“It was…” I fumble, trying to locate a word that understates the drama that followed. “A bit tense afterwards.”
“And who ended it? The tryst, I mean.”
“It was mutual,” I say automatically and then instantly regret it. They’ve already talked to Kyan and Adrien, I’m sure they both gave the detectives an earful about what happened.
“Hmm,” Villanueva murmurs, giving me a skeptical look. “And that was it? You’re not aware of her being romantically involved with anyone besides Mr. Quek?”
I try to force the image away before it comes. The darkness of the Outback draped like a blanket over the land behind the Inn, the stars illuminating Phoebe’s hair, her head tilted backward in passion.
“No.”
“One last question,” Villanueva says, and I feel my first sense of relief since waking this morning. It’s almost over. I’m so close to getting through this without giving myself away. “Do you know anyone who would have wished Ms. Barton harm back then?”
“No, of course not,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
“No? Not a single person?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice as my mind ticks through the long list of people who had reason to be mad at Phoebe. Those of us who hated her.
“Maybe people were irritated with her, but I can’t imagine anyone would have been angry enough to hurt her.”
“I think what my partner is getting at, Ms. Whitlock,” Sawkins interjects, “is that Ms. Barton’s death was clearly a crime of passion.”
“Wh-what?” My head snaps upward, my eyes zeroing in on Villanueva.
“According to the autopsy our office has conducted, Ms. Barton’s cause of death was blunt force trauma to the skull.”
“Blunt force trauma,” I repeat inanely. “Okay, but couldn’t she have tripped? And hit her head on a rock or something? Couldn’t that have caused it?”
Villanueva looks at me curiously, and I instantly regret my question. But I need to know.
“No.” Her response is terse. “The examination conducted on the remains yielded a finding of multiple skull fractures. Whoever killed Ms. Barton struck her with a blunt object over the head repeatedly. We have yet to identify the weapon, but it is very clear that this was a homicide.”
My stomach roils and I feel the color in my skin drain. It’s immediately replaced with moisture, clinging sickly to my underarms, my palms, my forehead.
Blunt force trauma.
But that’s impossible. I never hit Phoebe. And I certainly didn’t do anything to fracture her skull.
I don’t think I’m prepared for any more surprises until Villanueva drops her final bomb.
“That same person—or, at least, we suspect it was that person—moved Ms. Barton to her final resting place at the entrance to the abandoned mine shaft a kilometer or so from the Raven Inn.”
“The mine,” I parrot back.
“Yes. We have evidence to suggest that she was still alive at the time her body was deposited there. Scratches and flicks of red paint that we’ve identified as nail polish on the inside door to the mine indicate that she tried to escape. However, she died from her head injuries before being able to do so.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe, picturing Phoebe clawing at the door of the mine, yelling, pleading to be let out.
“I still don’t understand how Jagged Rock police failed to searchsuch an obvious place in the days following Phoebe’s disappearance,” Sawkins says, either not picking up on my distress or choosing to ignore it. Villanueva ignores him, changing the subject back to Phoebe.
“It would be helpful to know if anyone had strong feelings towards Ms. Barton.”
My mind is still racing for it all to make sense, so I barely hear Villanueva’s request. But then a sudden clarity descends.
It wasn’t all my fault.
There’s another killer. Someone who hated Phoebe. Someone she drove to murder. Who smashed in her skull and hid her body away in that mine.
