In the Waning Light (6 page)

“Meg?” His voice came out hoarse.

Her gaze shot up to the sign on top of the building.
BULL
’
S MARINA
.

“I know.” He came forward. “I should get around to changing that one day, huh. Only been mine for two-plus years now. Still, it’s been a lot of work to fix up. Damned Pacific Northwest, you know—everything tends toward entropy. Even the buildings are biodegradable. Salt wind doesn’t help. Just feeds it. And then there was that super tide that flooded Crabby Jack’s. I’d like to get it shined up before spring . . .”

Shut the fuck up, Blake, you asshole.

She stared, confusion chasing across her features. Her thinness, paleness, made her eyes seem even bigger than he remembered, and they swallowed him whole. She held her thick hair back off her face as wind gusted. The sun crested the top of the building and caught her features. She blinked. An ethereal thing of beauty—like some shining piece of a dream plucked out of his past and plunked down into this soggy, decaying, paint-peeling reality that was his present. He swallowed. Unsure. Feeling somehow less. As if in approaching any further, speaking another stupid word, he might spook her off. Shatter the illusion.

Jesus Christ, he was still totally messed up over this woman . . .

“Is . . . your dad?”

“Bull passed away. Two and a half years ago now. The old
ticker”—he tapped his chest lightly with the front of his fist—“finally
packed it in.”

The news seemed to physically punch her in the gut. She lowered herself slowly onto a wet log bench. He hesitated, then moved closer to her. Close enough to touch. Her eyes dipped over him, taking in what had become of him over the past sixteen years. His pulse raced. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “That your rig back there?” he said with a jerk of his head.

She nodded.

He bent down, gave her a quick kiss on her cheek, stealing her scent. “God, it’s good to see you again, Meg.”

She swallowed.

He turned on the gas that fed into the concrete fire pit, and set it aflame. Fire whooshed to life in the cold air, the warmth almost instant; then he seated himself on the rough-hewn cedar bench opposite her. He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs.

“What on earth brings you back, Meg?”

Ryan Millar waited until his wife had disappeared through the back door of the convenience store. He reached for his cell phone, dialed, pressed his cell to his ear. As the phone rang, he ran his palm gently along the body of the tricked-out monster truck he’d jacked up on one of the garage hoists. The chrome, the studs—
this
was his true passion. This was how he liked to spend his time off, when he could sneak it.

His call clicked over to voice mail on the third ring.

“Hey,” he said quietly, leaving a message. “It’s Millar. I heard Meg Brogan was seen back in town—thought you might like the heads-up.” He hesitated, debating whether to say more, then killed the call instead. He stood for a moment, phone in hand, staring at his own caricatural reflection in the chrome hubcap, thinking of dreams versus reality. How you made big shiny goals when you were young, and how life turns out misshapen in the end. How people settled. Found a comfort zone. Or a rut that just kept on getting deeper, and harder to climb out of.

Wind gusted, sending water drops spattering down from the brooding cedar onto the garage door. He started at the sudden noise. The weather was turning. . . . something foul carrying on the shift of the wind.

CHAPTER 6

Blake had changed. Rougher and more rugged, he’d filled out, muscled up. Fine creases fanned from the corners of his deep green eyes, and lines bracketed his wide mouth. He was sun browned, windblown. He looked like he’d seen and done things. War. Foreign skies. A man of the sea and wild places. Yet there was something beneath his powerful exterior that seemed somehow . . . fractured. This man who knew her probably better than anyone left in this world did—or could—appeared to have hidden wounds of his own.

The onslaught of feelings—guilt, remorse, affection, kinship—was so contradictory, so sudden and powerful, it slammed the guts right out of Meg, forcing her to slowly seat herself on the wet log, not quite trusting her legs. A memory simmered to the surface—racing down the gangplank and onto the dock, making for her family’s little tin boat . . .

Where are you going, Meg?

None of your business . . .

If she’d made it his business, would everything be different?
Time stretched. Gulls wheeled and screeched.

She found her voice. “I’m sorry about Bull,” she said softly. “I . . .
I had no idea you were back. The last I heard was that you’d enlisted.”

“I did. Day after you left. Served as an army medic. Several tours. Long, long tours.” A smile creased his face, putting dimples into his cheeks. He opened his hands, palms up. “And look at me now—here I am. Back home on the bay.”

Wind swirled, sending the old weather vane above Crabby Jack’s squeaking against rust. The deck down in the water below groaned under a tidal surge. Lucy the Lab sighed in resignation and lay down at Blake’s boots in front of the fire. Then, his words almost a whisper, he said, “God, you look good, Meg.” He cleared his throat quickly. “I saw you on TV a couple of weeks back, on that
Evening
Show
. And Rose Thibodeau has your new book in her storefront window. She’s going to want you to come and do a signing or something now that you’re here.” His smile deepened. It put light into his eyes. But it was surface. Because in those eyes Meg read deeper currents. Old hurts.

