Page 69 of The Only One Left

“Did you also know Lenora was in love with him? And that it’s possible he’s the one who killed her parents and sister? I’m pretty sureLenora knew he did it and covered for him. Now I think she wants to come clean, maybe in the hopes that he’ll be caught, even though he vanished the night of the murders.”

When I finally give Detective Vick a chance to speak, his voice wavers between intrigue and wariness. “Are you sure about this?”

“You have access to the police report from that night,” I say. “Look at it and see. You’ll also see that there’s a whole lot of unanswered questions from that night. Mary had those answers. Now she’s dead. That’s not a coincidence. And it’s sure as hell not suicide.”

I hang up before Detective Vick can poke another hole in my theory, tell me I’m wrong, and then smugly trot out some other bit of evidence to prove it. I know I’m on to something here.

And it terrifies me.

Because Lenora’s also telling me her story, I could be next.

Yet that’s not the scariest part of all this. The truly chilling, scarier-than-Stephen-King part is that Mary wasn’t killed by some random stranger. In a twisted way, that would put me more at ease. But whoever pushed her off the terrace knew what she was up to.

They knewher.

Which means it was likely someone at Hope’s End.

Other than me and Lenora, only four people fit that description—Mrs. Baker, Archie, Carter, and Jessie.

Why one of them would feel the need to kill Mary over something Lenora typed is beyond me. I reach for the phone again, itching to call Detective Vick back. He needs to hear this, even if it’s doubtful he’ll believe me.

He hasn’t yet.

About anything.

I’m about to dial when I hear a noise behind me. Footsteps. Moving from the darkened dining room into the kitchen. I whirl around to see Carter halt in the doorway. Hands raised in innocence, he says, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Yet he did. My heart pounds so loud I suspect he can hear it. Addingto the pounding is this: Carter is one of the four people who could have shoved Mary off the terrace.

He sways slightly as he steps fully into the kitchen. He’s been drinking. A truth he acknowledges with an unapologetic “It’s been a shitty day.”

I remain with my hand on the phone, frozen. “It has.”

“I was out on the terrace and heard someone on the phone. Thought I’d come in and investigate.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Some of it.”

“Some of it or all of it?”

“Most of it,” Carter says. “And I get why you’re nervous right now. You should be. But not around me. I knew what Mary was doing.”

“Then tell me.”

“She was trying to help me.” Carter crosses the kitchen, drawing closer. Close enough for me to smell the whiskey on his breath. “And I think it’s my fault she died.”

“You have exactly one minute to tell me what you mean by that,” I say, fully aware that I sound exactly like Detective Vick.

“Not here,” Carter says.

I stay where I am. “Yes, here.”

I’m not about to walk off alone with a killer. If that’s what Carter is. While his words make it sound like he’s about to confess, his body language says otherwise. Hunched and shambling, he appears incapable of harm. But appearances can be deceiving.

“There’s something you need to see,” he says, adding, “And I can’t show you here. So you’re just going to have to trust me for five minutes.”

“You said Mary was helping you?”

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