Page 48 of Last Seen

Chapter Thirty-Three

Halley retrieves her overnight bag and backpack from the Jeep, calculating what she has and what she’ll need to supplement for a few days.

Surely they have a laundromat in their perfect little town.

And as much as she wants to leave, maybe the universe—as Tammy Boone suggested—is giving her a chance to figure out who needs her help.

She joins the sheriff in his Escalade. He’s talking to someone on the phone and furtively ends the call when she opens the door.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s fine. The Inn will be booked up starting tonight. There’s a wedding this weekend, and they’re all arriving today, so I was arranging a place for you. It’s a little more rustic, but I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

More rustic than the weird inn. Great.

He reads the question on her face. “We have short-term rentals for folks who come here for vacations and don’t want the fancy spa treatment.

It comes with a golf cart, so you don’t have to be totally isolated if you’d like to get to know the town a bit better.

Walking paths to the lake, too.” He glances at her overnight bag.

“If you need anything, the shops open at ten. They’re all grouped on Main Street in Avalon.

Near where you came in, the bookstore and the General Store, that area. ”

“What about the kid?”

He glances at her, then back at the road. “I’m gonna change into some better gear and come back out with a dog, see if I can get farther into the brush.”

The relief she feels is immediate and surprising. “Thank you. He seemed ... terrified.”

“I checked with dispatch, but we don’t have any reports of anyone missing, no kids missing, nothing. So it really could just be someone playing. That hill there leads right into the back of Somer.”

“He didn’t look like he was playing, Sheriff. And if he was, he’s much too little to be playing alone.”

The sheriff grunts in agreement, though she knows he thinks she’s lost her mind. Maybe she has. Maybe she was seeing things.

The boy’s cries ring in her ears again. His dark eyes, the panic in them. No. He was very, very real.

They are down the mountain now, and the sheriff swings the Escalade back toward Brockville.

“Do we need to talk about who might want you to stay here in Brockville? You mentioned you’re having some issues with your husband?”

She taps a finger against her lips. That little outburst really has gotten her into a mess.

“You agree that my car was sabotaged?”

“The tires didn’t slit themselves. Your husband pissed off enough to follow you here?”

“He’s mad at me, not homicidal.”

“You sure about that?”

She sits with this for a moment. Theo, lashing out. Theo, murdering Kater, Chowdhury. Theo, lying about being in Texas. So angry with her for leaving that he’d follow her, handicap her, and then ... what?

Well, that’s terrifying.

“No, I am not sure, but for God’s sake, he’s my husband. Our issues aren’t the kind that are solved at the end of a knife. It’s typical career and family stuff. He wouldn’t hurt me.” I don’t think.

“He threatened you.”

“He was mad. People separate and get divorced all the time without one of them ending up dead.”

“He get mad like that a lot?”

“Oh my God, we really are having this conversation. Not really. Usually he’s too busy working to care what I’m doing. And seriously, my marriage is off limits here.”

“Halley, nothing is off limits in a murder investigation. You know that.”

“This isn’t murder.”

“Yet.”

He stops at an intersection, turns on his blinker. The sheriff is measured in all his actions. He pulls into a parking lot, and she realizes the Steep and Brew has a drive-through. He stops in front of the elaborate menu.

“What’s your druthers?”

She scans the board. They have everything, not surprising, considering, but she’s not feeling fancy. “Iced vanilla latte. Extra shot.”

He places the order, gets himself a small coffee, black—shocking—and pulls to the window. He hands hers over, puts his in the cup holder, and they’re off again. She notices that he does not pay, nor is he asked to. Perks of owning the town.

“Sorry about the line of questioning. Just making sure we don’t have a problem brewing. If your husband knows you’re here, he might be trying to send a message.”

“He’s not afraid to tell me exactly what he thinks. Can we talk about something else?”

“Yup.”

“Do you know a woman who lives in Brockville named Donnata Kade?”

His hands tighten on the wheel.

“Yes.”

“Where does she live? I’d like to talk to her.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”

“Why?”

He shoots her a glance. “Kade is ... Well, she moved here after an emotional breakdown following a pretty intense caseload, and she wasn’t totally right in the head. I assume you saw the article on her?”

“No, I haven’t. What is it about?”

“Then how do you know that name?” he asks sharply. Halley debates for a minute. Early will certainly tell Brockton what he’s found out if they talk. She might as well share.

