Afterglow Read online

  An hour later, fish tacos and fries sat on the table between them. Rachel tried to eat, but she only picked at her food. There was too much on her mind.

  Instead, she kept playing with her wedding ring.

  “Look, I need to tell you something, Rachel,” Grayson started.

  The nausea in her stomach roiled with more intensity. “Okay.”

  “During my walk . . . I actually went to talk to Bruno.”

  Her eyes widened. “You what?”

  He shrugged. “Really, I wanted to tell him to stay away from you. That was my intention. But then he started talking, and there are a few things I want to ask you about. After all, we need to be open with each other, right?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  He shifted, and Rachel could tell he was nervous. “Rachel, Bruno told me there was blood found in the cottage where you and Mark were staying. I looked up some articles but . . . is that true?”

  All the blood drained from her face. “Yes, it’s true. But it’s not what you think.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Mark stepped on a broken bottle as we were walking back from the beach. It cut his foot. He hobbled inside and grabbed a shirt that was by the door—we’d left our bags there earlier. He pressed it against his wound to stop the bleeding.”

  “Of course, you have no way of verifying that, do you?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t.”

  Grayson nodded stiffly. “Apparently, Mark also called his brother when he left the cottage. Told him that you were angry. That you’d accused him of cheating on you.”

  Rachel let out a long breath and pushed her plate away. “It’s not how it sounds.”

  “Then please tell me what it is. Because you didn’t mention either of these facts yesterday when we spoke, and it’s raising some red flags in my mind.”

  Rachel knew what these red flags meant . . . they meant that slowly and surely Grayson’s trust in her was breaking down . . . She had to stop this before it entirely disappeared.

  Chapter Eight

  Grayson’s words spread an uneasy atmosphere across the room.

  The words were true. They were painful. But they needed to be spoken.

  “I kept it from you because all of those accusations were unsubstantiated,” Rachel said, a fire catching in her voice. “Yes, they make me look bad. But I didn’t set Mark up to die that night, Grayson. You have to believe me.”

  He studied Rachel’s face. Her wide eyes. Her lips pressed together as if trying to hold her emotion in. Her hair as it cascaded around her shoulders, giving her an air of innocence.

  She seemed sincere. She really did. And Grayson wanted to believe her. He was just growing weary of the facts not adding up.

  After he’d finished talking to Bruno, he’d found a bench and sat there with his phone, looking up anything he could find online about Mark Murphy. Numerous articles about his death and/or disappearance had popped up.

  Most didn’t offer any information, only to say his body hadn’t been found and had probably washed out to sea. Most of the articles were written by a man named Artie Floyd. He was a journalist out of Norfolk, Virginia, who’d taken an interest in the case.

  “Why did you think Mark was cheating on you?” Grayson finally asked.

  She let out a sigh and looked away. “I caught him on the phone a couple times. He was talking in low tones with someone. As soon as he saw me, he ended the call and looked all flustered. When I asked who he was talking to, he said it was something about work. People usually don’t talk to their coworkers in such low tones, though.”

  “What did Mark do for a living?” Grayson asked.

  “He was a contractor. He did roofing for a company that built new homes and subdivisions.”

  It didn’t seem like a job where there were confidentiality issues. “Did you hear any parts of the conversation?”

  “Just that everything was moving forward. He was still waiting for payment to clear, but everything was on schedule.” The words rushed out. Rachel didn’t even have to think about them—she’d obviously thought about what happened enough that it was still fresh in her mind.

  “I see.”

  “I suppose Mark could have been talking about a house.” Rachel glanced at her hands. “But I thought I heard him say, ‘I love you.’”

  Grayson flinched. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Mark said I was hearing things. But he looked mad, you know? If it was just a misunderstanding, why was he having such an emotional reaction?”

  That was a great question. “It sounds like things were starting to implode before the wedding.”

  “Yeah, you could say that.” She let out a bitter laugh.

  “Were you having doubts?”

  Rachel shrugged. “A few. I mean, at times Mark could be the most incredibly kind person. But at other times, it was like a switch flipped, and I didn’t even know who he was.”

  Grayson leaned back, still trying to process everything. “Do you think it’s odd that Mark’s brother moved here? That one still floors me.”

  “Maybe a little. I mean . . . I don’t know. I guess it’s weird that I came back here too, so maybe I have no room to talk. The whole situation . . . it’s just upsetting, to say the least.”

  Grayson’s eyes met hers, and he implored her to tell the truth, to not hold anything else back. “Why didn’t you tell me, Rachel? When we talked yesterday, why didn’t you tell me the whole story?”

  As Grayson’s questions echoed through the space, shame seized Rachel.

  Shame over her actions. Shame over the way people had judged her. Shame because . . . well, sometimes she did feel guilty. Maybe if she hadn’t asked Mark about those phone calls. If she’d let him have more input in the wedding. If they’d seen eye to eye on more things.

