Nick Fabian never made it as a CSI. His idealistic vision of the police as an institution dedicated to serving justice died in the harsh light of day, and he quit to become a freelance private investigator, taking on cases nobody else wanted to touch.Enter Emily Bright, a woman with a score to settle. Her best friend Sabrina was murdered, but local law enforcement is dead-set on ruling it a suicide.
Determined to get justice, she turns to Nick. Nick feels the pain of one of his own and takes on the mantle of finding Sabrina's killer.But Point Clear has skeletons in its closet. A married local school teacher, Connor Long, had an affair with the victim and isn't above threatening Nick to keep his secret safe. Local man Roy Constas took Sabrina home that night, but he swears nothing happened between them. Emily herself raises suspicions when she reveals she was in love with Sabrina, a sentiment that was not returned.If Nick wants to get to the truth, he'll have to cut through the small-town prejudice and lies surrounding Sabrina's death, but that's not easy when the entire system is determined to bury the case and chase Nick out of town...
Determined to get justice, she turns to Nick. Nick feels the pain of one of his own and takes on the mantle of finding Sabrina's killer.But Point Clear has skeletons in its closet. A married local school teacher, Connor Long, had an affair with the victim and isn't above threatening Nick to keep his secret safe. Local man Roy Constas took Sabrina home that night, but he swears nothing happened between them. Emily herself raises suspicions when she reveals she was in love with Sabrina, a sentiment that was not returned.If Nick wants to get to the truth, he'll have to cut through the small-town prejudice and lies surrounding Sabrina's death, but that's not easy when the entire system is determined to bury the case and chase Nick out of town...
Excerpt:
Chapter One
Nick Fabian glanced in the rearview mirror of his black Ford Explorer. He carded his fingers through his short, brown hair and set his eyes back on the road ahead as the mountain pass grew steep and narrow. One wrong turn and the crash barriers wouldn't do much to stop him from tumbling into the river below. It was beautiful up here, though. Pine trees as far as the eye could see. The scent of pine and ocean mingled in the air coming in through the open window, and Nick released a long sigh. A shame the reason he was coming here wasn't a pleasant one. This was no vacation. It was blood and death bringing him all the way out to the coastal Maine town of Point Clear.
It had been two years since he'd consulted on a murder, and this one hadn't come through official channels. There was no FBI or local law enforcement involved in retaining his services, and he couldn't expect to get paid much by the victim's friend. He thought back to the call, which had interrupted his smoke. He'd answered it sitting by the window of his small, sparse Philadelphia apartment.
"Is this Nick Fabian?" The warm, dulcet tones coming from the other end of the line lulled Nick into a sense of security right away.
"Yeah." Nick nursed his smoke between his fingers, twirling the lit cigarette as he considered who might be calling. The caller didn't sound like law enforcement, but assumptions had led him astray before. "You are?"
"My name is Emily Bright. I'm told you can help me. That you take on cold cases that nobody wants." The bright facade of confidence in Emily's tone shattered to reveal exhaustion, her voice starting to sound tight and strained. She'd suffered a recent loss. One she cared deeply about.
"For a price." Nick always tried to dissuade those who thought he took on charity work. He couldn't afford it, no matter how much of a vested personal interest he had in bringing killers to justice. Consulting on trans issues didn't bring in a lot of money, and local law enforcement had been giving him the cold shoulder since his transition. Because of course they had. As a woman, condescended to; as a trans man, considered delusional at best. Transphobia was the reason he'd quit being a CSI. Cops didn't pursue justice; they chased their version of it, and it was an ugly vision at best. One which favored middle-age white men and their needs over their marginalized and downtrodden victims. He was better off as a freelancer.
"So, you're a private investigator?" Emily asked.
"Of sorts. With the right motivation." Nick let out a long puff of cigarette smoke. "Tell me about your case."
"My best friend was murdered. Her name was Sabrina. Sabrina Tobias. We'd started a new life here in Point Clear. Far away from the city, our parents, and all the stifling expectations they placed on us." She let out a derisive snort. Nick imagined he could smell her brand of cigarettes through the phone, a shared cloud of cynicism and gloom that hung about them both like a bad smell. Toxic sticks killing them both one day at a time. "They found her hanging in a lighthouse. Her body had been set on fire and burned beyond recognition. The judge ruled it a suicide."
