“Come on in. You two look like you’re ready for a drink.”
I perk up at the sound of another voice. The man it belongs to is tall, bulky, with sharp creases at the sides of his eyes that only deepen as he smiles. He appears to be in his fifties, but he has an impressive head of dark hair, and there’s a pleasant youthfulness about him.
He’s standing in the entryway to a large room, and as I move closer, I take in the smattering of tables, the stools perched in front of a bar holding dusty bottles of liquor, and the empty stage in thecorner. And suddenly, I’m reliving that night ten years ago. Our group went out for karaoke, the only form of entertainment Jagged Rock appeared to offer after 8:00 p.m. I remember the surprisingly packed room, the vibrant lights, the gorgeous drag queen crooning a Shania Twain song into the microphone as she dominated the stage in her pink boa and short jean shorts.
“You alright, love?”
“Sorry,” I stammer. “Yeah, a drink would be nice.”
The man leads us to the bar. Nick orders a Coke—which catches me a bit by surprise; I had pegged him for a beer guy—and the man grabs an old-fashioned-looking bottle from a hidden cooler. I know I should keep my wits about me, but after everything that’s happened today, I can’t help but crave a way to blur the fear, the grief, the confusion. To dull everything.
“Rum and Coke, please,” I say as I take a seat, the ripped plastic of the stool biting through my jeans.
Once the man deposits it in front of me, he lingers for a second, evidently picking up on the weird energy between Nick and me.
“I’ll be over there doing some cleaning up if you need me,” he says eventually, giving me a long look before heading to the corner of the room, in clear sight. I smile over at him as he picks up a broom to sweep the immaculate floor, and gratitude floods through me.
“So,” Nick says with an awkward clearing of his throat. “Yous all think I killed them. Hari and Phoebe.”
The statement is a harsh slap of reality, and for a moment, I find myself speechless.
“I didn’t.” His voice is hard, obstinate, and I regain some composure.
“Well, you certainly have a funny way of proving that. Threatening us with a loaded rifle and then trapping me in the mine.”
I expect him to explain it away, but Nick’s eyes grow wide.
“I didn’t trap you in the mine,” he says, voice clear.
“Okay.” I force a harsh laugh. “What would you call it then?”
“I’ve been trying to talk to you alone since you left my ranch yesterday. That’s why I came to the Inn this morning. I asked Randy at the front desk where you went—which was an altogether unpleasant experience I got no interest in repeating—and he said you’d gone out for a walk. So I went out back, tried to find ya. Almost made it all the way out to the mine, but I never saw hide nor hair of ya, so I turned back and went home. Figured I’d try again later, and here we are. I don’t know nothing about you being trapped in that mine. You shouldn’t be playing around out there though, it ain’t safe.”
Suspicion swirls in my gut. Why should I trust this man, after everything?
“Why did you want to talk to me and not the others?”
He sighs, and his shoulders slump. “I know how close you and Phoebe were, at least at the beginning of the program. You two did everything together those first few weeks.”
His words let loose an unsolicited flurry of memories. Phoebe doing my makeup that first day in Sydney, the two of us sitting on her bed after a night out, drunkenly giggling about Kyan and Declan, Phoebe grabbing my hand and pulling me down the mainboulevard in Cairns, running so fast that the wind slapped against our faces.
But I also hear his unspoken implication. How far apart we drifted in those final two weeks.
“I thought of anyone in the group, she might have told you what I did to her.”
I think back to my conversation with Villanueva. Phoebe’s pregnancy.
“You raped her,” I say coldly.
And it all makes sense. Maybe she threatened to tell, to expose him for who he really is, and that’s why he killed her. And now he’s been trying to pick off the rest of us to keep his secrets, starting with Hari. I feel my blood run cold as the puzzle pieces fit together, and I begin to stand, but his hand reaches out, grabbing for my arm.
Nick coughs, puts his hand down. “God, sorry,” he says. “Butrape?” He whispers the word, looking around as if someone may overhear, and indeed, the worker is looking straight at us, no longer trying to hide his eavesdropping. “I didn’trapePhoebe. I’d never do that. I’m not that type of person.”
“Then what did you do to her?”
“I… Let me back up to the beginning; this is all coming out wrong.” He sighs deeply, stretching out his hands as if he’s settling in to tell a long storied tale. “I wasn’t in a great headspace during that program. I was…in recovery.”
“For?” I prompt.
