Next Girl to Die

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Dea Poirier

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503959200

  ISBN-10: 1503959201

  Cover design by Caroline Teagle Johnson

  For my grandmother

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  At some point, as you get older, you stop counting things—how many times you’ve been on an airplane, driven across the country, or solved a murder. No matter how many murders I solve, it won’t fix me.

  I close the file in front of me. It hits me close to home; memories of another murder strain against the box in the back of my mind, where I’ve hidden them. The teenage girl in the file was killed in a hit-and-run. Vehicular homicide is still homicide, and that means it falls to me to solve it. I lean back in a chair at a borrowed desk, and it squeaks in protest. Normally, I sit out in the station bull pen with the other detectives, but I needed to concentrate on my final notes for this case. Though seeing it through should feel like a load off, it doesn’t. Death is a cloud that will never lift. Footsteps in the hall draw my attention, and I sit up a little straighter, just in case Sergeant Gomez is about to pop her head in.

  Instead Roxie’s face appears, her dark fauxhawk swept up, her usual curls smoothed away. In this light, her medium-brown complexion has an undertone of ocher, thanks to old lights flickering above us. She offers me a half grin, the kind she always dons when she’s testing my mood. I push the file away from me like a plate of food that’s been picked at for too long—if only someone would show up to whisk it away.

  “How’s it coming?” she asks.

  “Done.” I shove up from the desk and stalk over to the windows, looking down over the busy street beneath us. Traffic, the city—it’s something that I can always use to distract myself. Maybe it’s still a wonder because I grew up without it.

  “You want to get out of here? Maybe catch a movie tonight?” she asks.

  It would be nice to get away, to take a step back. In the middle of a case, it’s impossible for me to pull myself away, for me to get any distance from it. But until another case falls in my lap—and another will; it always does—I’ll take this reprieve while I can. “Yeah, let’s do it,” I say, but before I even have the words all the way out, my phone vibrates in my pocket. The number on the screen isn’t familiar, but the area code sure is—it’s the area code of my hometown. Seeing it, even just thinking of Vinalhaven, is like being punched in the gut. My finger hovers over the accept button, but I look to Roxie. “Could you give me a minute?”

  Her brows furrow, and the look she gives me makes me wonder what my own face must look like. “Sure. I’ll be at my desk. Take as long as you need,” she says before pulling the door closed.

  I hold my breath and accept the call. Normally I answer my phone as Detective, but for this call—who am I? So I settle for “Hello?”

  “Claire Calderwood?” A man’s voice—low and gruff—cuts through the silence in the office.

  “Yes,” I say, and I clench the hand that isn’t holding my phone into a fist. “Who is this?”

  “Sergeant Michaels,” he says. “Of the Vinalhaven Police Department.” He tacks on the next statement like it only just occurred to him to say it, as if he’s unfamiliar with introducing himself.

  “What do you need?” I ask, my words clipped. Normally I’d give a sergeant the respect they deserve, but I’m so caught off guard that he’s lucky I’m talking at all. It takes a few seconds for my mind to dredge up memories of him; the last time I saw him, I was in high school.

  “We’ve got a situation that I was hoping you could help with. Some people in town mentioned that when you left Vinalhaven, you went to work in Detroit as a homicide detective.” Papers shuffle in the background while he speaks. I can imagine him sifting through the paperwork.

  I know what’s coming next before he says a word. Another girl is dead. Another girl. My sister was the first. Emotion tightens around my chest, like I’ve got my vest on too tight. The memories threaten to breach the wall I’ve built around them. I clench my fist tighter, my fingernails cutting half moons into my palm, as I try to push past it.

  “Emma Carver—I’m not sure if you knew her; she would have been five or so when you moved—she was—” He stops so suddenly that I check the screen to see if the call dropped.

  “She was killed,” I say, finishing the sentence for him. The words don’t hold the weight they should. But when you’ve been saying words like murder, homicide, and dead since you were fifteen, they lose their luster.

  “Yes,” he says finally.

  There’s a long pause, and I decide to take the reins, saving me from the memories threatening to slither back to the surface. “When was she murdered?”

  “Three days ago,” he says. “Strangled. Her body was found in Grimes Park.”

  The park that sits on the southernmost tip of the island, next to the marina, the same park my sister’s body was found in. A shiver traces down my spine, though it’s stifling in the office. Six months after Rachel died, I stood in that park hoping it would reveal the secrets of what happened to my sister. It never did.

  “I know you’re working in Detroit, but we’re in over our heads. We could really use the help,” he says, his voice strained.