"She set herself on fire while tying a rope around her neck?" Nick stubbed out his smoke on the windowsill while he watched the couple from downstairs out in the shared yard arguing. She was accusing him of cheating, again. He probably had. Heterosexual relationships seemed to be a paint-by-numbers image of misery and decay. People had a hard time convincing him cis men and women belonged together.
"Sabrina was a mixed-race trans woman. They'd have claimed she was walking a tightrope juggling knives while doing a contortionist act if it meant they could rule her death an act of self-harm. Saves them having to waste time investigating her death."
"You've got my attention." Nick stood up and padded barefoot across the wooden floor, grabbing a pen and paper. "Tell me everything you know."
***
The city of Point Clear was hardly a city, but a pretentious small town that wanted to put itself on the map. Someone had clearly put in the money for gentrification efforts; orange cones and scaffolding suggested renovations and building works were par for the course downtown. A dock loomed in the distance, and the stench of fish was strong in the air as he slammed his car door and put a couple of quarters in the meter. He wasn't downloading the app to pay. Who knew how long he'd be here?
The graveyard stood beyond cast-iron gates, watched over by stone gargoyles. A large sign said NO ENTRY AFTER DARK. Nick pushed open the gate and stepped inside. A well-maintained path led to rows of headstones, uniform and almost military in their precision. Mourners filed past him and he realized there had just been a funeral. Not Sabrina's, though—she'd been buried here six months ago, under her deadname. Nick hadn't asked what it was. Her surname and the recent nature of the grave should be enough to tell him which grave was the right one. Besides, he was only here out of professional curiosity.
As it was, there was a man already standing at the grave. He was balding, his hairline gone so far back all he had left were the sides. He wore a tattered black leather jacket, that kind one might see on a biker, and his hands and wrists painted a picture of other worlds in old ink that had blurred and faded into his skin. His face seemed to hang on him like old leather, weathered by a tough and difficult life, but he wasn't unattractive. There was a certain sense of dignity and decency in his look as he glanced at the grave.
"What do you want?" His tone was hostile, and Nick suspected he couldn't blame the guy. Sabrina had been someone to him, and Nick was interrupting his mourning.
"I came to see Sabrina," Nick explained. "Did you know her well?"
"Who's asking?" The man narrowed his eyes. "You're not a cop, and it's not like they ever gave a fuck."
"I'm asking for myself. I'm investigating Sabrina's death. I understand she was murdered, and the police ruled it a suicide."
"This some kind of hobby for you? Or is someone payin' you?" He cocked his head. "Emily. Right?"
"Right." Nick didn't see any point in disguising the identity of his client. If the man knew enough to guess, then there was little use in pretending otherwise. He held out his hand. "My name's Nick Fabian. I investigate closed-case wrongful deaths that don't get the attention they deserve. Emily convinced me in the first minute that Sabrina's death wasn't a suicide, so I drove up here to find out for myself."
The man took his hand and shook slowly, but the suspicion in his features didn't fade. "What are you plannin' on doing?"
"I want to bring Sabrina's killers to justice."
The man laughed. "Good luck with that. They'll lead you around in circles until you get bored and quit. You could hand the killer in red-handed and the cops wouldn't bother to cuff him." He shook his head.
"Who are you to know that? Sabrina's friend? Her lover?"
"Roy. Roy Constas. I suppose you could call me a friend o' hers, but that's only because she didn't have any good ones."
"I'd say it takes a certain level of loyalty to hire an investigator after six months."
"Yeah, well, people mix up obsession and loyalty all the time, don't they? Yeah, Emily liked her. Too fucking much. Saw the first bird of a feather she could find and glommed on so tight Sabrina couldn't breathe. They worked together. Practically lived together. Sabrina was straight, though. She wasn't interested in Emily."
"You think Emily's a suspect?"
"Her or Connor Long. He's a history teacher at the local school. Sabrina and him—they had an affair that everyone knows about but his wife. He had motive." Roy knelt and pulled some weeds out of the ground near Sabrina's headstone. "Fucking dickhead parents from New York insisted on burying her under the wrong name. There's no dignity for her even in death. It's sad."