  But the fact of the matter was that Mark had purposefully engaged in risky behavior.

  “I didn’t think those details were important,” she finally said. “Because I didn’t do anything. People’s theories, their speculation . . . they’re just that. Speculation and theories. I decided to stick with the facts. Unless you give more weight to speculation.”

  Grayson remained quiet for a minute.

  “I didn’t say that,” Grayson finally said. “It’s just that, in my years as a reporter, I’ve discovered that when people leave out information, it usually screams of guilt. It makes me wonder what else you’re leaving out.”

  “There’s nothing else, Grayson.” She locked gazes with him, pleading for him to understand. This was not the way she’d wanted her marriage to start.

  “You promise?”

  She nodded. “I promise.”

  Before he could respond, a knock sounded at the door.

  She and Grayson exchanged a glance.

  “Stay here,” he told her.

  He walked over and opened the door. Rachel heard a new voice float inside.

  “My name is Artie Floyd. I’m with the Norfolk Dispatch, and I heard Rachel Mills was back in town. I’m hoping to ask her a few questions about the possible murder of her former fiancé.”

  Chapter Nine

  Grayson felt a surge of anger rush through him as he stared at the eager man standing at the doorway, dusk rapidly descending behind him.

  “I’m sorry,” Grayson barked. “Rachel is not available.”

  He tried to shut the door, but Artie’s foot shot forward, blocking him. “I know she’s in there. Why did she come back here? Do you believe your wife is a femme fatale?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You need to do some more research.” Grayson gave the door another shove.

  “I know you’re an investigative reporter also.”

  Grayson froze. “That has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “If you do your research, you might find my point of view more enticing.”

  “Go away. If I see you back here, I’ll call the police.” He slammed the door.

 
Rachel looked at him with more tears in her eyes. Were they tears of sorrow, or regret, or apology? He wasn’t sure.

  Then her gaze broke, and she grasped her temples. Her body slumped forward, and deep sorrow overwhelmed her beautiful features.

  “I’m so sorry, Grayson,” she whispered. “I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  Grayson wanted to be mad at Rachel or to reprimand her. But he couldn’t. At least, he couldn’t for very long.

  He knew the way she’d grown up. Her parents had been high achievers, and they’d pushed that onto to Rachel as well. Nothing was ever good enough.

  She’d always felt her worthiness was based on how well she performed.

  Very few people had loved her for herself.

  When Rachel had broken her ankle and lost her position on the cheering squad, suddenly those friends weren’t her friends anymore.

  When she’d decided not to take over a management position at the family company, her father had suddenly stopped spending time with her. Instead, she’d taken a job in another city working as the director of a nonprofit that helped underprivileged children in the area.

  When she stopped making people happy, those people had a tendency to fall out of her life.

  And Grayson knew that.

  So, in a way, he understood why Rachel had kept those details quiet. She was always walking on eggshells in her relationships. Yet Grayson would be lying if he didn’t admit that it bothered him some.

  Loud fights? Angry texts? Secret phone calls? Blood on the floor and on Mark’s clothes?

  When you put it all together, Rachel looked guilty.

  Had she killed Mark, hidden his body, and then claimed he went out for a swim?

  His sweet wife would never do anything like that, would she?

  Rachel still sat across from him, moisture in her eyes and her food barely touched.

  This was not the honeymoon he’d planned.

  “Listen, I’m sorry that happened,” Grayson started. “I’m sorry that you ran into Bruno. I’m sorry about the note that was left here on the door. And I’m sorry that reporter showed up. But we can’t let them ruin our time together.”

  “I’m not sure how it’s even possible to have a good time after all this. I was stupid to come here. Naïve.”

  Grayson reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I have an idea.”

  She sniffled. “What’s that?”

  “Let’s find some answers.”

  She tilted her head in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re obviously still bothered by what happened. I say we do some digging. See if we can figure out the truth around the events of that night.”

  Rachel twisted her head, still looking confused. “Everything is speculation. I don’t know what you think we can do, especially considering it’s two years after the fact.”

  “Maybe talk to the police. Retrace your steps while you were here. Talk to Mark’s friends. Let’s see if we can figure out what really happened on the night he died.”

  “You really think we’ll be able to find out anything different?” Rachel’s voice held disbelief.

  Grayson thought about it only a minute before nodding. “Yeah, I do.”

  “If you want to, then yes. I’d love to find out some information. But I don’t want to get my hopes up . . . I just want to put this behind me.”

  “Okay, let’s go then.” He stood and took her hand.

  “Right now? It’s dark outside.”

  “Yes, right now. We don’t have any time to waste.”

  Together they started outside. But as soon as they stepped onto the deck, Rachel froze and pointed to something in the distance.

  “Grayson, did you see that?” She stared across the dark beach.

  “See what?”

