Frost could have picked the lock, but he knew Denny. Some things never changed. He opened the desk drawer and located the blue gift box that housed Denny’s silver Waterman pen. He opened the box top and lifted out the cardboard platform where the fountain pen was nestled among velvet.
Underneath the velvet layer was a Schlage key. Same old Denny.
He put the key in the engine room door and unlocked it. It was cold on the other side. Iron steps took him down below the waterline. He was surrounded by gleaming silver ductwork reflecting his flashlight, propulsion engines, heat exchangers, and electrical generators. Everything was squeezed together. The corridor among the machinery was narrow, and he had to turn sideways. When the boat was operating, the throbbing noise would be deafening down here, but now it was silent, and he could hear every one of his footsteps.
He followed his flashlight.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to find. Maybe Denny had been able to grab the cameras before Lombard’s team arrived. Maybe the evidence was still here. Or maybe there was nothing left and the plan had ended in failure.
But no.
This was something completely different.
At the very end of the engine room, where the ceiling narrowed with the shape of the boat, was a makeshift cot. It had a four-inch foam mattress and a single pillow. He examined every inch of the cot, looking for clues to who had been hiding here. At first, he came up empty, but when he yanked the mattress off the frame, he saw a few strands of long hair caught in the coils of the spring. Most were jet-black, her natural color, but one was tinted red.
Just as it had been in the portrait on her bedroom wall.
Fawn.
Frost took out his phone in the silent darkness of the boat. He dialed the number and got her message. The same message he’d heard every time he called her all week. This time he knew what to say.
“Fawn, this is Frost Easton again,” he said. “You’re in danger, and you have to call me right now. I know about you and Trent. I know about the cruise on Tuesday. And I know you’re alive.”
41
Frost didn’t know when or if Fawn would call him back. His phone was dead quiet as he drove home from the yacht harbor. The rain had started again. The next wave of the storm was stronger and harder than the morning showers. A deluge poured across his windshield. He climbed the sharp peaks of Russian Hill and watched rivers flooding back down the asphalt. It wasn’t even safe to stop at the uphill intersections; all he could do was slow down and keep driving upward with his foot on the gas. By the time he arrived home, it was almost eleven o’clock. He opened his truck door and ran for the stairs, and in the few fast paces it took him to get there, he was drenched.
Someone was waiting for him.
She sat in the pouring rain at the top of the steps. Her red hair was pasted to her face and neck. She stood up as he climbed to his front door.
Tabby.
“I’m sorry to ambush you,” she said.
Frost shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“We need to talk.”
“I know. Come on in.”
He let them both inside, where it was warm. She wasn’t dressed for the downpour. All she wore was a simple blue dress with spaghetti straps. She shivered, and water dripped from her skin in the foyer.
“Do you want some dry clothes?” he asked. “I probably have something upstairs you could put on.”
“No. Not right now.” Her voice sounded low and distressed. She kicked off her heels; her feet were bare. She was nothing like the girl who’d danced and sung with him two days earlier.
“Well, wrap yourself in a blanket,” he said. “I have to go rescue Shack.”
“Where is he?”
“I made a little nest for him in the attic. I couldn’t take him with me today, and I wanted him out of the way in case I had visitors.”
Tabby made no effort to move from the foyer, and he went to the living room and grabbed a fleece blanket and came back and wrapped it around her. He led her to the sofa, where she sat down and made a cocoon around herself. He got a towel from the kitchen, and she used it to dry her face.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
Frost ran upstairs. There was a drop-down ladder in the walk-in closet that led to the attic, and he lowered it to the floor, leaving a rectangular hole above him. Shack’s unhappy face peered over the edge. Frost climbed to the top of the ladder and let the cat hop onto his shoulder.
“Sorry about that, buddy,” he said. “This was for your own good.”
He descended to the closet floor, and Shack jumped down and began to review the house to make sure nothing had changed while he was locked away. Frost didn’t bother changing his own wet clothes. He went downstairs and poured two glasses of brandy at the bar for himself and Tabby.
When he handed it to her, he watched her silently close her eyes as she took a sip. He did, too, feeling a river of warmth in his chest. Shack walked along the top edge of the sofa and shoved his nose into Tabby’s wet hair. It was enough to bring a fleeting smile to her lips.
Finally, her emerald eyes opened, and she stared at Frost. “You know, right? About me and Duane?”
“Yes. I know.”
“I’m sorry,” Tabby said. “I’ve been trying to call you. I wanted you to hear it from me. I wanted to explain.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations,” he said.
“Did you see Duane?” she asked.
“I did.”
“How is he?”
“He’s devastated. He loves you, Tabby.”
“I know he does.” Just as the rain had dried on her face, she began to cry in front of him. Her shoulders shook, and she talked through her tears. “Believe me, I didn’t want it to go like this. I wanted to still be in love with him. I wanted to feel the way I did last summer. The thing is, I just don’t. I realized that the other night. Those feelings are gone. They’ve been gone for a while, and I couldn’t pretend anymore. That’s not fair to him or me.”
“I have to ask,” Frost said. “Are you really sure? You told me it was a phase. I don’t want to see you throw something away and then find out you wish you still had it.”
Tabby shook her head. “I’ve been lying to myself. I kept thinking things would change long after I knew they wouldn’t. He’s a wonderful person, but we’re not right for each other. I can’t make it into something it’s not. And I’m sure he hates me for it, and I’m sure you hate me now, too. I broke your brother’s heart.”
“I feel terrible for both of you,” Frost said. “But I don’t hate you.”
She finished the rest of the brandy and held out her glass so he could pour her another. He went to the bar and got her a double. He’d finished his own and he wanted more, but the last thing he could afford to do was get drunk with her again.
“Here you go,” he said, handing her the glass. “Drink it slowly.”
Instead, she drank all of it in one burning swallow. Her hands were trembling as she returned the empty glass to him. As she did, she looked at his face and reached out and grazed her fingertips across the bruise on his cheek. When he grimaced, she pulled her hand away.
“What happened?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Frost, come on. Tell me.”
“Duane and I got into it. He took a swing at me. I took a swing back. I lost my cool. It wasn’t good.”
“Why did Duane hit you?”
Frost didn’t answer her. It didn’t matter, because he could see that Tabby already knew the truth. Her wide-open green eyes held him in their grasp, and he was powerless to look away.