Page 46 of Our Last Resort

William’s an owner, not an editor in chief. But presumably he reads his own publications. This old-school newspaper man, with his jackets and his polo shirts and his ire—it’s hard to imagine him doing anything else.

Did he recognize us? More likely, he recognized Gabriel and has a hunch about who I might be.

That photo William took at dinner—did he send it to a team of reporters somewhere? Did he ask them to have a look around, see if they could confirm my identity?

“Just when I thought I was out,” Gabriel says. “They pull me back in.”

I look up from my phone, eyebrow cocked.

It’s a reference to the mob show. Except it’s not a quote from the mob show; it’s a quote from the thirdGodfathermovie that a gangster in the mob show references in season one.

In other circumstances, it would be funny. But evidently I lack Gabriel’s gallows humor.

I get up and walk to the door.

“Where are you going?” Gabriel asks.

“I need some air.”

“Then go on the patio,” he says.

“I need a walk.”

He opens his mouth, but I ignore him. I push down the handle, unlock the door, open it, and—

Walk straight into Harris.

“Wow,” I say, a reflex. “Deputy.”

His hand is raised, balled into a fist. Evidently, he was about to knock on our door, but I just spared him the trouble.

“Hello,” he says.

His voice is confident, his posture resolute. This cop arrested the wrong man at the wrong time, and he’s not prepared to let it rattle him.

Gabriel has gotten up, too, and stands next to me. Harris extends a hand toward him.

“I’m Deputy Harris.”

Gabriel nods and shakes his hand.

“I’m the one your sister spoke to yesterday,” Harris says.

This time, his tone is acerbic, his bonhomie clearly forced.

I gave him a solid reason to look at William. Shortly after that, he was twisting handcuffs around Brenner’s wrists. And afew hours afterthat,he let William go and returned to the Ara with his tail between his legs.

It can’t have been just me. There must have been more to William’s arrest than my meager testimony—it’s always the husband,after all. But if Harris needs a scapegoat, someone to blame for his bruised ego and reputation, then I’m the perfect candidate.

And clearly, Harris has done his homework about us.

Just now, he referred to me asyour sister.

Except: There isn’t a document in the world that states Gabriel and I are related. We don’t share a last name. And when I spoke to Harris, I didn’t say anything about our relationship.

That means he’s looked us up and come across—what? Probably one of the magazine pieces that ran after Annie was found dead. The kind that explained about Émile, about Gabriel and me. The kind that spun all sorts of theories.

“Mind if I come in?” Harris asks.

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