“Is it, Sam? A young man, angry with a world that doesn’t want him, alone for the first time without the steady presence of his older brother?” I stood up and walked over to his side. “Is it so crazy to imagine that Brad might have done something terrible to protect his mother from more pain? To choose to act like the man of the house for the first time in his life? Even if it was in an horrific, twisted manner?”

  He stomped away from me. “That’s just lies. Fantasies. You’re not going to talk me out of this, Kate.”

  “It’s not lies, Sam. I can’t prove that he did it. Yet. But I have my suspicions.”

  “And so you want me to walk out of here because you have suspicions? So that my spot can be taken by who? My nephew?”

  “Yes, I do. Because at least a few of my suspicions are rooted in fact, like Brad being seen near Rose’s home before she was murdered.”

  Silence.

  “However hard you try to lie your way into prison, Sam, they will figure out that you are just trying to draw them away from the real criminal. And if that is Brad, Selesia is going to need you right by her side. Because she won’t survive a blow like that without you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Iheaded directly from the detachment to the Reserve, the station pick-up engine whining as my foot pressed down on the accelerator. Lettucetown flew past me in a pastiche of pale lime greenhouses. I skidded to a halt at the stop sign before swinging left toward Selesia’s house.

  The front door was open again. Or perhaps it had never been closed? Was it only that morning I had turned down this same road to see police cars in Selesia’s driveway and officers swarming through her house?

  I parked the truck and headed inside at a trot. Shea’s stressed voice pierced through the bowels of the house to greet me at the front door.

  “Selesia! You can’t do this! You can’t confess to the murder of Rosalie Morgann! For Christ’s sake, what is this? Everybody Confess to a Murder Day?”

  There was the sound of someone moving things around. “Yes, I can, Shea, and I will. Can you get out of my way so I can get this laundry out of the dryer?”

  “Who cares about the fucking laundry!”

  “I do. You know as well as I do that the boys aren’t going to do anything around the house if I’m not here.”

  “Because you’ll be in jail? Perhaps that’s why you shouldn’t be wasting your time cleaning now, Selesia.”

  “Shea, I just want to get the house sorted, okay? It may seem stupid, but I want to get something settled in my life.” Her voice had risen to a sob, and the shuffling sounds ceased.

  I headed down the hallway to find them standing by the washer/dryer in the bathroom. Shea had wrapped her arms around Selesia, Selesia’s angular face buried in Shea’s fine blonde hair.

  “Hey,” I said quietly, trying not to startle them.

  They pulled apart, Selesia rubbing a hand over her eyes. “Hi, Kate. How did it go with Sam?”

  I leaned against the bathroom door frame. Jojo was pacing in the barricaded living room, stopping to stare out the front window every few moments.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Is he going to reconsider this craziness?” Selesia picked up a sheet, trapping it under her chin as she folded it into an even square.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Well, that’s something,” she muttered and picked up another sheet to fold.

  “Even if he recants, Selesia,” Shea begged, “that doesn’t mean you have to confess. It’s not a one-in-one-out kind of situation.”

  Selesia’s smile was a bitter line drawn across her face. “You mean it’s not ‘I trade you one of mine for one of yours?’ What do they call that in a war?”

  “Prisoner swap,” I answered.

  “That’s it. A prisoner swap.”

  “That isn’t funny,” Shea said.

  Selesia chuckled sadly and placed the folded sheet on a neat pile of laundry. “Believe me, I don’t think it’s funny.”

  “Where’s Brad?” I asked.

  “God only knows,” Selesia snipped the words out angrily, but I could hear the deep seam of worry in her voice. “He’s not answering his cell, but that could be because he doesn’t have a signal. I tried calling Phil after Shea told me he might be there, but no answer. What on earth would he be doing over at Phil’s?”

  “He’s been helping him out,” I replied. “Phil was pretty broken up about Rose’s death. Brad made sure he was eating and didn’t get a DUI driving himself to the liquor store.”

