I Love You More: A Novel Read Free Page B

smatterings of tall grasses and weeds led down to one of the moredeserted stretches of beach on the island. Less than ten feet of grade separated the dirt driveway from the edge of the drop-off. There was no guardrail and no streetlights, a standard characteristic of our eastern shores. Although it didn’t happen often, an impaired driver or an accidental push of the gas pedal instead of the brake had led to more than a few cliff-hangers. Seagulls circled low over the shallow mid-tide water searching for small fish or crustaceans that might have washed ashore, their high-pitched squawks a battle song. The usual breeze off the ocean was noticeably absent, the air eerily still. The only sign of human life was a sand castle in the making and a child’s red plastic pail.
    The house was your typical Cooper’s Island rental, a one-story shingled box, this one a shit-brown color, with a wraparound wood deck that had weathered to a silver gray. Three long flights of stairs, also weathered wood, separated by bench-lined landings led from the back deck down to the beach. Although I couldn’t see it from where I stood, I imagined sliding glass doors opening onto the deck. A short set of stairs led to the house’s side-entry door.
    The door was wide open.
    “I’ll secure the perimeter,” Mack said. Mack and I had been together since my return to the island. When I first laid eyes on him, I swore he’d just graduated from Cooper’s High, not to detective third grade. He is boyishly handsome, with bushy dark hair and a well-earned six-pack. I’d just transferred from Detroit PD. When he asked me why I’d traded Motor City for Podunk, I told him I wanted to spend quality time with my ailing mother. That’s been my story.
    I knocked on the doorframe before I walked in. The swamp cooler drummed loudly; the heat pouring in through the open door had no doubt put it into overdrive. In addition to the vic, I counted three people in the tight space: a middle-aged woman with fiery red hair, a bald-headed man wearing a Cubs baseball hat, and
her
. She sat on the sofa wearing a red one-piece swimsuit,white towel held tightly over her shoulders, blond hair matted to her head and neck, her piercing blue eyes seemingly fixated on the picture above the fireplace directly opposite her, a cheesy deserted beach scene with a lone seagull flying in the sky. Like one of those replicants in
Blade Runner
, her profile was perfectly chiseled, her posture proud. I could’ve stood there looking at her forever. I’ve always been a sucker for a thing of beauty, and not just women. A Vermeer painting, Brioni suit, Aston Martin sports car.
    The body was lying prone in front of a white-brick fireplace, head turned toward me, eyes open, right arm tucked beneath the stomach as if cupping it, the location and size of the blood pool suggesting a gunshot to the abdomen. The place was tidy, no obvious signs of a struggle. Like many of its kind, it was a mishmash of tacky and tasteful. Eating bar and wicker stools sporting pink-and-blue shell-patterned cushions immediately to my right. Small kitchen beyond it. White appliances. Bleached-wood cabinets. Gray laminate countertops with chipped corners. Hallway straight ahead, bathroom door open, probably bedrooms either side of it. Living room to my left. Surprisingly clean transition from the kitchen and entryway linoleum to Berber carpeting. Fireplace on the wall opposite the side entrance. Bookcases either side of it. Just as I thought, sliding glass doors—why were they closed?—leading out to the deck. Two chairs upholstered in the same shell fabric as the barstools, one in the far corner opposite the fireplace and one almost blocking the side-entrance door. Coffee table and woven taupe sofa between them.
    The red-haired woman spoke up first. Your usual beach retiree type. Expensive salon hairdo and manicure. Sixtyish. Too-tan skin. Floral swimsuit cover-up. Bright pink lipstick. Plump around the middle, but