It twisted her gut.

Her gaze dipped to his forearms. They were tan, the hair on them gold. They rested on thighs thick as her waist. His legs were splayed apart, his big hands clasped together. The sight and shape of him so familiar, yet not. A strange sensation rippled hot through her, like an ache. For home, lost things. And it came with something trickier. Darker. Sexual. She swallowed, slowly lifting her gaze to meet his eyes.

“So, what
does
bring you home?” he prompted.

Home.
What in the hell was home, anyway? “I came to write Sherry’s story.”

“Sherry’s story? As in a
book
?”

“Yeah.”

“So, it’s work that brings you here?” A hint of derision, disappointment, glinted in his eyes.

She looked away, out over the bay. An osprey hit the water with a smack, surfacing with a writhing fish, droplets glittering in the sky as the bird rose with its silvery catch. “To tell you the truth, Blake,” she said slowly, watching the osprey flap off, “I don’t really know what brings me here. I just needed to come back for a while. I need to see my aunt, sort out the house. The city has been sending warnings. They’ve threatened to take action if I don’t do something.”

“It
is
an eyesore.”

“I know. I drove by last night. In the dark it looked bad enough. I can only imagine what it looks like in broad daylight.”

“And what’s with the camper?”

“It’s sort of my office. The plan is to park it at the old house while I fix things up: power wash the walls, put in new windows, see what the interior looks like.” She met the intensity in his eyes, and heat flushed into her cheeks. “I didn’t want to stay there alone last night. The gate is locked anyway. So . . . I came here.”

He weighed her carefully with his gaze, taking a measure of her intent.

“I don’t get it,” he said suddenly. “Why come back and dig up all that shit, just for a
story
? Seriously, Meg—” He looked away for a moment. “So . . . how do you go about this, then? You interview everyone involved? Rehash every little sordid detail?”

“I’ll try to speak with everyone who might still be in town: Ike Kovacs, Emma, Tommy, Dave. Keevan Mack, Ty Mack’s lawyer, the ME.” She paused. “You.”

He cursed, eyes narrowing. “No one wants to go through all that again.”

“I need to do it, Blake. I need to walk in my own tracks, so to speak. Just driving back into town last night, into the mist, past the old landmarks, after all these years, I started to feel things. Bits of memory. Maybe something will return—more pieces.”

“And those pieces are going to tell you what, exactly? Nothing new. We know who did it. We know who suffered.”

“I don’t expect you to understand—”

“The hell I don’t. Is it for the money? The additional fame or notoriety this will bring you? You want to cash in on a tragedy that was this town’s, paint yourself as some heroic little victim who pulled through all on your own? Some kid who grew out of her own tragedy and family violence to tackle crime and justice head-on, and now, wow, look at you, all grown up, fabulous and famous and self-indulgent?”

Anger thumped into her chest. “Bitter, is that what you’ve become, Blake? Because I can tell you now, it doesn’t become you.”

He gave a harsh snort. “So what
does
it feel like—to profit from the pain of others?”

“This was
my
pain—”

“No, Meg. Not just yours.”

Silence thickened between them. Her blood pounded. The pulse at his neck pumped. His hands knitted tightly together and his eyes flicked briefly to her engagement ring. Something darker, more primal, tightened his mouth.

“I need to do it, Blake, for me,” she said coolly, quietly. “I’m going to write it and might never publish it, but I’m going to damn well write it to
The End.
” Anger firmed her resolve. It drove the guilt down deep, pushing back all the complicated things she was feeling for Blake right now. Her jaw tensed and her voice lowered. “What I saw on the spit that day is still inside me. I
know
it’s there, repressed. And it’s like a sick black cancer that has never stopped growing. It festers. It circles my dreams. I wake up nights, hot and . . . it’s messing with me.” She took a beat, marshaling herself. “Forgive me if I need to try and heal it.”

He blew out air, got up, went to the railing. He fisted his hands around the wood banister, neck muscles taut as he glared out over the bay, toward the lighthouse, toward the point where he’d found her unconscious all those years ago. Where he’d saved her life. Sun glinted on his wedding band.

Meg’s stomach folded softly into itself as she noticed it.

“
The End
,” he repeated, quietly. He turned to face her, the rays catching the gold streaks in his dense brown hair.

“
The End
happened eighteen years ago, the day you left, when you ran away—”

“I didn’t ‘run’ away. I went to start a new life, to study—”

“You just cut us all out, not even a damn Christmas card. Not even a note for my father. Or for Kovacs, or Emma and Tommy. And yeah, I did ask them. I did wonder if they got luckier than me. And what about Irene? You never came home to see her.”

“I used to see her at the prison, when I went to visit my—”

“Listen to yourself.”

She lifted her chin. “We’ve been through this, Blake. I’ve put it all behind me.”

