“Again, this wasn’t a stranger. This wasn’t somebody who was completely unfamiliar to either of the victims or the people around them. I think it’s entirely possible this was an exchange. Whoever the actual killer was owed something to the person who wanted Russo and Palmer dead. Carrying out the killing fulfilled that,” I say. “But that just made the investigation harder. We have to find out who did this and why.”

  “And it could be anybody.”

  My phone rings, and I’m surprised to see Detective Bronson’s name on the screen. My chest tightens slightly at the thought that something else might have happened.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Dean, how are you doing?”

  “Doing all right. Still just trying to piece this thing together,” I say. “Did something happen?”

  “No,” he says, sounding tired. “I was actually calling because I wanted to ask you about the Marcy Bassinger case.”

  “Marcy?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I know I’m not on it anymore, but it’s sticking with me. I feel like I should have done more. I should have taken them more seriously. I just wanted to know if anything else has developed. Casey Balboa isn’t exactly the kind to chat over coffee, if you know what I mean, so I thought I’d ask you,” he says.

  “Not much more has developed,” I tell him. “I was there when she got statements from each of the family members to establish where they were and what they were doing the night that Marcy died. As of now, they don’t have a cause of death, but she wants to have that information now. Stephanie was able to give her the name of a neighbor who saw her picking up a food order from her porch, and Clayton was out with some friends and gave her their contacts. I haven’t heard anything about her getting in touch with them, which makes me assume it checked out. Bruce said he was just home, sitting in his chair and waiting for Marcy to come home.”

  “That’s not much in the way of an alibi,” the detective says, a concerned note in his voice.

  “It’s not,” I say. “But we don’t know if he needs an alibi. We don’t know what happened to Marcy. Unfortunately, there’s some evidence that suggests he wasn’t at his house that night and was actually at the marina. But as of right now, we haven’t made any particular sense out of that.”

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “The boat rental agency has an honor box system that allows certain approved people to rent equipment after hours and without talking to the owner of the shop. There’s a log for them to their names in and what they took. On the night of her death, Marcy Bassinger’s name was logged as having rented some piece of equipment. If you look closer, though, you can see that her name was written over where Bruce’s name was written and erased. No equipment is written beside it though, and the owner of the shop said that nothing was missing when he got to the shop the next morning,” I tell him.

  “That’s strange,” Bronson says. “Did they match the handwriting?”

  “Detective Balboa didn’t mention that,” I say.

  “Well, thank you for updating me. I’ve just had her on my mind and feel bad for being taken off the investigation to handle these other murders. It feels like I abandoned her in a way,” he says.

  “You didn’t abandon her,” I tell him. “You’re doing what you have to do. The cases you’re on are extremely challenging and require a level of experience and skill I’m guessing Detective Balboa doesn’t have compared to you. She’s going to do just fine by Marcy, and I’ll be here to do anything I can to help.”

  We get off the phone, but almost immediately it rings again. This time it’s Celeste.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Hey, Dean,” she says, her voice sounding strained and slightly hushed.

  “You doing okay?” I ask.

  “Not really,” she says.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “I can’t really talk about it right now. Can you come over to my house in the morning? I need to talk to you,” she says.

  “Sure,” I tell her.

  “I’ll text you the address. Around eight?”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll see you then. Is there anything you need me to do before then, anything you need me to bring?” I ask.

  “No. Just come,” she says.

  Worry prickles on the back of my neck as we get off the phone. Celeste sounded really upset. Her text comes through with her address, and I’m tempted to go to the house now, but she’d asked me to come in the morning, so I push away the thought and go to get ready for bed.

  Celeste asked me to get to her house at eight the next morning, but I have trouble staying asleep worrying about her, so after cups of coffee and grabbing muffins from a nearby bakery for breakfast, Xavier and I head over to the house a little early. It’s tucked back in the residential area of Twilight Cove, away from the village and the other signs of the tourism industry on the island. Here everything looks so cozy and quaint it’s easy to forget about the big festivities and businesses clamoring for attention just on the other side.

  I follow my GPS to the house and drive up a sloped driveway to park next to the house. It’s a good-sized house with a country front porch accented by hanging pots of bright-pink flowers that pop against the white of the home. We walk up the front steps onto the porch, and I take a moment to admire a swing that must be glorious to enjoy while reading a book in the quiet of the morning or while wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of tea on a cool evening.

  “It’s a beautiful house,” I comment.

  Xavier nods and glances around. “Quiet.”

  I do notice how quiet this neighborhood is compared to the ones we explored when searching for Marcy’s car. The fact that the Mardi Gras revelers have likely all left the island by this point is probably a big part of it, but I have a feeling that this particular area of the island isn’t big on the short-term rentals cropping up during the holiday celebrations. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out there is a neighborhood ordinance banning any kind of venture like that from running, even during the busiest tourist seasons. I also wouldn’t blame the decision-makers for it. Part of the perks of living in a place like this is having the peaceful quiet and privacy afforded by the well-built but subtle fences and the large, mature trees surrounding the homes.