Nick managed a wan smile. He liked Roy already, despite his rough exterior. He got the sense that Roy had clocked him, and yet the guy talked with respect. Took a certain kind of man to stick to his ideals in a small town like this where the new often clashed with the old.
"Anyways, don't expect most people to be so forthcomin'. I think folks around here would like to forget about Sabrina and the murder both. Puts a blight on their up-and-coming city when blood gets all over it." The sky started to spit, the overcast clouds finally exhibiting their disdain. Roy seemed to take it as a sign that the conversation was over, turning away on his heel.
"Wait," Nick called after him. "Where can I find you, if I want to ask more questions?"
"The trailer park outside o' town. Where all the forgotten live. Emily's there too." Roy pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. Within seconds Nick watched smoke coil up towards the sky like a crematorium chimney as Roy walked away down the path smoking.
Chapter One
Nick Fabian glanced in the rearview mirror of his black Ford Explorer. He carded his fingers through his short, brown hair and set his eyes back on the road ahead as the mountain pass grew steep and narrow. One wrong turn and the crash barriers wouldn't do much to stop him from tumbling into the river below. It was beautiful up here, though. Pine trees as far as the eye could see. The scent of pine and ocean mingled in the air coming in through the open window, and Nick released a long sigh. A shame the reason he was coming here wasn't a pleasant one. This was no vacation. It was blood and death bringing him all the way out to the coastal Maine town of Point Clear.
It had been two years since he'd consulted on a murder, and this one hadn't come through official channels. There was no FBI or local law enforcement involved in retaining his services, and he couldn't expect to get paid much by the victim's friend. He thought back to the call, which had interrupted his smoke. He'd answered it sitting by the window of his small, sparse Philadelphia apartment.
"Is this Nick Fabian?" The warm, dulcet tones coming from the other end of the line lulled Nick into a sense of security right away.
"Yeah." Nick nursed his smoke between his fingers, twirling the lit cigarette as he considered who might be calling. The caller didn't sound like law enforcement, but assumptions had led him astray before. "You are?"
"My name is Emily Bright. I'm told you can help me. That you take on cold cases that nobody wants." The bright facade of confidence in Emily's tone shattered to reveal exhaustion, her voice starting to sound tight and strained. She'd suffered a recent loss. One she cared deeply about.
"For a price." Nick always tried to dissuade those who thought he took on charity work. He couldn't afford it, no matter how much of a vested personal interest he had in bringing killers to justice. Consulting on trans issues didn't bring in a lot of money, and local law enforcement had been giving him the cold shoulder since his transition. Because of course they had. As a woman, condescended to; as a trans man, considered delusional at best. Transphobia was the reason he'd quit being a CSI. Cops didn't pursue justice; they chased their version of it, and it was an ugly vision at best. One which favored middle-age white men and their needs over their marginalized and downtrodden victims. He was better off as a freelancer.
"So, you're a private investigator?" Emily asked.
"Of sorts. With the right motivation." Nick let out a long puff of cigarette smoke. "Tell me about your case."
"My best friend was murdered. Her name was Sabrina. Sabrina Tobias. We'd started a new life here in Point Clear. Far away from the city, our parents, and all the stifling expectations they placed on us." She let out a derisive snort. Nick imagined he could smell her brand of cigarettes through the phone, a shared cloud of cynicism and gloom that hung about them both like a bad smell. Toxic sticks killing them both one day at a time. "They found her hanging in a lighthouse. Her body had been set on fire and burned beyond recognition. The judge ruled it a suicide."
"She set herself on fire while tying a rope around her neck?" Nick stubbed out his smoke on the windowsill while he watched the couple from downstairs out in the shared yard arguing. She was accusing him of cheating, again. He probably had. Heterosexual relationships seemed to be a paint-by-numbers image of misery and decay. People had a hard time convincing him cis men and women belonged together.
"Sabrina was a mixed-race trans woman. They'd have claimed she was walking a tightrope juggling knives while doing a contortionist act if it meant they could rule her death an act of self-harm. Saves them having to waste time investigating her death."
"You've got my attention." Nick stood up and padded barefoot across the wooden floor, grabbing a pen and paper. "Tell me everything you know."
