The Killing Edge

He stood, shaking his head to clear away the memories. It was all so long ago.

He walked into the head, turned on the shower and let ice-cold water pour over him.

He stood there until he felt himself start to shiver, then turned off the water, whipped his towel off the rack and went back to the cabin to dress for the day.

He liked it better when he didn’t dream, didn’t feel.

Chloe was jolted awake by the phone ringing and decided to let the answering machine pick up.

But whoever was calling just hung up on the machine, then called again.

She rolled over and picked up the receiver, feeling tired and sluggish, as if it were still the middle of the night. Glancing at the alarm on her bedside table, she saw that it wasn’t the middle of the night, but it was ridiculously early, given how late she’d been out: 7:00 a.m.

“Chloe, are you there?” someone asked before she could even grunt out a hello.

Stuckey. What the hell was he doing, calling her so early?

“I’m here. What’s going on?”

“You shouldn’t have been playing detective last night,” he said, ignoring her question.

“I was invited. I might even go on that swimsuit shoot,” she said.

“Yeah?” he asked. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? Thanks a lot.”

“Well, for one thing, I thought you liked to keep a low profile. You’ve never even wanted your name in the paper before, much less your picture out there for the world to see.”

Because in my way, I’m still a coward,she thought.

“Look, my point is, you’ve been snooping around, and now you’re planning to keep snooping out in the middle of nowhere, in the same circumstances where a girl went missing. And that could be dangerous.”

“It can be dangerous to fall asleep at night, too,” Chloe told him, her grip on the phone growing tight.

“I’m not stupid,” she told him. “I won’t go anywhere alone, and I’ll be rooming with Victoria. In fact, I’d be worried sick if I let Victoria go out there on her own. And if she’s there, you know Brad and Jared will be there, too. I could be a big help to you. Just think about it. The case isn’t closed, but no one is doing much about it.”

“Hey, don’t get on my case for that. It wasn’t my jurisdiction.”

“I’m not getting on you, Stuckey. You know, Uncle Leo pulled a lot of strings to get me something on the case. He doesn’t believe she just took off. And I went to court one day last week to pick him up, and her parents were out on the steps of the courthouse, holding a press conference, and they made my heart bleed. They believe she’s dead, and they’re desperate for someone to figure out what happened, for justice.” She was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t know her well, but I met her a few times at the mansion. She was nice. She deserves justice. Remember how you told me once that guys like this—like whoever killed her—aren’t rocket scientists. They eventually make mistakes.”

“But they’re still dangerous. Let Luke handle this. He’s a licensed professional.”

“Yeah, right. He showed me his fishing license.”

“You two got off to a bad start, and I’m sorry about that, but I asked him to help out with this because I do want something done about it, and I don’t want you in danger.”

“But I can help. I can get Rene to talk to him, for one thing.” Could she? Maybe. The words had come to her lips without her realizing what she was going to say. All she knew was that something inside her felt it was important for her to be part of this investigation, so she had to get him to calm down before he went to her uncle. She was an adult; she made her own choices. But she loved her uncle, and she didn’t know if she could stand up to him if he insisted she get out of there.

“Actually, that’s what I called you about, and why I had to call so early, before you got a chance to talk to anyone.”

“Oh?” She smiled, sinking back into her pillow. The tables were turning.

“You heard what I said when I dropped you back at the mansion last night, right?” he asked.

“Yes, I heard what you said. Don’t tell anyone Luke Cane’s real name or his real identity. Whatever I do, don’t jeopardize his position. I heard you. You said it three times,” she told him.

“Yes, and I meant don’t tell anyone. Not even Victoria.”

“But I’m going to be asking Victoria to help me—to watch and listen—it’s only fair to tell her the truth. I mean, let’s get serious, how long is anyone going to believe that ‘Jack Smith’ is a designer?” Chloe demanded.

Stuckey chuckled. “He’s got some help. He’ll pull it off. You’ll be surprised. Chloe, I’m asking you this because it’s important. Promise me you won’t say anything?”

“I promise.”

“Good. See ya soon,” Stuckey said, and hung up.

Chloe replaced the phone and crawled out of bed, then walked over to the drapes and threw them open so she could look out at the pool. Her bedroom was on the second floor of what had once been a carriage house, and she could see the sparkling water and casual rattan furniture that surrounded it. She could see the main house where Uncle Leo lived as well, with its red-clay tile roof, balconies and two turrets. The house had been built in the 1910s and was one of the oldest in the area. Her great-great-grandfather had purchased the land and drawn up the plans for the house. Once the family had owned twenty acres. Then ten. Now they had one acre remaining, with Bayshore Drive and civilization right around the corner. But the area was still overgrown and wild in old-Florida fashion; oaks dripped moss, and bougainvillea grew everywhere in a riot of color.

Chloe knew she was welcome in the main house anytime; Leo had always told her that it was hers more so than it would ever be his. She had grown up in the main house, and when she had finished college, she had contemplated the idea of getting an apartment with Victoria, but they’d both remained traumatized by the past, no matter how far they had come. Uncle Leo had come up with the solution: refurbishing the old carriage house so Chloe would have her privacy but still feel safe, and Uncle Leo wouldn’t spend his life worried about her.

The arrangement had worked out well. She carried emotional scars, a few wounds that might never fully heal, but her uncle had helped her find a purpose and enjoyment in life.

He had always been her rock.

The two of them were the only family they had left. Chloe didn’t remember her parents at all; she had been two when they died in a bizarre train explosion that had taken out almost twenty cars and their occupants. She had grown up with Leo, and he had been a good parental figure. He was with the district attorney’s office, a position he could afford to hold because he had family money and the insurance from the accident. On top of that, he was brilliant with stocks, no matter what the economy was doing, so they had never needed to worry about paying the bills.

She felt a moment’s unease, hoping that Stuckey wasn’t already calling him, warning him that Chloe was getting herself too involved with the Colleen Rodriguez disappearance. No, Stuckey wasn’t a tattletale. And even while he was telling her to keep her nose out of things, she knew he also realized that she was in a perfect position to obtain information the police might never discover themselves. Like so many Miami-Dade officers, he had been touched by the desperation of Colleen’s family, and he had been on a task force assigned to search the area from Florida City to the Broward County line, but all the cops had been reassigned after six weeks. The case wasn’t closed, but it wasn’t anyone’s priority, either.

Her phone rang again, and as she turned to answer it, she let out a little cry of surprise.

And fear.

Someone was there, watching her. A woman, transparent and ethereal.

Oh, God, no! Not again.

She’d fought so hard for her sanity. She’d thought she was finally done seeing people crying out to her for help—dead people—done with longing to help them when she couldn’t. After the massacre, she had seen images, dreams, ghosts, ectoplasm—whatever. She had seen them in hospitals; she had seen them on the streets. Strangers who had stared at her beseechingly and, even more terrifyingly, her own dead friends. She’d had therapy, lots and lots of therapy. But now she was regressing, seeing things again, no doubt because her world was changing. No, she told herself. She was stronger than that. She did not see things! Or if she did, then if she was strong, then they would fade away.

Her throat constricted, her muscles tensed, and then she blinked and the image was gone. She laughed nervously at herself; she must have seen the drapes reflected in the mirror.

She had stopped seeing ghosts long ago.

They were nothing but remnants of the fear and trauma.

A decade had passed, and she was fine. She was just imagining things because of Colleen.

She still felt shaken.