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The question strikes me from all sides, but the answer is always the same: because he had something to do with Lucy’s death.
The room seems to come crashing down around me.
“Cass? Are you okay?”
I don’t know how long Greta has been saying my name, but this clearly isn’t her first attempt.
“Oh, love, you’re white as a ghost,” she says.
I open my mouth, trying to figure out how to tell her everything, but all that comes out is one short sentence.
“I think Logan might have killed Lucy.”
Greta’s eyes grow wide, and I open my mouth to explain more, to tell her all about the ring and the lies. But before I can, she’s handing me the pile of clothes she’d brought out moments earlier.
“Why don’t you go and change? We’ll sort all this out once you’re in dry clothes.”
I want to protest, to tell her everything as I process it myself, but as a shiver racks my body, I know she’s right. I nod, taking the clothes from her, and walk out of the living room as if on autopilot.
As I head down the hallway, I feel the familiar weight of eyes on me. I turn around, but Greta hasn’t moved from her spot on the floor. She’s still looking at me with an expression on her face that I can’t read.
But I barely register it. Because I can only think about one thing.
Logan lied.
33
BROOKE
“Why are you here?”
The figure keeps coming, step by cautious step.
“Don’t come any closer.” I hear my voice waver, and I know this person does too. They pause briefly and then return to their slow stride.
I search frantically, looking for anything I can use as a makeshift weapon to defend myself. I grab a rock nearby, only to realize it’s more like a pebble. Whatever, it will have to do. I raise it above my head and prepare to chuck it.
“What are you doing? Stop!”
The figure raises her arms in protection. When she lowers them, I see that her long, dark hair is soaked like mine. Her almond-shaped eyes are awash with concern, and her forehead is scrunched, predicting the wrinkles that won’t be visible for many years. Her features are familiar, now that I’m seeing them for the third time.
“Who are you? Why have you been following me?”
She steps forward again. “Before I tell you, d’ya mind putting that down?” Her accent is familiar. It sounds Australian but slightly off.
I look up. I forgot I was still holding the stone. I lower my arm, my terror from a few seconds ago now seeming ridiculous. “Sorry,” I mumble before regaining my composure. “But what do you want? Why did you follow me up here?”
“One question at a time, please.” There’s a look on her face that I can only describe as haunted. “Can we step back onto the trail so we don’t have to have this conversation on the side of a cliff? I’ve been yelling at ya to step back from it. One wrong move and you’re over.”
She’s right. I’ve inched back almost as far as I can. That must have been what she was doing. Walking toward me carefully to warn me to step away. It was too hard to hear her over the rain.
I waver for a minute, not sure who to trust anymore. This could be a trap. Maybe this girl is the killer. But I look again at her dark eyes, and my curiosity wins out over fear.
I drop the stone and walk toward her.
We take a seat on a rock off to the side of the trail, back under the canopy of trees. As we sit, I register how wet I’d become while standing on the cliffside. Sodden clothes hang from me, and as the shock of seeing the girl wears off, they begin to feel heavy on my limbs. The damp sends a chill through my body, and I realize with surprise that this is the first time I’ve been cold since arriving on the island. The girl is dryer, having mostly stayed beneath the confines of the canopy, but only marginally so. The rock on which we sit is small, barely wide enough to accommodate both of us, and I can feel the body heat radiating off her.
We’ve been sitting in silence for a few seconds, each of us waiting for the other to start.
