My Killer Vacation

“You’re saying whoever drilled those holes is small enough to fit in the crawl space,” Lisa says slowly, beginning to nod. “A woman, perhaps?”

Don’t think about the fact that she still hasn’t cried. Not a drop.

“Maybe.”

Jude is beginning to get a weird vibe. I can tell because he’s doing that thing where he can’t stop arranging and rearranging the shaggiest section of hair on top of his head. “We should call the DoubleTree, Taylor. I’m sure Ms. Stanley has a lot of calls to make—”

“The police are already so positive it’s the father of the last tenant.” Lisa tosses a glance out the window where officers are standing in a huddle at the end of the driveway. “And let’s be honest, there is no way they’re going to go above and beyond for someone they believe is a pervert, right?” Cogs are turning behind her eyes. “Maybe I should look into a private investigator. My boyfriend is currently deployed, but he grew up with a guy in Boston. Some former detective turned bounty hunter. Someone who could give these locals a run for their money and maybe clear my brother’s name in the process.”

See? We all grieve in our own ways.

I cry. Lisa avenges her loved ones.

Moral of the story, everyone is braver than me.

“I don’t think a private investigator would hurt,” I say, finally taking pity on Jude and rising from the couch, letting the blanket slide off my shoulders. “Once again, Lisa, I’m so sorry for your loss.” I hold out my hand for a shake. “I wish we’d met under better circumstances.”

She pulls me into a hug. “You’ve given me hope, Taylor. Thank you. I don’t want him to be remembered as some sleazebag. I’m going to find out what really happened.” Something cold and metallic is pressed into my hand and I look down to find a set of keys. “It’s only down the block. Number sixty-two. I insist.”

I try to hand back the keys. “Oh, we really couldn’t—”

“Are you sure?” She waggles her eyebrows. “It has a clawfooted bathtub.”

Am I wearing a sign or something?

“Oh,” I breathe. “Really?”

Jude hangs his head a moment, then heads reluctantly for the suitcases. “Number sixty-two, you say?”

On the way out of the house, I stop short at the console table just inside the door.

While I was reading through reviews of the house, I saw pictures of a guest book. Obviously this makes me a total dork, but I was looking forward to writing our own message on one of the pages, for future guests to read. I was going to draw a squid in the margins.

Sliding open the drawer or the table, I spy the white leather book with gold, embossed lettering. Guest experiences. I’m not sure what possesses me to take it. To quickly slide it into my purse and cover it up with my hand sanitizing wipes and sunglass case while Jude rapidly shakes his head at me. Maybe I’ve surprised myself by being so coherent tonight after discovering a body…and I want to know what else I can do. If I have what it takes to solve a mystery and locate the mettle I’ve always been missing. Or maybe I’m dubious of the police’s motivation to inspect this murder beyond their original theory. And let’s face it, Lisa’s lack of emotion won’t stop poking at my sixth sense. I didn’t even know I had a sixth sense.

Whatever the cause of my impromptu evidence heist, I’ll return the book tomorrow after I have a little peek. No big deal, right?

Chapter 3

Myles

I climb off my bike and pop an antacid.

Well isn’t Cape Cod just cheerful as hell on this sunny Thursday afternoon?

Little signs hanging from every door proclaiming that life is a beach. Beach life. Life is better at the beach. Seas the day. How anyone can be passionate about a place with so much fucking sand is beyond me. I already want to get back on the road. Unfortunately, I’ve turned my back on a lot of things, but I couldn’t seem to do it with my friend, Paul. Not while he’s deployed and unable to fix this mess for his girlfriend in person. Paul once refused to rat on me when I shattered a stained-glass church window with a line drive.

I’m here because I owe him one and we grew up together in Boston—but then I’m gone.

Until then, my job is to find Oscar Stanley’s “real killer.”

This happens a lot in my line of work of bounty hunting. The family is in denial. Their son violated his parole, but he’s trying to turn his life around. Their daughter is on the lam, but only because she’s innocent of that drug charge and no one believes her. I’ve heard it all before and it goes in one ear and out the other. My job is to bring bad people to law enforcement’s door and walk away whistling with a check, without having to deal with any of the red tape or paperwork.