Page 8 of The Hanging Dolls (Zoe Storm #1)

SEVEN

Zoe’s eyes darted across the wall adorned with nautical memorabilia—faded maps, old fishing nets, and a large, mounted fish that had seen better days.

She sat at the long, polished bar that ran along one side of the room, behind which shelves lined with bottles of whiskey, rum, and a few local brews stood in neat rows.

She connected to the VPN on her laptop and was busy going through all the reports from the sheriff’s office and WSP. Lily’s details had been recorded on NCIC, but nothing. Frustration clawed at her. An information net was pointless without information. She looked out the window at the harbor.

How did a little girl go missing in a small town like this and no one knew anything?

“Here you go.” The waitress placed a hot chocolate in front of her.

She was guzzling it down when she heard a deep, throaty voice say to the waitress, “When you get a chance, check the stock in the back, we’re running low on the local brew. Thanks, kiddo!” It was the bartender, a grizzled man with a weathered, narrow face and long, straggly, gray hair.

“Sure thing, Keith.”

Zoe’s heart dropped to her stomach like a thick boulder rolling down a hill.

The bartender looked like he was in his sixties.

She stared at him as he wiped down some glasses at the other end of the bar with a rag, trying to find cracks in her memory where he would fit.

But she was coming up with nothing. And yet there was something about him.

She pulled out a faded picture from her wallet; one of the few things she had found among her mother’s belongings and kept all these years.

A picture of Rachel and the man who was tending the bar across from her.

It was taken in 1977. The two of them, much younger and barefoot, sitting on a beach and smiling against the sun. His arm was around her shoulders.

Her heart did a little flip. Slightly unsteadily, she approached him. Why was she trembling?

“Can I get you anything, miss?” Keith asked, not really looking at her.

She bit her lip and then decided to just rip off the Band-Aid. She placed the picture in front of him when his back was turned.

Keith turned around to repeat the question but his eyes fell on the picture. He didn’t say anything. Zoe wondered if it meant nothing, but then why would Rachel have kept it all these years?

The color drained from his face. Slowly, he lifted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

“I’m Zoe Storm. Her daughter.”

His eyebrows almost touched his hairline. “ Daughter ? Wow… I didn’t know she had a kid.”

“Two kids. My sister lives in Vermont.”

“Right…” He leaned on a hand and touched his lips with the other, as he stared at the photograph.

“Well, where is she?” Before Zoe could form the words, her face gave it away.

Fear registered on his face. His eyes widened a fraction and his lips parted.

But it was gone in the blink of an eye, replaced by a crumpled forehead. “I’m so sorry… what happened?”

“She killed herself.” A lie.

“Suicide? Rachel?” He wrestled with the words, finally shaking his head. “I guess you don’t know what goes on in anyone’s head, right?”

“How did you know her?”

“I just met her at a concert in 1977. We spent two weeks together. I was just passing through the Midwest. It was a fling,” he added bashfully. “We never saw each other again. I had to go back to California and get my shit together. I even forgot about this picture.”

Something was amiss. “She kept the photo all these years.”

His eye twitched. “She did, huh? That’s sweet of her, lady. Look, I got some work to do?—”

“Do you remember anything she told you about her past or anyone else in her life?” Zoe pressed. “Parents, cousins, siblings, boyfriends, anything?”

Keith stared at her dumbfounded. “No. I frankly don’t remember. It was forty years ago.”

Before she could probe further, he went back to the kitchen.

Zoe’s hands curled into fists. Another dead end.

She slammed her laptop shut and marched out of the bar, fighting back tears.

Sometimes she wondered if this was all Rachel’s doing.

How she must be influencing the events in her life to ensure that Zoe was as far from the truth as possible.

How was it that an FBI agent was unable to find out anything about her own past?

Thin clouds stretched across the horizon, their edges tinged with the faintest traces of pink and lavender, remnants of the sun’s last rays struggling to hold on. The sky over the town was a soft, muted gray, the color deepening as the day slowly gave way to evening.

Zoe was heading to her car when she decided to sneak a last peek at the only person she had found who was in some way connected to Rachel.

Through the window, she spotted Keith back at the bar.

His hands rested on the counter, his head hanging low.

As he raised his head, he wiped away a stray tear racing down his cheek.

Alarm bells went off in Zoe’s head. She thought back to his reaction to learning about Rachel’s death and how she had died. He’d looked positively shaken, disturbed. Why would he cry over someone he knew for just two weeks forty years ago? Why would Rachel keep this photo?

He was lying.

But why did he lie to her?

She was contemplating going back in and confronting him again when her phone trilled. “Hello?” She answered without checking the caller ID.

“Agent Storm, it’s Scott.” His voice was low and measured. “We found Lily.”