  I ring the doorbell and can hear it echoing inside the house, but Celeste doesn’t come to the door to let us in. I wait a few seconds and ring again just in case she was somewhere where she couldn’t hear it the first time. When she doesn’t respond, I knock. Her not answering the door is making me nervous. I take out my phone and check my messages just to make sure she hasn’t changed the plan. There are no messages from her after the one with her address, so I call her. She doesn’t answer, and I call back as soon as her voicemail picks up.

  Celeste still doesn’t answer, and I reach out to try the doorknob. It’s locked, and worry builds up inside me. Rushing down off the porch, I back up a few steps to look at the house and see if there are any open windows that I might be able to shout through to get her attention. None of the windows are open, but I notice a narrow sidewalk leading around the house toward the backyard. Xavier and I hurry along it and reach a tall, white wooden privacy fence. I release the latch and open the gate to go into the backyard.

  The yard is as carefully manicured and designed as the rest of the house, with lush grass and a richly stained deck leading down to a pool. I’m still standing at the gate when I hear what sounds like the back door to the house opening and closing. I move further into the backyard to see if Celeste has just come out of the house, but instead, I see something floating in the pool.

  “Oh my god,” I say when I realize the dark form in the water is Celeste.

  She’s floating face down, her hair billowing around her and the water next to her tinged red. I run to the pool and jump in, flipping her over so that her face is out of the water. Xavier kneels down on the edge of the pool and reaches for her. I move her toward him, and we pull her out of the water, stretching her out onto the cement surrounding it.

  “Call 911!” I tell Xavier.

  He grabs his phone while I check on Celeste. Her face looks swollen, a black eye already forming and her lip split open and bleeding. I remember the sound of the back door and realize that whoever did this to her was here just seconds before I came around the side of the house. But I didn’t see any cars in the driveway or on the street. I assumed Celeste’s was in the garage at the side of the house.

  I want to chase whoever it is. They may still be in the house at this point. But I notice that Celeste isn’t breathing, and I know I need to do what I can to help her first. I start doing CPR as Xavier talks to the dispatcher. This is one of those moments when I know he’s struggling. I know this isn’t easy for him. He avoids phone calls whenever he can, even with the people he’s closest to sometimes, and is extremely uncomfortable when he has to make them. Even something as simple as ordering a pizza or asking a question at a business upsets him deeply and can disrupt how he feels and functions for the rest of the day.

  But this is critical. He knows how important this call is, and he fights through the way his throat feels like it’s closing and his heart beating so hard in his chest he can feel it vibrating. I’ll never forget the way he described it to me once, the way he told me his skin feels hot, and he breaks out in a sweat, his vision starts to close in, and it’s like he’s looking out of someone else’s eyes that he can’t make focus all the way. It feels like words stop having meaning to him, so when people speak, he can’t fully process what’s being said. He doesn’t know how to answer or what he’s supposed to be thinking.

  Now he’s fighting. He’ll do what he needs to do for Celeste. He’ll fight what his body is telling him. He’ll fight the urge to hang up and try to push away everything the experience makes him go through. Instead, he’ll focus on every word being said and make his mind understand it. He’ll answer what’s asked of him with all the information he can give. He’ll shake. He’ll feel sick to his stomach. But he’ll do it. It’s moments like this that I know anyone who knows Xavier can never question his strength.

  I do chest compressions and breaths until water finally gushes out of Celeste’s mouth and she starts to cough. I roll her over onto her side and pat her back to help her get the rest of the water out.

  “She’s breathing!” Xavier says into the phone. “She’s breathing now. All right. Thank you.” He hangs up. “The ambulance should be here any second. Is she going to be all right?”

  I look down at her, her eyes still closed and her body still limp. “I hope so.” My eyes move to the house. “Stay with her. I’ll be right back.”

  I run up onto the deck and to the back door. It’s unlocked, and I go inside, not knowing what kind of danger I could be putting myself in, but also not caring. I listen for the sound of anyone else in the house, but I don’t hear anything. Searching the bottom floor of the house, I see no sign of anyone being there. I don’t get a chance to look any further before hearing the sirens outside. I run out to meet them.

  “What happened here?” one of the EMS workers asks as he drops his bag and crouches down to check on Celeste.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “This is my friend, Celeste Brewer. She contacted me last night and asked if I would come over this morning to talk to her about something. She sounded upset and a little worried, but she wouldn’t tell me what she wanted to talk about. When I got here, she wouldn’t answer the front door, so I followed the sidewalk around to the back. I thought I heard somebody coming out of the back door of the house, and when I went into the yard, I found her in the pool. We got her out and did CPR.”

  “You said you thought you heard somebody coming out of the back door,” he says. “Did you see anyone?”

  “No,” I tell him. “It must have actually been somebody going into the house. But I needed to help her, so I didn’t follow them.”

