As Reynolds pulled away from the curb, I noticed something odd—there were no door handles on the inside of the back seat. Of course not, I realized. This was where they transported suspects.
A cold knot of dread began to form in my stomach as I remembered Walt’s words from earlier: Someone who’s been there long enough to know where all the bodies are buried.
“Don’t worry, Mabel,” he said, his cold gaze meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “This won’t take long at all.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
I knew I was in trouble the moment Reynolds made the wrong turn.
“Isn’t the sheriff’s office the other way?” I asked, keeping my voice light even as my stomach plummeted faster than an express elevator in a horror movie. The vinyl seat beneath my thighs suddenly felt slick and cold, and I shifted uncomfortably.
“Taking a shortcut,” Reynolds replied, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to meet mine. The kindly deputy who’d been a constant in our community since my childhood was gone, replaced by something cold and reptilian that sent ice water cascading down my spine.
Bad, bad, very bad.
My hand slid toward my purse, still clutched in my lap like a life preserver. My phone. If I could just text Dash…
“I’ll take that,” Reynolds said, his tone casual as he reached his hand back through the partition. “Can’t have you calling for help.”
“Now why would I need help? Aren’t you supposed to be the one giving help? Protect and serve, right?” I asked, my voice emerging unnaturally high as I surrendered my purse, fingers trembling. My mouth had gone desert dry, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth like I’d been chewing saltwater taffy.
Reynolds chuckled, the sound as warm and comforting as a shark’s smile. “You know, this is your own fault. I’ve been coming to your shop for years, watching you serve tea with that perfect smile, pretending you’re some kind of genteel Southern lady. All those conversations, and you never once suspected anything was wrong. And now you’re diving into things you don’t understand, playing detective with those old busybodies.”
“What?” I asked, his words barely penetrating. I was paralyzed as icy fingers of fear traced down my spine. This man who’d come into my shop almost daily for years, who’d shared his tea preferences and island gossip, who’d seemed like one of the good ones—he’d been lying all along. “What are you talking about?”
“And then I’d see you around town,” he continued, lost in his own thoughts now. “I’d stop in for tea, do my job to make sure the community knew they could trust me. That I was one of the good guys. Not like that idiot Milton.
“You’d give me free scones and coffee, living your perfect life with your tea shop and vintage dresses and old music.” He shook his head. “And then the new guy comes to town and suddenly you take notice. You remind me of my ex-wife. Swayed by the idea of a bad boy giving a little adventure to your boring life. What were you thinking? That you were going to become some Mata Hari spy? You make tea, for God’s sake. But here you are, right in the middle of a past that never should have resurfaced.”
I swallowed hard as we turned onto the outskirts of downtown Grimm Island. The familiar route was now transformed into something sinister. Streetlights cast golden pools across the empty road, but instead of finding them comforting, I felt as if each illuminated circle seemed to emphasize the darkness between.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “What am I right in the middle of?” I tried to buy time while my mind raced frantically for escape options. The door handles were nonexistent, the partition secure. I was literally in a moving cage with a man I thought I’d known.
“You know exactly what trouble,” he replied, slowing the cruiser as we approached the harbor area. The usual tourist spots were closed for the night, leaving only empty parking lots and dark storefronts. “Should’ve left well enough alone, Mabel. Some secrets are meant to stay buried.”
Just like Elizabeth, I thought, a fresh wave of fear crashing over me.
The cruiser bumped onto a gravel road that led toward a cluster of old boathouses—weathered wooden structures that looked even more ominous in the darkness. My grandmother would have called this a come-to-Jesus moment.
For some reason, “Nearer, My God, to Thee” popped into my head and I had to slap my hand over my mouth to keep a nervous giggle from escaping my lips.
“What are you doing?” Reynolds asked. “Are you laughing? Are you one of those crazy women? My ex-wife was crazy. Said it was menopause, but she was crazy long before that came along.”
“I’m not crazy,” I said indignantly. “And probably your wife wasn’t either. You’re a terrible person. You’re kidnapping me. I thought you were a good cop. A nice man.”
“I am a nice man,” he said. “Just ask anyone. I’ve served this community for almost thirty-five years.”
“You’re not a nice man!” I said, exasperated. “Nice people don’t do things like this. Especially not cops.”
He snorted. “Lady, if you’ve been on this island more than five minutes you know the cops here have never been nice.”
“Well, you’re a good actor then,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Maybe you should’ve gone to Hollywood. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Ahh, the high and mighty Mabel McCoy,” he said, chuckling.
“It’s called manners. You should get some. Your mother would be rolling in her grave if she could see you now.”