  “But why Phil?” Shea asked.

  “I don’t know. Is your family close to him, Selesia?”

  Her black eyebrows shot up. “No. He’s Sam’s age, but I don’t think they were ever great friends. I don’t remember seeing them together. It was always Sam and Gwen.”

  “Sam and Gwen,” Shea murmured. “That was something this morning, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was,” Selesia replied.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” I asked.

  Selesia nodded. “Yup, although he made quite the effort to hide it. I even thought he might get married a couple of times, but it never panned out. No one could ever hold a candle to Gwen.”

  “Do you think she knew?” Shea asked.

  I shook my head. “No. I think she was as stunned as everyone else this morning.”

  “I wonder,” Shea started, but I waved her to a stop.

  “Don’t. We’ve got to focus on getting Sam out of jail right now. Not get distracted by a love story.”

  The phone’s ring cut through the air, drawing Selesia down the hallway at a run.

  She picked up the receiver. “Hello? Will? Is that you?”

  An incoherent male voice rumbled through the receiver. “Yes, you need to come home, Will. Right now.”

  Another pause.

  “Yes, Uncle Sam has been arrested. For murder.”

  The mumble on the other end of the line rose in pitch and got louder.

  “Yes, for the murder of Rose Morgan. You won’t know her. She and I were,” Selesia paused, “friends a long time ago.”

  Another pause.

  “Yes, the TV star. I’m sorry you’ve got to leave your job early, sweetheart, but I need you at home. We both do. Brad especially.”

  Another burble of sound.

  “No, I don’t have a lawyer for Uncle Sam yet,” she hesitated, “I’m hoping he won’t need one. It looks like there may be another lead in the case.”

  Another lead in the case. So she wasn’t going to tell Will what she was about to do.

  “No, don’t head out tonight. It’ll be a long drive for you, and it’s better that you’re well-rested. Get a good night’s sleep first. Yes, babe, I love you, too. See you soon.”

  Selesia paused, holding the handset mid-air before replacing it on the phone.

  “You didn’t tell him,” I stated.

  “No,” she shook her head, “he’s got enough to deal with now, processing the news about Sam.”

  “But,” Shea started.

  “But nothing. By the time he gets here, it will be done.”

  “What will be done?” We had been so engrossed in Selesia’s call with Will that we had neglected to notice Brad standing in the open doorway. “And why is Jojo barricaded in the living room?”

  He took a few steps up, leaning a hand over the half wall to pet her.

  “It’s because.” Selesia cleared her throat. It’s because we have to, had to.” Her eyes swam in confusion for a moment as she tried to put the words together: “Look after her for Uncle Sam.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story. C’mon, let’s go sit down.”

  The anger in Brad’s voice sliced across the room toward her. “I don’t need to sit down, Mom. What’s going on?”

  Selesia sighed. “They arrested your uncle for the murder of Rose Morgan.”

  His eyes fluttered like a man awakening suddenly from a deep sleep. “What?”

  “He’s being held in the Wynter Island jail.”

  “What the hell?” Brad bounded up the last few steps to come level with his mother. “Uncle Sam’s in jail?”

  “Yes, he is. For now. C’mon, why can’t we just sit down for a moment and talk?”

  “For now? What does that mean?”

  Brad’s eyes frantically turned to look at both Shea and me.

  “Your mother,” Shea started, “is planning on turning herself in to the police.”

  “What? Why?”

  Selesia took a deep breath. “Because I’m the one who killed her, Brad.”

  In the sudden silence, Jojo whimpered from the living room.

  “No!” Brad took a step back, half stumbling at the top of the stairs. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re going to be fine. Uncle Sam will come back to look after you. And Will is coming home from his job. He should be here in the next couple of days. Just—”

  “No! You’re lying!” Brad screamed, turned, and ran down the stairs and out the front door. His car door slammed shut, followed almost immediately by the screaming of tires spinning on the gravel driveway. He disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

  Selesia sank down to the floor. Shea plunked down beside her. I couldn’t make out what she was saying due to Selesia’s crying and Jojo’s frantic barking.

