“I can’t picture you and Aunt Vivian drunk and passing a joint.”
“Squiggs gets you marijuana. Be honest.”
Hunter puts his feet against the glove compartment and taps his fingers on his leg.
“What if he does? Think he’s the only one who can get it?”
“Look at me, Hunter. Do you do anything harder? Don’t lie to me, because I’ll know.”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
He lifts one shoulder.
“It was just one time.”
Darcy long suspected Hunter experimented, but the cold reality terrifies her.
“What did you take?”
He lowers his head and mutters.
“Jesus, Hunter. Did you say Adderall?”
“It helped me, okay?”
Darcy wants to pull the car over again, but her adrenaline pushes her to drive, don’t stop, keep him talking before she loses him again, no matter how horrifying a path the conversation takes them down.
“Do you realize how addicting Adderall is? Hunter, I interviewed addicts who used Adderall as a replacement for meth amphetamine.”
“Don’t be mad, please. I only did it because…”
“You can tell me, it’s all right.”
A choked sob pulls her eyes to him. She can’t remember the last time he cried.
“Because I can’t stop dreaming of Dad. Okay? Are you happy now?”
The wave of emotion that strikes Darcy splits her heart.
“I miss your Dad too. I miss him terribly, and I feel guilty when days pass and I haven’t thought about him. But a drug won’t make you better, Hunter, and it won’t bring him back. If you want to remember your father and keep his memory alive, the last thing you want to do is take something that will make you forget.”
“That’s what you do.”
The reply dies on her tongue. He’s right.
Hunter watches life fly by through the window.
“Why did he have to go?”
Darcy’s hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white as she turns out of the village and onto the coast road.
“I wish I had an answer. Life is too short. Do the best you can, and hold on to the people you care about, because we can’t depend on tomorrow.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Thank you for telling me, Hunter. Do you want to talk to someone?”
“I told you, I only did it once.”
“About Dad. Do you want to talk to somebody about your father?”
Darcy expects Hunter to fire no back at her. When he doesn’t, she glances across the car. He watches the ocean, the water a sparkling azure, sand smoothed and carved by the relentless wind, gulls cawing and swooping as an elderly man and woman walk hand-in-hand through the breakers. And it hits Darcy that he craves the happiness he’s only observed to this point. After Tyler’s death, Hunter built walls and kept others out. But those walls closed on him with each passing year and became a prison.
She wants him to say yes. Therapy pulled her out of purgatory after the stabbing, but memories drag her back. The attack will always affect her, just as Tyler’s loss afflicts their family, but accepting help is the first step on the road to recovery.
From the coast road, she turns the car into suburban sprawl. The cove is visible ahead. Even under the noonday sun the cove creeps a shade darker than the adjacent ocean.
Entering their neighborhood, Darcy’s blood pressure ratchets higher. This is enemy territory. To Genoa Cove, Hunter will forever be linked to the murders.
Bronson’s pickup truck butts against the garage, the red coloration devilish against the ranch’s neutral exterior.
“Let me go inside first,” Darcy says, stuffing her hands into her sweatshirt pockets so he doesn’t see them tremble.
“Why?”
“Jennifer isn’t feeling well. I don’t want you to get sick.”
She hasn’t convinced him, but Hunter slumps down on the seat and rests his head against the door while she unlocks the house.
A chill touches her in the entryway. Drapes block the light, the ranch bathed in gloom. A ticking clock keeps beat with the dark.
A shrill beep causes her to jump. She forgot to enter the alarm code. Shaking fingers press the buttons and reset the unit.
The couch is a silent shark amid the gloom. She can’t see Bronson from the entryway. Stepping across the floor and into the living room, she peers over the cushion.
Careful. Quiet. The blanket lies rumpled at the foot of the sofa. But Bronson isn’t here.
Edging down the hallway, she listens. The bathroom door is open, the blue tiled floor fading to shadow. An icepick hammers at her throat as she approaches Jennifer’s door. Turning the knob, she finds the door unlocked. It opens on well-oiled hinges and reveals a small body curled under the covers.
Darcy skips Hunter’s room and slides toward the door at the end of the hall. Her bedroom.
She presses her ear to the door and hears nothing. Twisting the handle, she opens the room to sweeping darkness. The curtains cloak the window. She’d left them parted.
A hand snatches her ankle when she steps forward. A scream poises behind her teeth when Bronson jolts up from the floor and tosses the blanket aside.
“Holy hell, you scared me,” he says, his breaths coming quick.
She tugs free of his grip as he looks apologetically down at his hands.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I figured I’d wake up before you came home.” He touches his watch and checks the settings. “Damn alarm didn’t go off.”
“I checked the living room and didn’t know where you were.”
“Oh…yeah.” Bronson rubs the grit from his eyes. “I should have asked first, but I didn’t want to bother you at the hospital. I couldn’t sleep with the streetlight in my eyes. Let me grab my stuff and I’ll get out of your way.”
Bronson itches his neck and reaches for his pants. Darcy turns her back, but when she faces the door, she spies the cardboard box of files and photos from the Michael Rivers case on the floor.
“Did you go through my things?”
She whirls on him. He’s dressed except for his socks and sneakers, which he pulls on irritatedly.
“Darcy, I only slept in your room to get away from the lights. Why would I go through your belongings?”
She points at the box, the top askew. Through the crack, Darcy notices the folder of photographs is near the front, not at the back where she left it. She always stuffs the pictures behind the case files as a last ditch measure should Jennifer or Hunter peek inside.
“That box was in my closet on the top shelf.”
“What box? I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
“My case files for the Full Moon Killer.”
Bronson blinks. In the gray light seeping around the curtain, his eyes look wrong. Unhinged.
“Why would I give two fucks about your case files, Darcy? You know, I’m tired of your accusatory tone.”
He climbs to his feet, and she sees how large he stands. A full head taller, arms and shoulders country-strong. His fingers curl into fists and uncurl.
“I find you sleeping in my bedroom and going through my belongings, and you’re the one who’s offended?”
His lips sweep back to reveal his teeth. A mad dog’s leer. He’s a time bomb. It takes all her will to keep from flinching.
Then the anger leaves him, and he shakes his head as though breaking free of unseen tethers.
“You’re right. I should have asked you first. I meant no offense. It’s clear I violated your space. But that box.” He taps the box with the toe of his sneaker. “I swear I didn’t put it there. Until now, I didn’t even realize it was on the floor. No way would I go through your old case files. I mean, you broke a few hundred government rules by taking them. How would the FBI react if you shared them with me?”