  “There was a glare. The moonlight captured something. I think it was . . . binoculars.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I think someone is watching us.”

  Chapter Ten

  As he and Rachel walked down the beach, Grayson remained on the lookout for trouble. He didn’t know if the glint of the binoculars meant anything or not. But he didn’t like any of this.

  What if it was the reporter? What if Artie was watching them, just waiting for the moment when Rachel would slip up and do something that would appear incriminating?

  There was more to the story. Grayson was certain of it. He’d spent the past five years as an investigate reporter, and his instincts told him there was a story here.

  “What time was your fight that evening?” Grayson asked, slowing his steps across the sand.

  Rachel let out a deep sigh. “We had a late dinner. It was almost eight when we finished. We walked home, he cut his foot. After that, we fought, and he stormed out.”

  “So about the same time it is right now?”

  Rachel glanced at her watch and saw it was 8:30. “Yes, I suppose.”

  “I want to see where Mark went into the water.”

  She blinked rapidly, as if surprised. “Really?”

  “I know it sounds crazy. But I want to get a feel for what happened that night. Are you okay with that?”

  “Sure . . . I mean, yes. If that’s what we need to do.”

  They walked toward the pier. As they did, Grayson’s thoughts continued to race. “I want to call that lady who was quoted in the articles, the one who said she saw Mark go into the water that evening.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “Her name was in the articles.” He paused and pulled out his phone. “Here it is. Amy Sawyer. She’s from Richmond, Virginia.” He punched in a few more things. “And here’s a listing for an Amy Sawyer in that area.”

  Without wasting any more time, he dialed her number. A woman answered on the first ring. “Amy speaking.”

  Grayson explained who he was.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “I wanted to ask you about the night you said you saw Mark Murphy go into the ocean. Are you sure it was him?”

  “I’m certain. He walked past me as I stood there on the beach. Seemed upset. I mean, he looked right at me but didn’t smile. He just stomped off toward the pier. The next thing I knew, I saw him taking his shirt off and jumping into the water. I couldn’t believe he would go into water that rough.”

  “Was he limping?”

  “As a matter of fact, he was.”

  “And you told the police this?”

  “Of course. But, here’s the thing. I thought I saw the same man later that evening driving away in a car. People always say witnesses can be unreliable. I guess I proved that.”

  “Did you tell the police that?” he asked.

  “I did. No offense to them, but the police chief I talked to at that time didn’t seem like the most competent man. I hardly think he heard me.”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  He ended the call and told Rachel what he’d learned.

  “So if she saw him go into the water, how can anyone possibly believe I was involved?”

  “I guess the blood in the cottage along with the fights made people suspicious. If he did actually drive away that night, maybe people assume he came back to the cottage and something else happened after that.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Her voice dripped with discouragement as the answers seemed to drift further and further away.

  Rachel tried to hold back the tears as she stood there on the dark beach listening to the waves roaring in the distance.

  The last time she’d been to this very location, it had been to mourn Mark.

  Though they’d had some problems, his tragic death had still been devastating.

  But what if Mark hadn’t died at all?

  She pushed away her tears, not wanting Grayson to see them.

  “It’s okay, Rachel.” Grayson wrapped his arm around her waist. “I know it’s not easy for you to be here.”

  “I kn
ow you were a competitive swimmer in college, but I’ve never been a great swimmer,” she told him. “The thought of being in the ocean . . . at night . . . when the current is so rough . . . it’s like my worst nightmare.”

  “Then we’ll stay out of the water, how about that?”

  “I like that.” She took a deep breath before pointing in the distance. “This is where Mark’s shirt was found. Police assume he went in the water here. There was hardly anyone out here except for that one witness who said he did. The water was churning badly, and it was so windy that the sand was almost painful as it hit your face.”

  Rachel stared at the pier in the distance. From what she’d read, rip currents were always more prevalent near piers and jetties. And the ocean had been so rough that night. Red flags had been flying all day, warning people to stay out of the water.

  She’d kept expecting Mark to turn up. Like maybe he’d swum down the shoreline along the beach and had gotten out of the water farther down or something. Maybe he’d been disoriented and was trying to find his way back, minus his cell phone.

  But as the hours had continued on, it had become apparent that Mark had disappeared.

  The days—and weeks—following had been horrible. So many doubts. So much grief. Canceling venues and telling people about what had happened.

  Rachel never wanted to relive that again.

  “Did the police check his phone records?” Grayson asked.

  The intensity in his voice surprised her. But Grayson was doing what he did best—investigating. Researching. Asking questions.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t even know how I would have found that out.”

  “I’ll see if I can find a way,” he said. “If the police suspected foul play, then there’s a good chance they did check those records.”

  “If they didn’t, is it possible to get them now?”

  “I’ll find out,” he said. “In the morning, I think we should also head down to the police station and see if there’s anyone there now who was working that evening.”