Promise Not To Tell(59)

“Young, early to midtwenties,” Dylan said. “Never saw him up close. He didn’t spend any time in town. When he arrived he just drove straight off the ferry and went directly to Rose’s place.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know if he was on the island the night that Hannah Brewster died, would you?” Virginia asked.

Dylan seemed surprised by the question. “He was here. In fact, he was the only guest at Rose’s that night.”

Virginia sensed the sudden stillness that had come over Cabot.

“You’re sure of that?” he asked. “Because Rose distinctly told us she had two couples staying at the B and B that night.”

“I’m sure there was just the one guest,” Dylan said. “I know that because I was part of the search team that looked for Hannah the next morning. I stopped by the Lost Island B and B to ask Rose if she had seen Hannah. She said no. She didn’t want to talk. Said she had to get back to making breakfast for her guest.”

“One guest,” Virginia said. She looked at Cabot. “A man in his early to midtwenties.”

Cabot’s mouth tightened. She knew he was thinking the same thing that she was thinking. Rose’s guest might well have been a killer, but he was far too young to be Quinton Zane.

“One thing we do know about Rose Gilbert,” Cabot said quietly. “She lied to us.”

Dylan reached for the sherry decanter. “I can give you another small fact – Rose’s one and only guest left on the ferry the day after the fire. I saw him drive his car on board.”

CHAPTER 40

Virginia didn’t expect to sleep much that night, so she was not surprised when she drifted in and out of a restless haze for a couple of hours after going to bed. What astonished her was that she did not have a panic attack. Under the circumstances, that seemed strange because every time she closed her eyes, she thought about how close she and Cabot had come to dying in the inferno. The memories should have sparked a storm of anxiety. She and Cabot had, after all, relived their worst nightmare from childhood.

At about one thirty in the morning it finally hit her. This time was different. This time we saved ourselves.

She gave up trying to sleep, pushed aside the covers and swung her feet to the floor. For a while she sat there, trying to sort through her feelings and sensations. She had her meds in her handbag but she didn’t need them. She was definitely wired but, astonishingly, she seemed to be dealing with the fallout from the harrowing experience. Perhaps there would be some kind of delayed reaction in the future, but for now she was, oddly enough, relatively okay.

She stood, pulled on her robe and went to sit in a chair at the window. Most of the marina lay in darkness, but there were a few lights strung along the docks. A cluster of private boats and a small sightseeing vessel bobbed gently in the dark water.

A soft knock sounded. Cabot was awake, too. She glanced at the bedside clock. It was one thirty-five. No surprise.

She rose and opened the connecting door. Cabot, dressed in trousers and a T-shirt, loomed in the shadows. His dark hair looked as if he had raked his fingers through it. His eyes were deep pools of midnight. She sensed the edgy energy prowling through him.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You couldn’t sleep, either.”

“Business as usual for me. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay, strangely enough. I keep thinking about what happened today, of course. How so many things could have gone wrong, but didn’t.”

“What happened today was that we made one hell of a team.”

“And we got very, very lucky.”

“As Anson would say, we made our own luck.”

She thought about that and then smiled a little. “Yes, we did.”

Cabot retreated a step. “If you’re sure you’re okay —”

And just like that she knew she did not want him to go.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” she said.

“What?” He sounded a little wary.

“Why did you get fired from your job as chief of police? I know it’s none of my business, but I have this theory, you see.”

Cabot braced one hand on the doorframe.

“You’ve got a theory,” he repeated, his tone utterly neutral.

She was on dangerous ground now, but she was very sure she would not retreat.

“Yes,” she said.

“What is your theory?”

“I’m guessing you were probably a little too good at your job. It was a small town. That means small-town politics. You might bend the rules if you thought that was the only way to see that justice was done, but you wouldn’t give an inch if some local mover and shaker tried to lean on you. If you bent a rule, I’m guessing you would have found a way to keep it quiet. So, what did you do? Arrest the mayor’s son?”

For a second or two she didn’t think he was going to answer. Then he whistled very softly.

“How the hell did you figure it out?” he asked.

“You and I have been through a lot lately. I’ve learned a few things about you.”

Cabot was silent for a few beats.

“It wasn’t the mayor’s son,” he said finally. “The mayor didn’t run the town, a man named Ashcroft did. He owned the biggest local business. Employed a lot of people. Half the town owed him in one way or another. His son, Nick, came home from college for a long weekend. He brought some friends with him. They got high, picked up a couple of local girls – high-school kids – and got them blackout drunk. Probably used drugs. They raped the girls. One of Nick’s pals made a video with his phone. The father of one of the girls came to me for help. I looked at the video and arrested Nick and his buddies.”