“Clearly, Meg, you haven’t, because look, here you are, needing to resolve something unresolved.”

She glowered at him, her skin going hotter, her pulse jackhammering. He held her gaze like that for several long beats.

“I just need to tell it, Blake.” Her voice caught, and it startled her. She cleared her throat, looked down at her hands. “I didn’t think I did, but I do.”

He seated himself beside her, his muscled thigh almost touching hers. He sat silent a while. “I’m sorry.” He paused. “I . . . just missed you.”

Her attention returned to his wedding band. She thought of that last kiss, and her insides turned hot and twisty.

“You know it’s not going to go down well, your being here, doing this?” he said quietly. “No one is going to welcome it. Or you, because of it.”

She looked up and met his eyes. His lips were so close. She recalled the scent, the taste of him like it was yesterday. “I imagine there will be questions like yours, Blake, people wanting to know why.” She cleared her throat again. “And there will probably be an initial reluctance to speak. But in my experience, from the cases I’ve done, it’s been positive for people to tell their stories. Cathartic. It’s not like anyone has anything to hide.”

A darkness darted through his eyes, and Meg felt a sudden tremor of unease. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw, glanced out over the bay, as if struggling with something, then he smiled. But this time it seemed forced. He reached over, took her hand.

“Welcome back, Meg. Whatever the reason—it’s good to see you.” He hesitated. “Can I fix you some breakfast, coffee?”

She withdrew her hand and surged instantly to her feet. “I’m fine, thanks. I’ve got everything I need in my shell back there. I can pay for the night and be gone in an hour or so. I’ll get keys from Irene, park at the house.”

He came to his feet and dug his hands firmly into his pockets. “I’m not accepting your cash. Could never do that. Stay as long as you want.”

She wavered, feeling awful about leaving him like this, about all the things she wanted—
needed
—to say, but couldn’t. She ached with every fiber of her being to just hug him tight, bury her face into his chest, say sorry, tell him that she’d missed him, too. And in that instant Meg knew with a horrible, cold certainty that Jonah was right. There
was
something wrong with her, because she
couldn’t
do it.

He nodded to her ring. “So, when’s the big wedding, then?”

“I need to do this first.”

“You mean write this book?”

“Yes.”

His brow hooked up.

She changed the subject quickly. “And you—married, I see. Who?”

“Allison McMurray.”

“Allison from my class?”

He nodded, his eyes shuttering. He was closing her off. She didn’t know why it hurt that he’d married sweet, gentle Allison who’d tried so hard to befriend her at school, but it did. It was ridiculous. Sometimes the kid inside never died. She had no right to jealousy or any sense of proprietorship over Blake.

A big, rusted Dodge truck rumbled suddenly down the driveway and into the gravel lot in front of the office, a boat on a trailer in tow. It came to a stop and the truck doors swung open. Two older men outfitted in jeans with suspenders and flannel shirts clambered out.

“Yo. Sutton,” one called out to Blake with a wave of his hand. The other positioned a ball cap onto his head.

“I . . . I should let you get to it,” Meg said, watching them.

“Yeah. Later.” And with that, he turned his back on her and walked off to meet the men. His stride was long, powerful. The movement rolled into his shoulders. A stubborn bull, like his dad. And as Meg watched, she felt torn. The shape of her world had just shifted, and she was no longer certain where her center lay.

“Hey, Sutton, any crab bait today?”

Blake approached his customers, two old-timers in their late sixties. “Harry, Frank, you guys are bright and early.” He opened the shop door for them. The bell
chinkled
as the men entered and Blake followed. From his fridge he took a bag of fish heads. “How many you want?”

“That one bag is good.”

Over the shoulder of Frank, who was peeling notes from his wallet, Blake watched Meg, long red hair blowing in the sea wind as she made her way back to her camper. A memory of that fateful day snaked into his mind, Sheriff Kovacs grilling him with a scary-ass intensity in his eyes.

Harry followed Blake’s gaze. He frowned. “That looks just like—isn’t that—”

“Meg Brogan, yeah.” Blake took Frank’s cash, put it in the till.

“What’s
she
doing back?”

“Got some ghosts to slay, I think.” Blake gave a soft snort. “Going to write a book about the Sherry Brogan murder.”

The men paused, then exchanged a glance. A current passed between them.

“A book? What in the hell for?” said Harry.

“Cash in on a personal tragedy, is my bet,” grumbled Frank, picking up his bag of fish heads, the dull, dead eyes peering through the cold plastic. “I seen her on TV. She’s big shit now. Tara and Jack would turn in their graves if they knew she was going to drag all that old crap out. Won’t look good for Shelter Bay, neither, being splashed all around bookstores all over the country as the place of a gruesome killing.”

Defensiveness rose in Blake, but he kept his yap shut.

Frank started for the door. Harry wavered. “So, how’s she going to do it, go talking to everyone who’s still around, hauling out memory baggage from old closets?”