  I had seen something on Brad’s face just before he raced out the door. Something that made my breath catch in my throat. Although his shout had sounded like nothing more than an emotional outburst, what if it had been a statement of fact? That he knew his mom was lying and sacrificing herself for someone? For someone other than Sam.

  For him.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Two days passed, and I was ensconced at an editing bay trying to remedy Dougie’s artistic masterpiece when a high-pitched shrill squawk erupted from my phone. Jupiter raised his head from his dog bed and looked straight at me, as if he knew something was wrong.

  I picked up my phone and looked down at the text. My heart sank. It was the Island Emergency Alert System saying there was an Amber Alert out for Brad Sixto.

  Brad Sixto has not been seen for 48 hrs. All available adults, please report to the Wynter Island RCMP detachment ASAP.

  I placed the phone back down on the editing bay with a clatter.

  “C’mon, Jupe. We’ve got someone we need to find.”

  * * *

  The parking lot in front of the RCMP detachment was filled with an eclectic assortment of trucks, SUVs, and electric cars. I pulled in and jumped out with Jupiter on my heels. The islanders grouped in the parking lot were a microcosm of island society: farmers, fishermen, retirees, and Gen X entrepreneurs who had stepped away from their online ETSY businesses so that they could help with the search. I spotted Michael in his black GORE-TEX jacket and headed toward him.

  “Hey, Michael,” I said.

  “Kate, good to see you,” He smiled down at Jupiter. “You too, Jupiter. Perhaps your nose can come in handy today.”

  Our conversation was cut short by Stewart’s appearance at the front door of the police station.

  “Okay, everyone, thank you for coming today. As the text stated, Brad Sixto has been missing for 48 hours. Phil and the Wet Witch are also missing, which may be a coincidence or might tell us something about where Brad is. We did find his car parked down by the marina.” He paused to catch his breath. “Unfortunately, the Wet Witch is not responding to any Coast Guard radio calls, and Brad’s cellphone is going directly to voicemail. As most of you are aware, his mother was arrested two days ago, and the last time he was seen, he was extremely agitated. We need to find him. If you can pair up amongst yourselves, great. If not, I can put together search groups. Those with surnames A to M, please focus on the north of the island. Those with surnames N to Z, please focus your search on the southern part of the island.”

  “Well, I’m an R and you’re a T, so I guess we’re in the same group,” Michael said. “You want to take your truck or the Subaru?”

  “The Subaru.”

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  We headed south from the RCMP detachment, stopping at Steeltun Bay.

  “I know this isn’t your favorite place, but we still need to see if he’s here,” Michael stated.

  We parked the car and got out. The ocean was green, the color of malachite, darkened with flashes of black. It swooshed in angry waves against the beach, the icy tendrils of white foam washing up toward us to pull at our boots. It looked as cold, no colder, than when I had last been in it. I tried to push those memories away, but they clawed their way back into my consciousness. The sudden shock of cold, then the panic of fighting, sputtering, drowning, followed by that trickle of warmth that could mean only one thing: hypothermia and then death. I kept walking around the beach, head down, pushing the memories away.

  Focus on Brad. Keep looking for Brad.

  Michael was combing the opposite side of the bay while Jupiter snuffled noisily in amongst the grass and rocks, most likely on the trail of a squirrel.

  “What are we looking for, Michael?” I shouted across to him. I hated to say it, but the question needed to be asked. “Are we looking for Brad or a body?”

  He sighed as we rejoined our paths and headed back to his Subaru. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows. We just have to try and find any clues we can.”

  We drove around Wynter Mountain, slowing down to examine any isolated chunks of waterfront where a body might have washed up, before turning down 97 toward Harrow Village.

  “There’s his car,” Michael said, pointing to the beige Chevy parked near the dock. “He must have gotten on the Wet Witch with Phil.”