  “All right, just give us some space,” he says.

  I back off and see that Xavier has already gone across the pool area to sit on one of the plastic chaise lounges set up under umbrellas. He’s watching what’s happening, but I know he’s also in his own head, working through what he’s feeling and experiencing as a result of what’s happening around him.

  Police officers come through the gate, and I step off to the side so that they can talk to me, but we don’t block the way. Other EMTs are bringing a gurney through the gate and toward Celeste as the first officer gets to me.

  “Did you make the 911 call?” he asks.

  “No, that was Xavier,” I say, gesturing at him. “But I found her and performed CPR on her.”

  “All right,” the officer says. “I’m Officer Daniels.”

  “Dean Steele,” I tell him.

  “The private investigator consulting on the Palmer and Russo murders?” he asks, sounding shocked.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I was here to see my friend Celeste.”

  “Go ahead and tell me everything that happened.”

  I tell the officer about the phone call from Celeste last night and then coming here. I describe the sound of the door that brought me further into the backyard, thinking she was coming out to meet me after maybe seeing me walking around the house, but then seeing her floating in the water.

  “I knew I needed to help her, so I didn’t go inside at that time,” I tell the officer. “Once I knew the ambulance was coming, and she was breathing again, I went in, but I didn’t search the entire house.”

  “Did you see anything suspicious?” Daniels asks.

  “No,” I tell him. “I didn’t see or hear any sign of anyone being inside the house. But again, I wasn’t able to search the entire house.”

  Daniels turns to the other officer, who responded to the scene with him. “We need to search the entire house, make sure no one is inside.”

  “Is it all right if I go to the hospital?” I ask.

  “Yes. But make sure you are available if we need to ask any more questions,” Daniels says.

  “You can get my contact information from Detective Bronson anytime,” I tell him, then head for Xavier.

  “You all right, X?” I ask.

  He nods, “I’m fine.”

  “We need to get to the hospital,” I tell him.

  “You’re wet,” he says, his eyes running up and down me.

  “I have a bag in the trunk,” he says. “I learned from Emma.”

  He nods, and we head for the car. I grab a towel out of the back of the car and put it in the driver’s seat before hopping in and heading for the hospital. The ambulance has already arrived and unloaded Celeste by the time we get there. I grab my bag out of the trunk and bring it inside with me, stopping by the bathroom first to change out of the clothes I soaked when I jumped into the pool to save her. When I’ve changed, I go to the information desk.

  “Celeste Brewer,” I say. “She just came in by ambulance.”

  “She’s in the back,” the nurse behind the desk says. “That’s all I can tell you right now.”

  I nod and go to the waiting area. I grab my phone and call Detective Bronson to tell him what’s going on.

  “I already heard,” he says. “I’m on my way to the hospital.”

  “See you soon.”

  I’m making myself a cup of coffee from the machine at the end of the room when the doors to the emergency room open and a group of people come in with a camera. I realize immediately they are the media. The nurse pops up from her chair and holds her hands out to them.

  “Absolutely not,” she says. “You can’t be in here. You need to leave.”

  “We’re here to cover the assault,” a man says. “Does this have anything to do with the murders?”

  “You need to leave,” she says again. “The police will be here shortly, and I will have them remove you if you don’t leave on your own.”

  Disgruntled expressions on their faces, they turn back to the doors and start to leave. The man catches sight of me as he’s walking and tries to take a step toward me, then he seems to think better of it and walks through, making a nodding gesture with his head toward the outside like he’s trying to lure me out to talk to him.

  A couple of minutes later, the doors open again, and Detective Bronson comes through. I cross the waiting room to meet him.

  “What is going on out there?” I ask, noticing even more people have gathered just outside the emergency room doors.

  “Somehow the media got tipped off,” he says. “They don’t know who got attacked or the details, but they want to know if it’s linked to the Russo and Palmer cases. They’re already turning it into a story.”

  “We don’t even know what happened or who might be responsible,” I say.

  “They don’t care. They’re itching for anything they can find.”

  “This is ridiculous,” I say.

  “Tell me what happened,” he says.

  I recount the entire story, and he nods along as I share the same details I did to Officer Daniels.

  “The responding officers told me they searched the house but didn’t find anyone,” he says.

  “I heard the door,” I tell him. “That’s what made me go into the backyard.”

  “It’s possible you did hear someone going into the house, and while you were getting Celeste out of the pool, they left. We’ll need to find out if Celeste or any of the neighbors have security cameras or doorbell cameras that might have caught the person going into or leaving the house,” Bronson says.

  I nod. “She looked like she had been attacked and then either fell or was pushed into the pool. But the house wasn’t in disarray, and the front door was still locked. It doesn’t seem like a home invasion gone wrong.”

  “So, she was the target,” Bronson says. “But who would want to go after her? And why would they want to?”

  I am considering telling him what she said to be about The Board, but before I say anything, the doors to the emergency room open again, and Seth Powers comes in.