“What sort of things are on the menu?”
“Starters include steak tartare, oysters on the half shell, and a selection of locally sourced cheeses. For salads we have heirloom tomatoes, cucumber, and burrata, or there’s a mix of summer greens with a rhubarb vinaigrette,” he recites. “Then I would recommend either the prime striploin with green peppercorn sauce and fingerling potatoes, halibut with crispy brussels sprouts, or wild mushroom rigatoni with parmesan and truffles.”
“Wow. What about dessert?”
He grins. “You got a sweet tooth?”
“Let’s just say I could definitely do with some sweetening up.”
“Flourless chocolate cake, rhubarb crème brûlée, or a house-made honeycomb ice cream sound okay?”
“They sound amazing.”
“That’s because they are. You should visit. Let me feed you sometime.”
I smile and try to be normal.
And apparently fail, because he asks, “But you’re not going to, are you? Why is that?”
I am not agoraphobic or anything. The last time I went to a bar with Hana, however, I had to leave. A bartender who knew Briana Petersen saw me and started to cry. Had a breakdown in the middle of happy hour. I don’t want to risk retraumatizing someone just because I’d like a beer.
Vermont has my heart. But there’s a good chance I am going to move to a city on the other side of the country. Once we find the missing women, of course.
“I don’t tend to go out much,” I say.
“You’re a homebody, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you do for fun, Sidney?”
“What do I do for fun?” I raise my brows, search my brain, and come up with absolutely nothing. Not a single damn thing. I mean there’s dancing in the kitchen while eating cookies straight out of the wrapper. And there’s reading a romance book on the back porch. Which, with or without a bottle of wine, is still a guaranteed good time. But both of those are alone things. I highly doubt they’re the sort of activities that a. would impress him and b. he’s really asking about. There’s a small chance Muriel and Hana were right about me needing to get a life. “That’s a good question. I mean…I’ve heard of the concept. It’s just been a while.”
He waits.
“I might have to think about it.”
He watches me for a moment. Then he glances down at the tangle of tree limbs. “Let me know if I can help you with that, okay?”
“Thanks.”
He gives me a last look before he turns out the light. However, he doesn’t close the window. And I don’t know why, but it feels important.
CHAPTER TWO
Aserial killer is generally defined as a person who commits a series of three or more murders. They usually operate within a defined geographical area. A comfort zone near their residence or place of employment where they feel confident targeting, capturing, controlling, and disposing of victims. We believe that for Ryan, this was between Burlington and Mount Mansfield. Which is still a vast area to search. But there are limits to how far a person can carry dead weight—how far from wherever he left his car he could bury a body. Matching this information to the places where he took me is the key. Particularly the locations where he liked to linger for a while when we went on hikes.
Therefore, Muriel, Hana, and I spend Saturday in and around Stowe. And what a gloriously sunny, hot, and bug-filled time it turns out to be. Hauling our asses all over the mountain makes for a long day. But over the years we have found a café with the best grilled chicken chopped salad in existence. It helps to alleviate some of the pain—especially when combined with cake. The special today was a vanilla maple whiskey cupcake, and yum.
“Noah’s ex-wife is gorgeous. I am obsessed. The separation mustn’t have been too bad if he didn’t wipe her from his socials. Can you imagine being friends with an ex?” Hana asks as she slouches in the backseat of the Subaru on the way home. She’s in charge of the music and we’re listening to Paris Paloma. “Well, no. Not you, Sidney.”
My smile is as wry as can be.
“Let me see,” says Muriel. “My cell’s out of batteries or something.”
“What have you done to it now?” asks Hana. “Why does technology hate you?”
“I thought I plugged it in, but I guess not,” grumbles Muriel.
