Page 38 of Knox

We’d had a long day. The morning out, looking for signs of the VW bus. The afternoon in, watching news clips from the hikers’ disappearances, searching for a repeated face in each crowd.

When we’d both become too restless to sit at home until dawn, we decided on a change of scenery as we researched. I just hadn’t expected the surge of emotion upon entering this place. I’d been fine here before.

Sloane’s touch grounded me, pulling me back from the grief threatening to swallow me whole.

“Yeah. It’s just strange being here without her.”

Sloane squeezed my arm gently, then released me. She understood. She’d lost Claire too, in her own way. The friendship they’d formed over hiking and environmental conservation, over shared glasses of sweet tea and conversations about protecting the island they both loved was real and abiding. Sloane spoke of my mom the way people spoke about those they cherished.

I flipped on the lights, and the store came to life. Bright yellow kayaks hung from the ceiling. Paddleboards leaned against the walls. My gaze fixed on the worn wooden countertop where my mother had greeted thousands of customers over the years, learning their names, remembering their stories, making everyone feel welcome.

And where my initials were still carved into the wood, right next to hers.

“Where should we start?” Sloane asked, moving deeper into the shop. She looked beautiful and completely at ease here. Like someone who belonged in this space.

Like she belonged with me.

I shoved that thought away and crossed to the counter. “Let’s start with her customer and vendor logs. Everyone who rented equipment, bought supplies, or asked for trail recommendations would be written there.” I pulled out a stack of leather-bound journals from beneath the register. “It’s a long shot, but maybe we’ll find a man’s name listed near each of the missing hikers’ names.”

We settled side by side on stools behind the counter, close enough that I could smell her perfume, something floral and clean. Close enough that every time she shifted, her shoulder brushed my arm, sending sparks of awareness through me.

Focus, Hawthorne. You’re here to find answers.

I pulled a box of business files from beneath the counter.

Vendor contracts, supply orders, insurance documents. The mundane backbone of the shop Mom had loved. I opened a folder labeled “Vendors - Active” and flipped through the pages. Sullivan’s Seafood. Alverez Marina for kayak purchases. A printing company in Nags Head for brochures. Along with dozens more. The second folder was far lighter and marked: “Vendors - Terminated.” I opened it slowly. Only one contract lay inside.

Lehman & Son – Excursion Supplies and Trail Guides Contract Initiated: April, nearly twelve years ago. Contract Terminated: this January. More than a decade of business, ended just a few months before Mom died.

“Look at this.” I tipped the paper in Sloane’s direction.

The letterhead at the top read “Lehman & Son – Excursion Supplies and Trail Guides.” The termination line held a single name. Walter Lehman.

“Is this a family business?” Sloane asked.

I shrugged. “Could’ve been.” I fished my phone from my pocket. “Either way, this guy was working with Mom for a long time, then she fired him. That has to be important.”

“Do you think there’s a connection?”

“I don’t know. But I want to talk to this Walter Lehman.”

Sloane leaned closer, reading over my shoulder as I photographed the contract with my phone. “4847 Maritime Forest Road. Do you know it?”

“No, but it’s local.”

“What’s the note say?”

Mom’s handwriting in the margin was sharp and decisive. “Concerning behavior. Inappropriate questions about female customers. No further contact.”

The air in the shop felt suddenly colder. This wasn’t just a terminated business relationship. This was a lead.

Sloane’s eyes met mine. She grabbed the corner of the paper. “Did she write anything else?”

I checked the back of the paper and the box beneath the file. “No. Just this.”

Sloane rubbed goosebumps from her arms as she dug back into the files. “I’m looking at the dates around the women’s disappearances. Rebecca disappeared two years ago in June,” Sloane said, flipping through the pages. “Your mom noted she visited on the fourteenth. Was anything else of significance happening that weekend?”

I searched for local events at that time on my phone. “The annual fishing tournament. It’s a big deal. Brings in a lot of tourists. Runs the whole second week of June.”