick walls.

Even though it’s furnished with only a small rectangular table and four plastic chairs, one of which is occupied, it feels cramped.

There’s no pane of glass like in the movies, no way for someone to be watching from the other side of the wall.

Maybe that’s only for real suspects. Should I take that as a good sign?

But as my eyes sweep the room, I spot a small blinking red light in the far corner—a camera.

“Good morning, Ms. Whitlock.” A woman stands up from her seat at the table and extends a petite hand in my direction, which I accept cautiously.

She’s slight, her thick black hair parted in the middle and slicked back into a neat braid, but despite her size, she exudes a tough confidence.

It’s instantly clear that she—not Sawkins—is the one in charge here.

“I’m Inspector Samia Villanueva,” she says in a voice with just a hint of an accent.

“Thank you for making the long journey to help us.”

“Of course,” I say.

“So,” she says, sitting back down and gesturing to the seat across from her, suggesting I do the same.

Sawkins sits next to her. “As you are already aware, a few days ago, we found Phoebe Barton’s remains in Jagged Rock.

” She says this without any attempt at empathy, simply recognizing a fact.

“We understand the two of you were close?”

“Yes,” I say. My mouth is dry, my lips sticky. In every crime show I’ve ever watched, the police always start a questioning by offering the suspect water. I take a quick glance down at the table, but there’s nothing so much as a Dixie cup in sight.

“And you remember the night that Ms. Barton went missing? Looks like that would have been…” She flips open a manila envelope in front of her, although I’m sure that after having already asked this question four times now, she knows the date by heart. “December twenty-fifth, 2015.”

“Mostly.”

“Can you go through everything you remember from that day?”

Flashes return. The knife. Phoebe pleading.

“It was a normal day, as far as I remember,” I start, my voice surprisingly steady. “It was supposed to be our last day in Jagged Rock. We were due to head back to Sydney the next morning, so we spent it mostly packing and relaxing.”

“Except for dinner.”

“Right. We all had dinner that night together at the Raven Inn, where we were staying.”

“And did anything happen at that dinner?” Villanueva continues, not missing a beat.