Page 92 of Skin and Bones

Brooks frowned, the picture of concern. “That’s disturbing. Have you told the sheriff?”

“Of course,” I said. “We found the jewelry store where it was sold. The salesman gave us the receipt and you’ll never guess whose name was on it.”

“I’m on pins and needles,” Brooks said.

“Clint Harrington.”

He arched a brow, looking contemplative. “You don’t say.”

I paused for dramatic effect, swirling the wine in my glass. “But here’s the interesting part—the salesman’s description of the buyer didn’t match Harrington at all. It was only someone pretending to be him.”

Brooks maintained his composure, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. “And who did it match?”

I looked directly into his eyes. “Why you, of course.”

The air between us crackled with sudden danger, like the static charge before lightning strikes. Brooks’ expression didn’t change, but his eyes turned cold, calculating, as if seeing me clearly for the first time. The mask of civility slipped, just enough for me to glimpse the predator beneath.

“You shouldn’t play detective, Mabel,” he said softly, his voice barely carrying over the restaurant’s ambient noise. “It’s dangerous.”

My mouth went dry, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. “So I’ve been told,” I replied, my heart pounding so hard I was certain he could hear it. “But I’ve never been very good at following advice. Just ask the Silver Sleuths.”

“Those old fools,” he said, his mask slipping further with each word. “They should have minded their own business. And so should you.”

The dinner around us continued—servers carrying plates, diners laughing, wine glasses clinking—but it all seemed to recede, like we were sitting in our own deadly bubble of truth.

I leaned forward so only he could hear my words. “Why did you kill her, Jason?” I forced myself to maintain eye contact despite the fear creeping up my spine like ice water. “Elizabeth, I mean. Was it because she was going back to Harrington? Or because she was going to expose what she’d found?”

He laughed, the sound so normal it sent chills down my back. “You know, Mabel, you’d make a lousy cop.” His voice was almost gentle, like he was offering helpful career advice rather than threatening me. “Coming out with an accusation like that? No finesse, no build-up.” He shook his head, tutting softly. “You’d be laughed out of any interrogation room in the country.”

His condescension made my blood boil, burning away some of the fear. I kept my expression neutral as he continued, hoping the wire beneath my dress was picking up every damning word.

“Besides,” he added, leaning back with the casual confidence of a man who’d never faced consequences. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He pushed back from the table, but I put my hand on his wrist to stop him, surprising us both with my boldness. His skin was cool beneath my fingers, and I could feel his pulse—steady, unhurried. A killer’s pulse.

“I think I do,” I countered, my voice steadier than I felt. “We found Frank Donovan—the security guard who saw you arguing with Elizabeth at the marina that night. He heard you trying to convince her not to go public with what she’d found. When she refused, you grabbed her wrists.” I lifted my chin. “Those bruises showed up on her autopsy. We have her diary, Jason. We know everything.”

Brooks’ gaze darted around the restaurant, assessing exits, witnesses.

He leaned back in his chair, an eerie calm settling over him. “You know what? I think I’ll indulge this little fantasy of yours for a moment.” His smile turned cold, predatory. “Enjoy your wine, Mabel. It’s probably the last glass you’ll ever have.”

I felt a chill run through me, but kept my expression neutral. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s reality,” he said softly. “Someone in my position understands how the world really works. Problems arise. Problems get eliminated.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “You’re just a small problem, Mabel. One that can be dealt with quietly. And afterward, I’ll make a hefty donation to the sheriff’s campaign fund to encourage him to keep fighting for justice.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “That’s how things work in the real world.”

“You seem very confident,” I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded.

He smiled, swirling the wine in his glass. “You know what Elizabeth was actually investigating that summer? Not just some small-town corruption or petty bribery.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “She stumbled onto something much bigger. Those girls who went missing after graduation in ’94. The Simmons girl, the Baker twins.”

My breath caught. I knew the story. Everyone on Grimm Island knew it—three eighteen-year-old girls who’d disappeared right after high school graduation. They’d supposedly gone on a celebratory road trip and decided not to come back to the island. With them being legal adults, the investigation had been minimal.

“Everyone thought they’d run away,” I said carefully. “Their parents were the only ones who kept searching.”

“Because that’s exactly what we wanted people to think,” Brooks replied, a cold pride in his voice. “Those girls were never meant to be found. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time—sneaking onto the wetlands property to get high. Unfortunately for them, they overheard a conversation between Cromwell and Harrington that they shouldn’t have.”

He took another sip of wine, as casual as if discussing the weather. “Milton had them buried in the wetlands that were later developed into the harbor project. The perfect hiding place—or so we thought. But Elizabeth somehow connected their disappearance to the development timeline. Found a construction worker who swore he dug up part of a body.”

“And when she confronted you about it?” I asked.

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