***
The city of Point Clear was hardly a city, but a pretentious small town that wanted to put itself on the map. Someone had clearly put in the money for gentrification efforts; orange cones and scaffolding suggested renovations and building works were par for the course downtown. A dock loomed in the distance, and the stench of fish was strong in the air as he slammed his car door and put a couple of quarters in the meter. He wasn't downloading the app to pay. Who knew how long he'd be here?
The graveyard stood beyond cast-iron gates, watched over by stone gargoyles. A large sign said NO ENTRY AFTER DARK. Nick pushed open the gate and stepped inside. A well-maintained path led to rows of headstones, uniform and almost military in their precision. Mourners filed past him and he realized there had just been a funeral. Not Sabrina's, though—she'd been buried here six months ago, under her deadname. Nick hadn't asked what it was. Her surname and the recent nature of the grave should be enough to tell him which grave was the right one. Besides, he was only here out of professional curiosity.
As it was, there was a man already standing at the grave. He was balding, his hairline gone so far back all he had left were the sides. He wore a tattered black leather jacket, that kind one might see on a biker, and his hands and wrists painted a picture of other worlds in old ink that had blurred and faded into his skin. His face seemed to hang on him like old leather, weathered by a tough and difficult life, but he wasn't unattractive. There was a certain sense of dignity and decency in his look as he glanced at the grave.
"What do you want?" His tone was hostile, and Nick suspected he couldn't blame the guy. Sabrina had been someone to him, and Nick was interrupting his mourning.
"I came to see Sabrina," Nick explained. "Did you know her well?"
"Who's asking?" The man narrowed his eyes. "You're not a cop, and it's not like they ever gave a fuck."
"I'm asking for myself. I'm investigating Sabrina's death. I understand she was murdered, and the police ruled it a suicide."
"This some kind of hobby for you? Or is someone payin' you?" He cocked his head. "Emily. Right?"
"Right." Nick didn't see any point in disguising the identity of his client. If the man knew enough to guess, then there was little use in pretending otherwise. He held out his hand. "My name's Nick Fabian. I investigate closed-case wrongful deaths that don't get the attention they deserve. Emily convinced me in the first minute that Sabrina's death wasn't a suicide, so I drove up here to find out for myself."
The man took his hand and shook slowly, but the suspicion in his features didn't fade. "What are you plannin' on doing?"
"I want to bring Sabrina's killers to justice."
The man laughed. "Good luck with that. They'll lead you around in circles until you get bored and quit. You could hand the killer in red-handed and the cops wouldn't bother to cuff him." He shook his head.
"Who are you to know that? Sabrina's friend? Her lover?"
"Roy. Roy Constas. I suppose you could call me a friend o' hers, but that's only because she didn't have any good ones."
"I'd say it takes a certain level of loyalty to hire an investigator after six months."
"Yeah, well, people mix up obsession and loyalty all the time, don't they? Yeah, Emily liked her. Too fucking much. Saw the first bird of a feather she could find and glommed on so tight Sabrina couldn't breathe. They worked together. Practically lived together. Sabrina was straight, though. She wasn't interested in Emily."
"You think Emily's a suspect?"
"Her or Connor Long. He's a history teacher at the local school. Sabrina and him—they had an affair that everyone knows about but his wife. He had motive." Roy knelt and pulled some weeds out of the ground near Sabrina's headstone. "Fucking dickhead parents from New York insisted on burying her under the wrong name. There's no dignity for her even in death. It's sad."
Nick managed a wan smile. He liked Roy already, despite his rough exterior. He got the sense that Roy had clocked him, and yet the guy talked with respect. Took a certain kind of man to stick to his ideals in a small town like this where the new often clashed with the old.
"Anyways, don't expect most people to be so forthcomin'. I think folks around here would like to forget about Sabrina and the murder both. Puts a blight on their up-and-coming city when blood gets all over it." The sky started to spit, the overcast clouds finally exhibiting their disdain. Roy seemed to take it as a sign that the conversation was over, turning away on his heel.
"Wait," Nick called after him. "Where can I find you, if I want to ask more questions?"
"The trailer park outside o' town. Where all the forgotten live. Emily's there too." Roy pulled a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. Within seconds Nick watched smoke coil up towards the sky like a crematorium chimney as Roy walked away down the path smoking.
