Chapter Three
“There are people on this island who don’t talk to the police, no matter what they see,” said Crazy Carla as she turned the burner off under the whistling kettle in her old yellow kitchen. Why had he pictured an old woman with curly gray hair and pop-bottle glasses, not the dark-skinned woman with shoulder-length wavy hair and big eyes staring back at him. She was plump in the middle, likely early forties, and was filling two mugs that already held teabags, mugs that had been resting on the counter when he showed up at the door.
Maybe she’d been expecting someone. Mark hated tea, but he didn’t see anyone else there.
“Something could happen right there, right in front of them,” Carla continued, “and they’d turn away and pretend it didn’t and refuse to be involved because th
