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“He’s dead!”
“No—” Again her legs wobbled, and this time she slid to the ground, Miranda still holding on to her.
Miranda’s voice cracked. “I—I don’t know all the details, but he was found floating in the bay an hour or so ago.”
“No. Oh, God, no!” Claire was shaking, her insides quivering and she told herself this was all a dream—a horrid nightmare. She’d wake up soon and none of this would have happened.
“It’s true.”
“But I just saw him—” Denial was her crutch, and Claire leaned on it heavily. Miranda was lying. She had to be. But why? Maybe she just heard the facts wrong. That was it; this was a mistake, a horrible, ugly mistake. “You’re . . . you’re making this up.”
“Oh, Claire, why?”
“I don’t know, but it’s not true! It can’t be! You heard the story wrong, that’s it!”
Miranda let out a pained little cry. “I’m so sorry; I know how much you loved him.”
The words didn’t sink in, just bounced off her brain like a stone skimming across water. She shook her head. “You’re wrong, Randa. Harley’s fine. He’s just drunk.”
“He’s dead, Claire. Dead. He died a couple of hours ago, drowned in the bay.”
“No—”
Miranda shook her hard enough to rattle her teeth. “Listen to me, damn it!”
And then it hit her. With the force of the ocean crashing over her, pinning her underwater, making breathing impossible. She gasped, shaking her head, until Randa grabbed both sides of her face and forced her to stare into her older sister’s agonized gaze. Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, it was true!
With a keening wail to rival the wind, Claire clenched her fist and pounded it into the mud, splashing dirt and muck onto her clothes, spattering dirt onto her face. “But I was just with him less than three hours ago.”
“I know, the security guard saw you.”
“Harley, oh, please, no—” Grief and guilt clawed at her soul. If only she hadn’t agreed to meet him, or hadn’t agreed to go onto the boat with him, or left him, he might still be alive. It was her fault that he was dead. Her damned fault!
“They don’t know if it was an accident, murder, or suicide,” Randa was saying, her voice sounding distant, though she was close enough that Claire felt the warmth of her breath. “The thing is we’re all going to be questioned, especially you, since you were involved with him and were one of the last people to see him alive.”
Still wallowing in the mud, Claire was barely listening. All she knew was that Harley, precious Harley, was dead. Her spirit broke and left her. “It’s my fault,” she said.
“No, don’t even say it.” Randa, back braced against a rear tire, was holding her, cradling her in the mud, stroking her cheek as if she were a tiny child who had bumped her head.
“I broke up with him and—”
“You what?”
“I broke off the engagement. Oh, God, it’s my fault.”
“No!”
“But I . . . oh, Harley.” Claire felt as if her body had been ripped in half. She had loved Harley once, believed in him. Deep, soul-jarring sobs convulsed within her. Tears drizzled from her eyes. Guilt for somehow harming him gnawed at the corners of her conscience as Miranda held her fast, gently rocking her. “How . . . how do you know? How did you find out?” she asked, not really caring.
“I was in town and heard the news,” Miranda said, obviously avoiding the details. Claire didn’t care, was suddenly too tired to question her. “I knew you’d gone to see him but were probably back at the house, so I headed there. I found Tessa hitchhiking on one-oh-one. I picked her up and drove home to find you.”
“But why? What happened to you?” Claire asked, touching Miranda’s ripped blouse and refusing to look at the stain on her skirt. Blood. Whose? Randa’s? Harley’s? Sweet Jesus, had Randa been with Harley, had she come looking for her sister and found him dead drunk and . . . what then? No! No! No! Nothing was making any sense. If only she could turn the clock back a few hours and alter the events of the night . . .
“It’s a long story. We don’t have time,” Miranda said, and Claire’s head thudded dully. “What have you been doing since you left Harley?”
“Driving around.” Why was she so cold?
“Who saw you?”
