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My eyes grow to saucers. “Parry.”
“I knew he was going to do it,” he continues. “My brother and I paid a coroner from out of town to do an autopsy.”
“What’d they say?” I ask, but knowing that Parry has always been convinced it wasn’t an animal attack, the answer is clear.
“Stab wounds. Nothing a wolf or a coyote or a bear could’ve done.”
He tells me the rest of the story. How he felt vindicated. But they didn’t have the money for a lawsuit or the power to hunt a murderer with no lead. So they buried the truth back in the ground with their mom and dad.
I understand now why Parry is so dead-set on the hoax theory. The town turned their backs on the DiNapoli boys when they needed justice and the truth. And the council never really disliked the DiNapolis. They were hard-working members of the community.
Still are.
But the council loathes my family. They could do worse to Colt.
Still, the side of me that believes in fate and strange coincidences thinks, what if the girl is real? She could be real.
Parry drives into town. We’re on the last street that allows vehicles before signs start reading no cars beyond this point. Most pedestrians are inside as a storm brews. We pass the museum, and Parry tells me, “If Colt was in his right mind that night and he did see something, there are people in this town that wouldn’t take his word just to spite him.”
Sickness churns in my belly just thinking about that. People always say I look more like Brian than Colt, but it’s an easy explanation. Colt has more of his mother’s features than our dad’s. Mia Vitale came from one of Mistpoint’s more prominent Italian-American families. The Brambillas and Vitales have always been friends, but as the story goes, Effie Brambilla and Mia Vitale were thicker than thieves growing up.
At least that’s how my dad described them.
So when Mia Vitale died giving birth to Colt, Effie blamed my dad. She shut out Colt, even if he was and still is the son of her best friend. The town followed suit.
People don’t forget the past.
They sure as hell don’t forget that Colt’s existence killed Mia Vitale. It was even a worse sin in the town’s eyes when my dad fell in love with Colt’s young nanny years later. Bethany Reed. My mother. What I’ve been told—it was a short fling, but she got pregnant soon after and also died in childbirth.
Parry stops the Mustang at a curb near a three-story bed & breakfast with a dark shingled roof, red bricked frame, and cobbled pathway up to a navy-blue door. The Harbor Inn has always evoked a quaint charm, but I’ve never stepped a foot inside.
Until today.
Parry helps me with my suitcase, then shields his eyes from a single ray of sun breaching the ugly clouds. He scrutinizes the Inn. “Call me if they don’t give you a room. Pissing off Brian is better than sleeping on the docks.”
“Deal,” I say and hold out my hand.
Parry smiles and gives it a shake. Tender, long-lost emotion passes between us, and he lets go to hug me. I hug back just as tightly.
He whispers, “You’re the little sister I never had. I’m glad…” He stops himself from saying, your back.
Something painful balls up in my ribs.
How am I going to leave again? Everyone I truly love is here. But no matter how much they love me too—I know they don’t want me to stay.
Parry tears away fast. He starts walking back to the curb. I grab onto the suitcase, about to head up the path.
“And Zoey…” Parry turns back.
I rotate to see him.
Overwhelming emotion gathers in Parry’s green eyes. “Thank you,” he says. “For coming here. For Colt. Maybe you can get further than I could.”
I never thought I’d actually Agatha fucking Christie myself. But here I am, in the middle of a mystery.
I need October’s help.
This feels impossible without her.
“Don’t bet on me yet, Pear.” It’s the last thing I say before trudging up to the Inn.
No bells on the door announce my arrival. A frail lady with dyed jet-black hair occupies an antique front desk. Wispy strands of hair stick up in a high bun, and she sips casually from a floral teacup.
My footsteps are loud, cumbersome. Her eyes snap up before she even lifts her head. And then slowly—like it’s made of molten lava—she sets her teacup on the desk.
“Zoey Durand.” My name sounds like arsenic on her lips.
“Mrs. Kelly.” I step forward to come face-to-face with Mistpoint’s most prominent widow.
George Kelly died from anaphylaxis after unknowingly ingesting peanut oil one night. Police couldn’t figure out why Kelly’s pot roast had trace amounts of peanut oil, but rumor is that Aimee Kelly laced the meal. And since George was a notorious cheater who’d been caught (one too many times) buying drinks to young tourists at The Drunk Pelican, the sheriff’s department didn’t poke too hard into the case. The town never shunned Mrs. Kelly.