“I spoke with Chief Early as I was leaving this morning. He was able to identify her from a video feed in Marchburg the night my friend was killed.”

“Kade was in Marchburg?”

“Yes. So that’s why I’d like to talk to her. To find out why. What’s the article about?”

He fights back a little groan. “She was dismissed from the FBI for falsifying information to get an arrest. Had a breakdown when she was let go. She moved here to get away from the fallout. Rented a place over in Avalon from the Esworthys. They own a few homes here, investment properties. Bruce and my dad go way back. They travel a lot, though. Brockville is a second home for them.”

“The Esworthys? Why do I know that name?”

“Bruce owns a number of car dealerships around the South. Porsches. Why, are you in the market for something new?”

“My God, you do have a sense of humor. Noah said you did. I didn’t believe him.”

“Noah talks too much,” he says gruffly.

“Noah doesn’t talk nearly enough. No Porsches. I’d just like to speak with Donnata Kade.”

“She’s not around.”

Of course she isn’t. Because she’s in Marchburg. Or other environs.

“She has a phone, I assume?”

“It’s a waste of time, Halley. She ... doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Would the Esworthys know where she’s gone?”

“Doubt it, but their number will be in the book.”

“All right. I will look them up in the book. I assume it will be with my golf cart?”

“Don’t sass me, girl.”

She fights back the retort—“ girl? ”—because he’s right; now she’s just needling him because she’s still pissed off about the handcuffs. Keep him on your side. She sips the latte. It is divine. She’s starting to wonder if everything Noah Brockton touches turns to gold.

Could Noah have slashed the tires? No. No way. He didn’t have that kind of darkness in him.

You never know . . .

“Noah told me you did search for my sister. Thank you.”

He is silent for a moment. “Your sister, what she did. Killing your mother, I mean. Why in the world would you want to find her? Wouldn’t you rather she was out of your life forever?”

You better believe it. But I want answers first.

“I have to admit, that’s a good question.

I think not knowing is worse than knowing.

I had no idea what happened. I still don’t have the whole story.

And I guess I want to hear from her directly how she could do such a thing.

Why she would kill our mother for wanting to send her to a wilderness camp.

And if I’m being honest, I want to find out how the people who knew her—loved her, even—didn’t know that she was a monster. ”

The sheriff turns down a narrow lane, cobblestones making the big truck shudder. Halfway down, he stops in front of a charming cottage, like something you’d see in the Cotswolds or a movie set. He turns off the engine. “This is Brooke Cottage. I’ll get you settled.”

“I’m fine—”

“I’ll get you settled.”

The place is adorable—gray stone with a pitched roof, two perfectly symmetrical chimneys, a red door with a brass knocker.

There is a small zen garden in the front with a cedar bench, evergreen boxwoods in a half-circle labyrinth, and the promised golf cart under its own replica roof attached to the side of the house.

It’s much too big for one person, but she’s hardly going to complain.

Privacy is exactly what she needs right now.

The sheriff takes her bag and leads her up the walkway.

Inside is as nice as the outside. There is an open floor plan with a stone fireplace and modern kitchen.

The floors are stained a deep walnut, there are thick rugs, and the sofa and chairs are lush and inviting.

English-country-house decor, bookshelves, wildlife paintings.

“Very nice,” she says.

“Bedrooms are through there. There’s wood for the fireplaces on the back porch. I’ll have some groceries delivered. Have any requests?”

“You don’t need to do that. I won’t be staying that long.”

“Consider it my apology for the cuffs yesterday.”

She writes up a quick list of basics—coffee, eggs, bread, OJ, apples, peanut butter. Her tastes are simple, especially since there are so many food options close by that she can try.

Admit it. You want to talk to Noah Brockton again. Maybe he’ll be willing to talk about the other missing writer.

She wants to ask Brockton directly, but she’s enjoying their tenuous détente. She doesn’t need him shutting down on her now, especially since he seems to be on her side. She hands him the list. “The book? I’d like to look up the Esworthys’ number.”

“By the phone, of course.” He narrows his eyes. “Listen, Donnata Kade is trouble.”

“Then why do you let her live here?”

“‘Let.’ Like I said, it was temporary. And I don’t have control of who people rent to. I don’t know what she could possibly do to help you find your sister.”

“She’s FBI, right?”

“Was.”

“Maybe she’ll have an idea or two that you and I haven’t thought of.”