Chapter Three: The Gathering

Half an hour later, they pulled up at the Buoy Café.

Josie Donovan came out to meet them first. The woman who had once blown the case wide open with an old photograph now wore her hair short, but her eyes were still as sharp as ever. Behind her was Eli, carrying a pot of dark, strong coffee; he winked at Lila. “We’re all here.”

“All” was a remarkable word.

Megan Cordell sat by the window; Red Sutton was tucking her hair behind her ear — they had fished that sealed letter out of a shipwreck and had not been apart since. Ella Brennan and Jasper Case were squeezed into the corner booth; Ella stood the moment she saw Lila — she was the one who had dug the corruption network out of the police archives. At the very back were Valerie Quinn and Dax Roe, who had only last month unearthed the remains in the woods north of Blackharbor; that was when Shaw and Pruitt had taken Lila.

One long table, eight people, plus Lila and Caine — exactly ten who had held the evidence, and held one another.

“The DA signed the arrest warrants.” Sarah Cole’s video call was projected on the wall; behind her was the whiteboard in her office. “Shaw and Pruitt have been off-grid for forty-eight hours. Harlan Garrett retained a lawyer early this morning.”

“Garrett knows?” Eli frowned.

“He knows everything,” Sarah said. “He knew before any of us did. The question is — knowing, what did he do next?”

Valerie pushed a chart to the center of the table, three spots ringed in red. “These are the places they might be holed up, as far as we know. The old cannery, the watchtower to the north, and —” she paused. “The tide cave at the base of the cliff.”

“The tide cave floods at high tide,” Red said.

“So they won’t be staying there long.” Valerie looked up at Lila. “They’re waiting for a moment.”

Lila understood what she meant. Shaw and Pruitt were fugitives. They had no money, no support; every door in town was closed to them. A man with nowhere left to run does only one thing.

They were going to destroy the last person who could identify them.

Her.

The café bell jingled. Everyone turned at once.

Standing in the doorway was the old editor of the town paper, his face white as paper. He opened his mouth, and only then squeezed the words out:

“You’d better look at this.”

He slapped a freshly printed extra edition down on the table. The front-page headline was a single line —

“Blackharbor Girl’s Disappearance: The Real Killer Still Walks Among Us.”