  When Rachel died, I had no choice but to stick around until I was eighteen—until I could flee the island that took my sister. And since, not once have I considered going back. I left that life behind, shedding it like an old skin. A few times over the years, usually around the anniversary of Rachel’s death, guilt got the best of me, and I considered opening up her cold case to try and solve it. But I couldn’t; it would have been like picking a scab, opening up that wound all over again.

  When I say nothing, he continues. “I know this could be painful for you—given your history. But maybe this could help you get some closure.”

  I want to laugh at that. Closure is a goddamn fairy tale. There’s no closure when your sister is murdered.

  “Claire—I mean, Detective Calderwood—please. If y
ou can’t help, if we can’t find who did this—” He stops, as if he knows he’s gone too far.

  My nails dig into my palm so sharply I wince. The pain keeps me present, though; I can’t let my emotions surge forward again. “I need to think about it. Send me what you have in her file, at the least. I’ll take a look and see what I can do.”

  “I’ll send it, but really, Claire, we need someone like you here. You know this island better than an outsider. You think like us. You know that people here don’t want to talk to mainlanders. More importantly, they don’t want to help them.”

  “I know,” I say. Because he’s right. If they bring in anyone else, no one on the island will trust that person. I finish my call with Sergeant Michaels. Instead of finding Roxie, I stare back out the window, oblivious to the people below. It’s not the city I see now; it’s my sister reflected in the window.

  CHAPTER 2

  A cold, salty wind sweeps across the bay; I lean over the railing of the ferry into it, letting the mist kiss my face until my skin tingles. My long blonde hair whips against my neck, my cheeks, and I wish I’d put it up. The sun is dying on the horizon, setting the world ablaze in a blanket of orange and red. I can’t deny that I missed this. Above me, a seagull caws, and it drags me back to my childhood, days spent on the pebbled beach while the cold water tickled my toes. The waves hiss as they crest against the side of the ferry. In Detroit, I missed nature, being able to go outdoors, being able to breathe air that wasn’t thick with exhaust and smoke. I didn’t go there to breathe; I went there to bury my problems beneath the crime and crowded streets—and at the very least, it served that purpose well.

  There, I didn’t think I’d be the girl who escaped her dead sister and abandoned her grieving family. There, I was supposed to be free. I thought beneath the towering skyscrapers and the crumbling Motor City, I’d be just another no one. And most days, I’d much rather be no one than the sister of Rachel Calderwood. It hasn’t gone as I planned, though. Now the whole world feels like hers, not just the island we grew up on. I guess that’s what happens when someone dies. It’s impossible to see the world without wondering what it’d look like if she were still in it.

  It doesn’t take long to spot Vinalhaven growing out of the bay in front of us. From this far away, it doesn’t look like the place that took my sister from me; the small wood-frame houses among the rolling hills make it look like a postcard. The houses rise behind the marina; it’s thick with boats, more than I remember. I left here thinking the town would die right along with Rachel. Because how could it recover if I couldn’t? Here it is, though, like nothing ever happened. Its life went on, while mine seemed to end.

  I squint against the sun as the fading light shimmers across the water. I try to see beyond the marina, to downtown, but I’m too far away. The reds, whites, and grays are broken and blurred like in a kaleidoscope. Downtown means I’m close to the house I’ve rented. It’s two minutes from Main Street, thankfully as far from my parents’ house as I could get—and the best I could do on three weeks’ notice. Unfortunately, that also means I’m as far from my grandmother’s house as I can get as well. My heart aches when I think of her. I haven’t seen her since before Rachel died, before there was a falling-out between her and my mother.

  The ferry’s horn echoes across the bay, a low tune, a lament. With each roar of the engine, we press closer to the island, and my stomach creeps into my throat, bringing regret along for the ride. What the hell was I thinking coming back here? I should have stayed in Detroit. I was stupid to think coming here wouldn’t dredge up all the feelings I locked inside when I left, because here they are, burning all the way up my esophagus.

  As the dock comes into view, my heart hammers like it’s trying to get out. It’s too late to run now, too late to back out. I need to pull on my big-girl britches and get my shit together.

  I can do this, I tell myself over and over, until I almost believe it.

  Until I see them.

  My mom’s long blonde hair is swept up on top of her head; every strand is strangled in hair spray, plastered into place. Her arm is latched on to my dad, like if she doesn’t hold on for dear life, he might take off. I’ve always felt like he meant to leave but never got around to it. Now he just hides in the house and spends most of his time avoiding my mother. I don’t blame him; that’s what I’ve been trying to do for the last fifteen years.

  A thin smile causes the sides of her mouth to crease heavily. I force a smile on my face and hope it hides every single thing I’m feeling. If my mother senses anything, she’ll pounce, trying desperately to fix whatever she feels is wrong. While Rachel was alive, all the energy was focused on her. But the moment she was gone, it shifted to me. She needed to fix me, to make sure I didn’t end up like Rachel. It’s like someone crossbred a shark and a shrink.