  “But then why aren’t they answering any of the Coast Guard’s calls?”

  “That’s the 64,000 dollar question, isn’t it?”

  The windscreen began to fog up from our combined breath, so Michael rubbed it clear with his coat sleeve.

  “Holy shit, Kate! Is that who I think it is!”

  I peered through the steamy glass. Sure enough, a small, ugly fishing trawler was chugging into the harbor. I watched as it moved closer, its rusty metal sides vibrating in displeasure. I sat up taller in my seat.

  “You’re right, Michael! It’s the Wet Witch!” I shouted, drawing Jupiter to his feet with a confused bark. “That must be them!”

  Michael and I were out of the truck and running down to the docks before I had time to think.

  They’re back!

  I scrambled down the neon green mossy dock while Brad readied a rope to throw out onto a pier.

  “Brad! Brad!” He looked up in concern as we skidded to a stop beside him. “Where the fuck have you been!”

  “Hey, that’s not very ladylike language,” Phil said as he stepped out from the ship’s cabin.

  “Ladylike language or not, Phil,” Michael said, “where the fuck have you been?”

  “Up the western side of Vancouver Island. Over towards Ucluelet. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is,” I said in an exasperated tone, “that you haven’t been answering your radio.”

  Phil stood a little straighter in his dark green rubber overalls, attempting and failing to project a sense of righteous indignation. “It died soon after we left port. And why is everyone shouting at me, for Christ’s Sake!”

  I took a deep breath to calm myself down. “We’ve been looking for you, Brad. A lot of people have been looking for you.”

  “Why?” He paused, his brows drawing together in concern. “Did something else happen to Mom?”

  Is he that good an actor, or does he honestly have no idea what I’m talking about?

  “Because you disappeared when you heard your mother was turning herself in to the police. The last anyone saw of you, you were pretty upset.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t do anything stupid, if that’s what you’re thinking. I went to see Phil, and he suggested we get away on the boat for a few days. You know, just to give me a chance to chill and process everything. I left a message on Uncle Sam’s cellphone telling him.”

  “Your uncle didn’t get the message.”

  “I don’t know why. Perhaps the signal cut out or something. I did try.”

  “Well then,” The anger left my body like air whooshing out of a deflated balloon. “We need to let everyone know you’re home and safe. The RCMP and half the island have been out looking for you.”

  “Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill,” Phil grumbled as he picked up a plastic bag and stepped over the side of the trawler onto the dock.

  “It was not a molehill,” Michael replied in irritation. “Wouldn’t you hope someone would hunt for you if you went missing, Phil?”

  “Harumph,” was the only answer he gave. “C’mon, Brad. Grab the cooler. We’ve got to get these fish into the fridge at the cottage.”

  They started down the dock as if we weren’t even there. We scampered to keep up with them.

  “I need to talk to both of you. Now!” I said.

  “Well, then, you’d better come with us to the cottage,” Phil said over his shoulder as he and Brad set off up the hill.

  We stopped briefly to allow Michael to call Ian and Sam and let them know that both Brad and Phil were safe. He convinced them we would return Brad to the Reserve ourselves, so there was no need for the cavalry to descend on Harrow Village.

  By the time he finished the second call, Phil and Brad had made it to the small tumbledown house. The front door was ajar, so we stepped inside with Jupiter.

  “Phil? Brad?”

  “We’re in here,” Brad shouted from what I assumed to be the kitchen.

  It was as dated and pokey as the rest of the house, stuck in 1969 alongside the Royal Doulton figurines and the glass-encased China cabinet in the corner.

  “Brad, put the kettle on and make us some tea,” Phil asked as he stacked the fresh fish in newspaper on the lower shelves of the fridge. “Kate, you get the mugs out of the cupboard. Michael, here’s the milk.” He handed him a plastic jug with the ubiquitous bag of milk in it, the scent of fresh fish blood clinging disgustingly to the plastic handle.