Page 47 of Liar's Point

“Great, then. Can you tell me who else you might have seen out here? For example, did you see any other joggers or walkers? Any parked cars?” She nodded toward the exact sand dune where Aubrey Lambert’s car had been parked less than thirty yards away.

“No.”

“No... what?”

“No, I didn’t see anyone else out here,” he said.

She stared up at him, trying to get a read. His eyes looked nervous and slightly hostile, too. Fair enough, though. Who liked having their workout interrupted by a police interrogation?

“Are you sure?” She smiled, hoping he’d relax. “Did you notice any vehicles parked near any of the sand dunes here?”

“No.”

“Anyone walking around who maybe looked out of place? Maybe they weren’t dressed for the weather? It was cold and windy that day.”

“I didn’t see anyone out here.”

“No one at all? Think back. Were there any people flying kites, maybe? Or people out with their dogs?”

He shook his head. “I told you. I didn’t see anyone.”

Nicole stared up at him. He looked hostile again, and again, she felt like something was off. Clearly, he wanted to end the conversation.

“All right.” She tugged a little notebook from her pack. “Let me just get your contact info.”

He gave her his name and number and then he took off toward the lighthouse at a faster pace than before.

Nicole zipped her notebook into her pack and watched him go. Then she retraced her route, scanning the beach for other potential regulars. But evidently she and Black Visor Guy were the only people crazy enough to be out jogging in this weather as the sun went down.

She replayed the interview as she made her way back. Finally, she reached the beach access road where she’d parked her pickup—less than half a mile away from where Aubrey Lambert’s body had been discovered.

Nicole hitched herself into the driver’s seat and held her feet outside the door as she pulled off her sand-caked sneakers. Her socks were sandy, too, and she dropped everything into a plastic bag and chucked it into the back to deal with later. Then she slid her freezing feet into flip-flops and reviewed her interview notes as she waited for the heat to get going.

The passenger door jerked open, and Nicole’s heart lurched.

“Hey.” Emmet jumped into the passenger seat.

“God. You scared me.”

He smiled. “How’d it go?”

“How’d what go? What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are.” He pulled off his baseball cap and wiped his arm over his forehead. He was dressed for running, too, but instead of sandy sweatpants, he wore athletic shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.

He grabbed her water bottle. “No. I just went running.”

She shook her head as he took a swig.

“So, how’d it go? That was Cassandra’s runner dude, right? The man in black?”

Nicole watched him, wondering how Emmet knew about the runner. But of course he did. He would have reviewed her report, if not memorized it. Emmet was thorough. And conscientious. His carefree, surfer-boy thing was just a persona he put on—probably because it appealed to women. But the real Emmet was a competitive workaholic, same as she was.

“His name’s Chris Wakefield,” she said, “and he said he didn’t see anything.”

“No?”

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