And Beth had said, No.
She didn’t know what had landed Lily in a mental hospital, and she hadn’t asked. What had mattered was that Lily was locked up, looked after, unable to hurt anyone. Beth had hung up the phone with a sense of relief. Lily wasn’t her problem anymore.
And for a while, she wasn’t. But now this.
Wherever she’d been, Lily was free.
Beth rubbed the hangover from behind her eyes and tried to make herself think, but she was so tired. This was her fault. She should have found out what hospital Lily was in, made sure she stayed there forever so that no one else would die. She should have done . . . something. Anything.
Think, Beth, think. Where else would someone go when they had no money? Then she knew. The houseboats on the piers—the eyesore of Claire Lake. If there was a room to rent on one of those ratty old boats, it would be the perfect spot.
Beth drove the Buick to the piers and got out, tying her trench coat more tightly in the chill wind.
The third boat was the winner. Lily had used her Veronica Jenshak name and rented a room, an impossibly small sliver of space, for cash. She’d packed her bag and left only an hour ago.
Beth searched the empty room, flipping the mattress on the bunk and looking in the meager cupboard, swearing to herself because she already knew she’d find nothing.
The landlady could describe her sister’s car, though: a blue Pinto with rust on the back bumper. I’m coming for you, Lily, Beth thought as she got into her father’s expensive Buick and started it again. Drive fast, because I’m coming.
She knew her sister. Lily had left the houseboat for good—stiffing the landlady on part of the rent—and wasn’t coming back to the piers. She was out cruising, hunting somewhere, but Beth didn’t think Lily had left town yet. She bought a bottle of wine and kept driving.
The sun was setting. The dead man had been shot after leaving work. Would Lily try the same tactic again? Beth scanned the slowly emptying streets of downtown. She saw a blue Pinto and followed it for half a mile before she could catch a glimpse of the driver, who wasn’t Lily. Then she circled back to downtown. The first bottle of wine was almost finished, so she bought a second one.
She ended up on the edge of Claire Lake, on a side road no one used. She got out of the car, listening to the silence over the water. Lily was here somewhere. Beth was half-drunk, and the wine flushed her with grief and anger, sadness and an almost unbearable ache. She was all-powerful, and she was a speck of insignificance. She knew everything and nothing at once. Alcohol always did this to her in the beginning—it was why she loved it so much.
There was a flash of headlights at the other end of the lake, through the trees.
Beth had gotten back into the car and was about to slam the door when she heard a crack echoing across the dark, empty water, like a firework. Or a gunshot.
She put the car into gear and reversed up the path to the main road.
She drove fast, the Buick slicing up and down over ruts. Did I really hear that? Her thoughts spun wildly. Did I?
She thought she heard another crack—or was that the car? She careened around one turn, then another, coming out onto Claire Lake Road. There was a car pulled over ahead, the engine running, the headlights on. A second car was pulling away as Beth turned the corner. It was a blue Pinto.
She made a snap decision and stopped next to the car that was pulled over. She opened her door and put one foot out to get out, to help whoever it was. She froze.
It was already over. A man was dead on the ground. And his face . . . his face . . .
Beth went cold. I’m too late.
I need to run. I need to catch her.
Beth got back in the Buick and put it into gear, speeding up onto the road, looking for the fading taillights of the Pinto.