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CHAPTER TWELVE

CELINE

Nelson Insurance is two hours from our house, in a tiny building between a gas station and a liquor store. It’s older with paint that needs updating and a logo decal on the door that is missing two letters.

I have no idea what to expect once I get in there. Will they just let me see Aaron? Will he already be with someone? Will he even be in the office, or does he work from home most days?

I know, once he realizes who I am, that he’ll send me away. I’m just hoping I can appeal to him as a person before he does. If he was friends with Tate before, surely there’s some shred of humanity in him that will want to help me.

I cross the parking lot, stepping over cracks in the pavement with thick tufts of grass growing up through them.

As I walk inside, I’m hit with a wave of stale air, the ching-ching of the bell above the door, and the loud hum of the air conditioning unit. There’s no receptionist at the desk like there usually is at Tate’s office, but after a few moments, I hear someone making their way toward the front.

A shorter, balding man with a serious face and a coffee stain on the belly of his white shirt walks out of an office, tugging at the waist of his pants. “Well, hello there. I thought I heard someone come in.” He holds out his hand with a warm smile. “Sorry about the wait. Kristen’s out to lunch, but I’m Aaron. One of the insurance agents here. Can I help you with something today?”

“Actually, yes.” I brace myself for the worst. “Is there any way we could speak in your office?”

He hesitates, and I worry I’ve blown my cover, but eventually, he says, “Sure. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

I consider lying, but eventually decide against it. “Celine.”

“Nice to meet you, Celine.” He steps back, still appearing wary, and leads me toward an office in the back. The office is generic, with old furniture and cheap, gray carpet. There are a few photographs on a lateral filing cabinet behind his desk, and my eyes immediately drift to one of him fishing off a boat, shirtless and turned away from the camera. His shoulder boasts the same tattoo Tate’s does. The same tattoo that Dakota’s had also.

“Now, then. What can I do for you?” He sits down in his chair and rolls it up to his desk, studying me with his hands folded under his chin.

I take a deep breath. “My husband is Tate Thompson.”

His body tenses, but I rush to continue.

“Please don’t send me away. I know you didn’t want to talk to me over the phone, but I’ve come all this way and I just need your help. I think you’re the only one who can help me.”

“I can’t help you,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“My mother-in-law, Daphne, she spoke highly of you. Said you were all friends in college. She told me you were a good person, that you are a good person.”

He sighs, resting his forehead against his knuckles as he stares down at the desktop. “That was a long time ago. I hadn’t spoken to Tate in years. Mrs. Thompson is very kind, but she doesn’t know me anymore. And neither does Tate.”

“He had your office’s physical address in his email, sent from Dakota Miller, who I believe was also your friend.”

He looks up at me with an exhausted expression that I feel in my bones. “I don’t know anything about that. Like I told you on the phone, I don’t want anything to do with whatever this is.”

“All of your friends are dead or missing,” I say, getting straight to the point. “And I think you know why. If they were truly your friends, surely you would want to help find Tate, to bring him home safely.”

He shakes his head. “I wish I did. I wish I could help you. Tate was a good guy.”

“ Was ?” I say, my nose scrunched in disgust. “He’s not dead.”

He pinches his lips together. “Look, you should go. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t have any business getting involved.”

“Why was Nelson Insurance’s address in his email? Can you at least tell me that? Did he come here? Were you guys working together on something?”

“No. I have no idea why Dakota would’ve sent him the address.” He stands. “Maybe they were going to send me a card.”

“You all have that same tattoo.” I gesture toward the picture, then touch the back of my shoulder, where the same tattoo would fit on my skin if I had it. “The lion. What does it mean? Tate never told me.”

He looks at the photo, scowling. “It was stupid college stuff. We were drunk and thought they looked cool.” He holds out his arm, gesturing toward the door. “Please don’t make me call the cops. This is my place of business. You can’t just show up.” His shoulders rise with a heavy breath. “Please just don’t come here again, okay? I hope you find Tate, but there’s nothing else I can do to help you. I’ve left that period of my life in the past, and that’s where I want it to stay.”

I nod, gathering my purse and standing, but think better of it and grab a sticky note and pen, jotting down my phone number. “Please, just…if you think of anything, please call me.”

He nods but looks annoyed, and finally, I leave with nothing more than I arrived with. When I make it to the car, I realize the small silver lining is that thought is not entirely true. One thing that came from this trip is that I now know the tattoos were a thing among friends in college, and that they all had them, not just Tate and Dakota. Whether or not that means anything, I’m not sure, but it’s a piece of information I didn’t have before, and I’ll take it.

As I drive across town, I run through the conversation in my head. I don’t know why he doesn’t want to help if Tate was ever truly his friend, but I can see not wanting to get involved in an active investigation, especially if they haven’t spoken in years. Still, if they were truly as close as brothers like Daphne and Lane described, I can’t imagine not wanting to answer questions or help if there was a way I could. I think about the girls I was close with in high school—women I haven’t spoken with in years. If something were to happen to them, even if I knew nothing, I’d want to be involved. I’d want to help. Unless he’s hiding something, the way Aaron is acting doesn’t make any sense to me.

I just wish I knew why Dakota sent him Aaron’s work address a few days ago. It has to mean something, doesn’t it?

When I pull into my driveway, all thoughts of Aaron and our conversation are wiped away by the sight of a police car waiting for me.

I step out of the car at the same time Detective Monroe does. Moments later, my mom pops her head out of the house. I wave at her cautiously. I can’t tell if she looks worried or upset from where I’m standing, and I hate that.

The detective walks toward me. “Afternoon, Mrs. Thompson. Sorry to pop in unannounced.”

“Oh, um, no problem. Have you been waiting long?”

“Not at all. Just got here, and your mom informed me you’d be home any minute. I was just getting ready to try to call you.”

I glance back at the car. “Oh. Is everything alright? Did something happen?”

“I just wanted to follow up with you about something we came across during our investigation.” He folds his hands in front of his stomach, widening his stance, and my stomach drops.

Whatever it is, it requires more than a phone call. This must be serious. I swallow. “Okay.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a notepad, flipping it open. “Mrs. Thompson, what can you tell me about the large withdrawal from your investment account on the day before your husband disappeared?”

“My…” My heart stalls. “My what?”

“The joint investment account that you share with your husband as part of a mutual fund. Do you know what I’m referring to? It looks like it had a balance of around two hundred and sixty-four thousand dollars in it.”

I nod. “I know which one you’re talking about, yes, but I don’t know anything about a withdrawal. How much is missing?”

He looks down at his paper again quickly and closes the notebook. “All of it, Mrs. Thompson. Every cent.”