Page 96 of Last Seen

Stay or go, she is screwed no matter what she does. And if there’s a chance of finding the truth?

The only course of action is to figure out who the stranger is, determine if he’s the killer, and confront this twisted fate she’s been given. Her world has turned as quickly as flipping over an hourglass, the sand drifting in another direction without recourse.

“This is a terrible situation,” Noah says. “No one knows exactly what to do. But get your things. I’ll take you back to Marchburg.”

“My car. My phone. My weapon. I have things here that I need. Running away without them just means I have to come back. I don’t know that running is the answer.”

“Then what do you propose otherwise?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

She plops down onto the couch. She is so tired. She won’t be able to stay awake much longer. The craziness of the past few days means she’s been running on adrenaline, but it, too, is fading in the face of basic biology. If she doesn’t sleep, she will collapse.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Tammy told me there was another woman who went missing. Before Cat. What do you know about that?”

He strokes his chin, and she can hear the rasp of his beard. It is short, hip scruff, the barest hint of hair, but defines his ridiculously handsome face.

“So, I wasn’t here then. But I did hear that a writer disappeared. It was years before your sister. There’s no way they’re related.”

“Of course there is. It’s a pattern. Don’t you see? Writers come to Brockville and never leave.”

“I’m kind of hoping you never leave.” He smiles.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He scooches closer. “You’re fierce. You’re gorgeous. You’re clearly smart. And you’re not taken.” He takes her hand, running a finger over where her rings used to be. “Why is that?”

“Another complicated, long story.”

“I have time.”

He is too close. He is too handsome. He is too much everything. She leans away, and he takes the hint and does the same.

“You were going to show me pictures of your family?” she asks.

“Yeah? Okay.” He opens his phone. Scrolls around for a few moments. Turns the screen her way. “Here’s my mom.”

The woman staring out from the screen is stunningly beautiful but fragile, delicate, a doe-eyed waif who doesn’t look sturdy enough to have birthed four strapping boys. She is haunted, possesses the sort of ethereal beauty that makes men want to protect and treasure. To own.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, she really was. Cameron looks like her the most, I think.”

“You all look like your dad.”

“You think? He’d be happy to hear that.” He swipes around some more. “Ah. Here we all are. I think I was about fourteen in this picture. Christmas. This was 1995, now that I think about it. We brought back gifts from Paris. My dad was annoyed, felt like everything was too commercial. He wanted everyone to be more connected to the earth. Natural was always better.”

She stares at the faces, searching for the one that matches the stranger. She can’t find him among the brothers.

Noah closes the phone. “What about you?” he asks.

“What?”

“Do you have pictures of your family?”