  The ferry bounces to a stop against the dock. For a few minutes the workers tie us in, then finally drop the ramp. My mother’s eyes are on me the entire time, like she’s afraid if she looks away, I’ll disappear. Like maybe I’m a mirage. As soon as I’m able to step off the boat, I close the distance between us, and my mother gives me a stiff hug. “I am so glad you’re home,” she says in a voice flatter than usual, as if me being home might be an inconvenience.

  As soon as she lets me go, my father folds me into his arms. “I’ve missed you, kiddo,” he says in his low voice.

  “Me too,” I force myself to say. Things with them have been difficult since Rachel died. My mother became an overbearing control freak, while my father retreated. He may as well have been a ghost. Maybe that will be the one good part of coming back: maybe there will be some way to repair our relationship. Granted, they don’t see the splinters. They probably never will—or maybe they just don’t want to.

  “I really wish you’d stay with us,” she says, glancing over her shoulder back toward Main Street.

  “Mom, it’s a fifteen-minute drive. At least I’m not still in Detroit,” I say, trying not to let frustration reach my voice.

  She purses her lips like she’s going to say something else but thinks better of it. “Did you have a good flight?” she finally asks.

  “The flight was fine,” I say, because I have no desire to relive the account of the guy who snored next to me the whole time.

  “You know what would be wonderful?” she starts, and the brakes in my mind squeal, because whatever follows those words will not be wonderful, not in the least. “You should have dinner with us tonight.”

  “I wish I could; I need to settle in, dig into my case.”

  “Your things aren’t even here. You can’t settle in. That’s exactly why you should have stayed with us. Everything is still in your room.”

  The memories are hard enough, never mind staying with my parents in my old room, where everything is exactly where it was thirteen years ago. Like it’s some kind of museum. Rachel’s room hasn’t changed since the day she died either. Two untouched rooms, two monuments to my mother’s lost daughters. It took years for me to realize my unchanging room had nothing to do with me and everything to do with my mother. I guess it was her way of keeping us close after she lost us both—or maybe it’s the only thing about us she ended up being able to control.

  We walk along the sidewalk through downtown; it looks almost exactly like it did the last time I was here. A few stores have updated their signs, repainted. The wooden signs still hang on brackets, creaking in the wind. We pass the small hotel right off the bay, several restaurants, and a small post office set inside an old house. I steer us toward the small Victorian I’m renting, and I’m surprised to find the house across the street has been turned into a bed-and-breakfast. Mrs. Peterson described this house to me as small, but small on this island is a relative term. Most of the houses on the island are enormous old wood-frame houses. They’re not grand by any means; they’re the usual houses that sprout out of most of New England. The fancy houses are reserved for the northern parts of the island, where the air reek
s of old money.

  The two-story yellow Victorian sits just off the street. A splintered walkway leads to the wraparound porch. At three bedrooms and 2,500 square feet, my rental was the smallest on the island I could find. It’s way too much house for me, especially after living in a one-bedroom apartment for years, but the pickings were slim. And if there’s one thing I remember well about island life, it’s that you take what you can get.

  “You should get a dog,” my mom says when she grimaces at the house. The statement stops me in my tracks. She hates animals, always has. Rachel and I must have asked for a dog a thousand times. When we couldn’t get a dog, Rachel asked for a horse, a cat, a parakeet, a hamster, and finally a rabbit. I was convinced we wouldn’t even be allowed to have a fish. I can’t imagine what would change her mind now.

  “I don’t have time for a dog. I’ll be working,” I argue. Detective work means long strange hours that aren’t conducive to animal care—or to a life at all, actually. Despite the fact that I would love a cat or a dog, it’d be cruel.

  “You can’t live in this big house by yourself. It’s not safe.”

  Being a beat cop and a detective has taught me that no one is really safe no matter what. If I’m not safe at home with a gun on my nightstand, I’m not safe anywhere.

  I brush off the comment and walk up the path to the house. It should count for something that I’ve kept myself alive for the last thirteen years, but that’s not how things work with my mother. The nervous energy still radiates off her as I unlock the door.

  My dad follows me into the house, floorboards creaking beneath our feet. “Nice place,” he says as he deposits my bags in the living room.

  Before moving in, I arranged with Mrs. Peterson to have rental furniture delivered. So at the very least, I’ll have a bed and a couch until the rest of my things arrive. There’s no way I’d make it a week on these hardwood floors with just a sleeping bag. The walls are stark white, and the room still smells sharply like fresh paint. I walk through the living room to the dining room and large kitchen. My mother trails behind me as I inspect it. And though I expect her to voice her disappointment, for once, she bites her tongue.