In the Waning Light by Loreth Anne White Page A

Fuck it, Blake . . . why can’t you just let sleeping dogs lie? There’s no point in dredging up anything else. It’s not relevant, okay? Especially after all these years. We know who did the crime. And he paid for it one way or another.”
    “Or another.”
    “What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
    “I’m saying that this might not be over. I’m saying Meg thinks she might be starting to remember something about the attack.”
    Silence.
    A sick weight pressed into Blake’s stomach. He waved the two Asian men to come over to the cleaning station, and said quietly, “Ty Mack was no hero, but the more I think about it now, the more I wonder if there was something else going on that day.”
    Geoff swore. “Mack was a sexual bully. When a woman turned him down, he went apeshit. That’s what happened with Sherry. She went with him to the spit. He made an advance. She said no, and he cracked.”
    “He never did get a chance to stand trial. He maintained he left Sherry safe.”
    “His goddamn DNA, semen, his skin under her nails, his hair, witnesses—all the evidence was there. The only reason he wasn’t charged and tried is because Jack Brogan didn’t give Kovacs time to cross all his Ts and properly arrest him.”
    “Why won’t you tell me what you saw out on the spit that day?”
    “Because I didn’t see a goddamn thing. I was messed up over Dad, that’s all.”
    Noah reached the parking lot and crossed over toward the office door.
    “Noah!”
    He didn’t look up. He shoved through the office door. It swung shut behind him. Blake cursed softly. The Asian men reached the cleaning station, all smiles, ready to learn how to dismember and disembowel their crab.
    “I got to go,” Blake said. “Just wanted to let you know that if she asks, I’m not holding anything back. I’ll tell her you were there that day.” He hung up, and tipped the cooked crab out of the bag. Keeping an eye on the window for Noah, worry rising inside him, he showed his guests how to peel and split the pinked, male Dungeness crab and use the hosepipe attached to the station to wash out the yellow and black innards, sluicing the gunk down the hole that led into a basin he’d dump later. Gulls whorled and wheeled and screamed above.
    He rubbed his brow with the back of his rubber glove as the guys got started. The choices we make, the secrets we keep for those we love, the ripple effect down the years, the prices we pay . . .
    He glanced out over the bay. Rain was coming down harder. The tide was rising. Nothing could hold back time or tide, or weather, or what was going to come out of this now . . .

    Meg drew into the driveway of the home in which she’d grown up, and turned off the ignition. Mist fingered out from the woods and closed around the house.
    It looked worse in full daylight. Spooky, with shattered windows boarded up, overgrown with weeds. Obscene graffiti. Dirt patches had commandeered the lawn that was once lush and green, her dad’s pride. The birdbath listed to its side, brown with dead moss. Trees hemmed close to the house, branches brushing eaves and broken gutters as if the forest was coming down from the mountain to reclaim and consume the place. The old chestnut she once used to shimmy down from her bedroom window was now a brooding monster. She wondered if the remains of her tree house were still out back, overlooking the patio where her dad had been barbecuing that afternoon, waiting for her and Sherry to come home.
    Anxiety trickled through her. She pulled up her rain hood, opened the truck door, and jumped down. Slowly, she approached the chained gate, keys in hand.
    Looks like shit, huh, Meg? Remember that day? When you saw Ty pick me up . . .
    She stilled. Trees rustled in a gust of wind. It was as if they were whispering at her with the sound of Sherry’s voice. Meg glanced around, mouth going dry.
    Sherry? Are you here? Are you going to speak to me, finally, after all these years?
    Another