no one here! There never was.” Jack yanked something out from between the seats. Then he turned around, holding it and both hands above his head. It was an empty orange raincoat.
* * *
Forty minutes later Jack was sitting at a round table in a small room crowded with a handful of representatives of the various police services. Meg sat across the table. Her eyes bored holes in the surface in front of her. The damage to her car had been nothing more than surface dents. Jack had offered to drive it to the station for her, while Meg went on ahead with Burne.
She hadn’t looked his way once since he arrived. Was she upset with him for running past her to the car like that? Surely she realized the danger had been minimal and the potential break in the case had been huge. It wasn’t as if he’d put her life in danger. Especially as it turned out there hadn’t actually been anyone in the back of her car.
“The raincoat was looped through a worn piece of molding on the sunroof, with a paper clip and a piece of clear fishing line,” Jack said. “All things the killer could have found in the back of the car. He then ran the wire under the seat and attached it to the brake so that whenever Ms. Duff hit the brake hard enough the coat would pop up.” Terribly simple, but probably terrifying to witness. “It’s a cruel trick, which marks a distinct change of behavior from what we already know about the so-called Raincoat Killer.”
Heads nodded around the table. These cops weren’t just listening; they were taking him seriously. Big change from how his journalistic research had been treated by law enforcement in Toronto. A very nice change. Then again, the cops in Toronto had been investigating the deaths of three seemingly unconnected women in a city of millions. Considering everything even he’d seen and heard in his years as a reporter, it was no surprise the Toronto police got a bit jaded sometimes.
Thankfully, life in a small town was a whole world away from that.
“Mr. Brooks, do you know why a serial killer from Toronto would possibly come all the way up here?” Burne asked.
The island police had apparently contacted investigators in Toronto, who’d promised to send up their records tomorrow. Until then, Jack found himself in the unlikely position of being the closest thing police services had to an expert on the deadly killer now stalking their remote, idyllic island.
“No, sir.” Jack leaned his forearms on the table. “I don’t know for certain. I can tell you there were Manitoulin Island ferry schedules in all three of the crime scenes. One had today’s afternoon ferry circled.” He glanced toward Meg, willing her to meet his eyes. She didn’t. “That same crime scene also had a flyer for Ms. Duff’s business.”
Big blue eyes looked up and met his, winsome and fringed with dark lashes. His arms ached to give her the hug he’d neglected to give her after she crashed her car. She’d reached out for him. She’d wanted his support. But then there’d been the police, and questions to be answered, and he’d wanted to figure out exactly what the killer had done to her car....
“So you decided to hop on that specific ferry and come all the way up here, just in case there was a connection?” The question came from a female officer in the corner, whose name he hadn’t quite caught. He couldn’t tell whether she was impressed or amused. “Your editor must have a lot of faith in you.”
There was an unsettled feeling in his stomach. “Actually, Officer, my boss gave me a few days off and told me to let him know how the hunch panned out.” The cop was still staring at him. “I’ve already had it pointed out to me that I could have just phoned around, instead of making the trip. But it’s one thing to see a picture of an island on a flyer or to hear a stranger’s voice on the phone. It’s a whole different thing to walk around a place, see it for yourself and get a feel for it.”
Meg rubbed her eyes. Officer Burne said something to her that Jack couldn’t quite hear.
Then the officer held up his hand. “Sorry to interject, but Ms. Duff’s had quite the ordeal today, and it seems like everyone’s done questioning her for now. So if no one has any objections, maybe we can thank her for her time and let her go home?”
There was a general nod and murmur around the table. Then Burne walked Meg out.
“Excuse me.” Jack glanced around the table. “I need a moment.” There was an interminable pause, some hushed conferring and then somebody called a fifteen-minute break. Jack forced himself not to run after her.
He found Meg standing outside. Her face was lit in the faint glow of the sun setting behind dark orange clouds. Her arms were wrapped around herself. Her eyes were turned toward the dying light and filled with a look so haunted that Jack’s every impulse was to sweep her up into his arms.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You leaving?”
She nodded. “Officer Burne is just checking on something and then he’s going to follow me home.” She let out a long breath. “I’m still in the clothes I was wearing when I fell overboard. While they were dry enough to give a statement in, they hardly feel clean. And anyway, I need to check in with Rachel, and she’s hardly an easy bride to deal with.” Her shoulders fell. “Plus, I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch, which now feels like a day ago.”
Jack glanced at his watch. It was after seven. He still needed to call his editor, Vince, fill him in on what had happened and tell him that he was about to deliver one hefty knockout of a story, which had the potential to change everything.
Even though the beautiful, extraordinary woman standing next to him now was probably going to hate him for it.
His chest ached. Everything he knew about her, everything he’d seen since meeting her, told him that Meg was a strong, confident woman who was more than capable of rising above any fallout or negative attention, which might possibly come from being named as the sole survivor of a serial killer. Sure, his story might raise a few uncomfortable questions from her prospective clients or send some press headed her way for a while. But it wasn’t as if it would ruin her. Why couldn’t she see that the story of what had happened today needed to be made public?
Besides, it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice.
“Meg?” She turned toward him, standing so close the tips of her flip-flops nearly brushed against his toes. “What would you say if, when I was done here, we met up for dinner somewhere? To talk through everything that’s happened.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “As two people? Or as a reporter and the person he’s trying to interview?”
“Can’t it be both?”
Meg’s eyes searched his face for a long moment. She shook her head. “No.”
“No to dinner or no to the interview?”
“No to both.” Her voice was firm. “Like I told you before, I will be extremely thankful every day of my life that you were there and jumped overboard to save me. But I will not help you wreck my life by writing about it.”
He could feel the tension rising in the back of his neck. She had to know how the press worked. She couldn’t be that naive. “You do realize that I have to tell my editor what happened here today, and he will expect me to write about it. I don’t need your permission. I saw a madman in an orange raincoat throw you off that ferry with my very own eyes.”
Her arms crossed. “Trust
