Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

the death notice request and lists you as the party to contact. That’s why I called. I don’t understand what’s going on—”

I hang up on her. It takes me three tries to stab the number in to dial Gwen’s cell. I struggle for breath while I listen to the distant, empty rings. It feels like the whole world is falling away from me down a dark well.

And then she answers. “Sam? Hey, how was your day?”

Like nothing’s wrong. Like nothing’s happened.

Because nothing has happened.

Thank God.

I can’t even speak for the relief filling my throat until I clear it and say, “Fine, honey. Everything’s fine. I’m—I’m on my way home. You there?”

“Yes,” she says. “About to start dinner. What do you think about—”

“Whatever you want,” I say, and I mean it. I can’t tell her what just happened. I don’t want to ruin her mood. “Got to go, I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, and I can hear the slight shift in her tone. She can tell something’s off. I hang up before she asks anything else.

Then I redial the number for Ms. Emory Osgood, and get transferred to her from the main number of the Tennessean, our local newspaper. “Emory, this is Sam Cade,” I say. She starts another flood of apologies, and I cut her off without listening. “Somebody sent in the death notice. How?”

“Well . . . it’s a form online. You fill it in, and then we double-check it—that’s what I was doing when I called you because her name wasn’t spelled the same way in one place as it was in the other, and the funeral home number isn’t working. The order’s got your name and phone number attached to it. Sir, what exactly happened—”

“Gwen Proctor isn’t dead,” I tell her. “And I didn’t send that in.”

“Oh my God, Mr. Cade, I am so sorry—I—why would anyone do something like that?”

“Cruelty,” I tell her. “Just delete it. And don’t accept any other death notices for me, Ms. Proctor, or her children, Lanny and Connor, unless you verify it with me or the police first. Treat everything like it’s a vicious prank, because it probably is. Okay?”

“O . . . okay. Wow. I’ve just never heard of such a thing happening. Again, I’m so sorry . . .”

“It’s okay.” It isn’t, but I don’t want her to agonize about it. She didn’t do anything wrong. I rub the back of my stiff, aching neck. “Somebody’s learned a neat new trick, I guess. Something to think about for the future. For both of us.”

“Yes sir,” she says. “I’m glad everybody’s okay.”

“Me too, Emory. Me too.”

Now that the shock has passed, reality sets in, and it’s grim as hell. I’d been hoping nobody was going to start up shit against Gwen again, but I was wrong.

Dead wrong.

7

GWEN

When my phone rings at around eleven a.m., I’m half-asleep in my office chair, and the buzz jerks me wide awake. I’d nearly dozed off going over a background check, but then again, it’s been a long damn night. I scramble for the phone and see Kezia’s name.

“Kez?” I answer instantly. “Everything okay?”

The silence that follows is far too long, and feels heavy. “Not really,” she says. “Autopsy on the two little girls just finished. I got their names from the birth records. Mira and Beth.” There’s more to it, but I don’t push. Kez will tell me if she wants me to know.

“How are you?” I ask her. “Really?”

I catch the shake in the breath she takes in, and it hurts me. “Okay,” she says, and I hear the lie loud and clear. “The TBI is taking the case, I just got word.”

“And you’re just going to step off?” I ask. I know better. Her silence confirms it. “Kez—”

“Can’t just walk away from this, Gwen. Those little girls . . .”

It is about the little girls . . . but it’s more than that, and we both know it. The child she’s now carrying was a joy, and it’s become a reminder that life is so terribly fragile, and tragedy so unspeakably final.

I understand why she’s obsessing; I’d probably do the same. But it’s risky. Kez has done plenty of things on her personal time that a larger police force than Norton’s might find questionable; pursuing her own investigation will be something massive enough to put her job in danger if she doesn’t get buy-in from her chief, and we both know that. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation won’t welcome her poking around, either . . . any more than it will welcome Gwen Proctor, the ex-wife of a serial killer, PI license or not. But I wasn’t planning to ask their permission, and I’m guessing Kez isn’t going to either.

“So what’s your plan?” I ask.

“Thought I’d head up that road in both directions,” she says. “There have got to be a few places out there. Maybe somebody saw something.”

“And maybe you should let the TBI do that?”

“They’re doing a grid search of the woods around that pond today,” Kez says. “Just talked to Prester, and he’s going on out there. I tried to talk him out of it. Best I could get him to agree to was to split the hours, so I’ll take over as soon as I finish doing this check.”

“You want company?” I ask her. “Kez. You need it. Especially if you’re knocking on doors out there all by yourself.”

“I’d love some. But you have to hang back. House rules.”

“I’ll meet you at your office,” I tell her. “Give me forty-five minutes.”

“Okay,” she says. “Drive safe and text me from the parking lot because you know the looks I’d get if you came inside.”

“Oh, I know. I’ll be careful. Mind if I give you some unasked-for advice?” I say.

“Go ahead.”

“Take some deep breaths. Clear your head. Then get your boss on board. I know you want to dive right into this thing, but fact is, it looks to me like it’ll be a long, tough haul. Conserve your passion. You’re going to need it.”

“Oh,” she says, “I