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McCrae was at work, at his desk after a short, damn-near sleepless night following hours at the crash site. He’d already fended off a number of reporters when Ellie’s call came through. He ignored it, and she called right back. “Call the station,” he answered in a growl.
“What the hell happened?” she practically screamed at him.
“You can get a statement if you call the station.”
“I want you to tell me! C’mon, McCrae. These were our frien
ds!”
He closed his eyes, her words piercing him. He’d driven like a madman to get to the crash site. Not the wisest course of action, but he’d made it, striding through the barrage of flashing red and blue lights from the West Knoll patrol cars, to arrive at the same time as the coroner’s van. The ambulance had already left, empty. The coroner’s van was picking up both bodies.
McCrae tightened down his emotions to look at Zora’s body. There was blood, but she almost appeared to be sleeping, and Brian’s . . . he was more mangled, with broken legs at odd angles, a gash across his forehead, and dull, staring eyes. Corolla had come up to him and said there was a witness, of sorts.
McCabe turned to the guy, who wore shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and hiking boots, and was apparently camping along the West Knoll River. He hadn’t seen anything, but he’d heard the car crash over the cliff from about a quarter mile away; the vehicle had tumbled down the hillside to lodge upside down on the river’s shore. “No braking,” the guy said. “They just went over.”
McCrae had spent another three hours at the scene, grimly watching as the car was winched up the hill from the rocky shore far below. Across Grimm’s Pond were the fields that separated this section of the river from the Forsythe estate.
Déjà vu. Below was where they’d all gathered after the ill-fated run down the rapids that had resulted in Carmen’s death. He remembered how helpless he’d felt that day, and how angry, and experienced the same emotions anew.
He’d stuck around for a while, watching the crime-scene techs gather evidence, then had gone home and expected to go right to sleep, but mostly he had just thrashed around, consumed with the fatal car accident and also bothered by the realization that Delta had lied about the knife . . . which begged the question: What else had she lied about?
“McCrae?” Ellie’s sharp voice demanded.
He grimaced. Zora’s parents had been informed of her death, as had Timmons’s sister, who lived in British Columbia and was making plans to come to West Knoll.
“We don’t know yet,” he finally answered Ellie. “There was no braking. They didn’t make the corner and sailed through the guardrail.”
“Were they drunk?”
“Like I said, we don’t know anything yet.”
“Passed out? Drugs?”
This time he didn’t bother responding.
“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it,” she muttered. “Tanner and now Zora and Mr. Timmons?”
“I don’t know.”
“Goddamnit, McCrae. What do you know?”
“Nothing,” he said, meaning it. He had no answers and nothing to tell her.
She was breathing hard, as if she’d been running. “God, what an awful day. I’m going to the crash site.”
“I think the crime techs are finished, but—”
“I’ll stay out of their way,” she interrupted. “McCrae . . . ?”
The expectant pause after his name somehow reminded him of the unfinished business of their last conversation, so he answered her with, “Last time we talked, you said you had leads you were working on.”
“A lifetime ago. Too much has happened, and I’m not . . . following them anymore. Goddamnit,” she said, sounding consumed by fury and close to tears. “I’ve gotta go. Oh . . . did you know Amanda’s decided to be Delta’s lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Of course,” she sneered, then added, “We did an interview, should be on the noon news, if they run it,” and hung up.
