Page 11 of The House Beyond the Dunes

“Interested in knowing the autopsy results?” He speaks to me like we’re mystery-solving pals. Only we’re not. This is clearly a cop technique. Lure them in. Get them to trust you.

“It was an accident.” If I keep repeating the words, maybe all this will feel less tragic.

“Shattered C-4 disc. The fall severed his spine immediately. Death was instantaneous. He felt no pain.” He rubs the side of his neck. “If he’d landed a little differently, he might have survived with bruises, or he could’ve spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair. Damage to that part of the spine is measured in millimeters.”

“The ER doctor said my clothes were soaked in his blood,” I say quietly.

“Head wounds bleed a lot. Doesn’t mean they’re serious. But a broken neck ... well, it’s usually game over.”

I cringe. “Oh.”

He’s still watching, testing. “The medical examiner ruled the cause of deathundetermined.”

“What does that mean?”

Creases run across his forehead. They’re the wrinkles of someone who worries. “There are three manners of death. Natural. Homicide. Undetermined.”

“Accidents are natural.”

“They can be, but I’m not totally convinced.”

“Are you accusing me of murder?”

He shakes his head slowly. “You said yourself, you don’t remember. And the neighbor heard you fighting. I need to fill in the missing pieces.”

“The neighbor is wrong. I was excited to see the beach and spend time with Kyle.”

“You’d been drinking, and there were drugs in your system.”

“A glass of champagne. Prescription meds taken the night before.” Frustration warms my cheeks.

“Don’t get upset with me, Lane. I’m only telling you what I know.”

This guy is holding too many cards close to his vest. “You’re suggesting I had something to do with his death.”

“I’m not.”

Then why are we having this conversation? “I can’t do this right now.”

“Get a coffee with me, Lane. My treat. Seeing as you sell the stuff, I bet you know the best places to get it.” When I don’t respond, he adds in a lighter tone, “You look like you could use a good meal.”

Eating hasn’t been on my priority list for months. “No. I think that the next time we talk, I should have a lawyer.”

“You can’t afford PT, Lane. The retainer is twenty-five grand for a case involving a death.” A smile teases his lips. “Can you afford a lawyer?”

No, I can’t. Still, none of this feels right. There are layers under layers that I’m not privy to, and I know for a fact that the brain requires two sleep cycles to fully process a trauma. “There are lawyers that don’t require money up front. They take a portion of the settlement.”

“There’s no lawsuit. This would be a criminal case. You’ll be racking up billable hours with whomever you hire.”

“I don’t need this now.”

His grin widens, and he holds up his hands. He seems pleased I’m rattled. “Okay. Backing off, Lane. For now.”

I don’t slam the door when he steps back. I watch him turn and walk down the front steps. Hands in pockets, Detective Becker moves easily, casually, as if insinuating I’ve committed murder is just another Friday. He walks past all the cars parked at the curb and vanishes around the corner.

I don’t know when he’s coming back, but I suspect Detective Becker is a man of his word. He’s not done with me yet.

Chapter Three

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