Page 19 of Still Missing You

“Were they together?” I ask. “He never mentioned him when we talked.”

“I’m not surprised.” Nancy’s mouth purses as if words on her tongue are sour. “If you ask me, though, Lyle was too old for a young man like Matthew.”

Whoever the hell this Lyle guy is, it’s clear Nancy and Jim don’t think much of him, and probably for more than just an age difference.

Considering possible suspects for who could have taken Matthew, Lyle Kirkland had just hit the top of my list.

“Do you know where we can find him?” I ask, leaning closer to the desk. Hunter’s grip on my hand tightens as if to keep me from moving too far away.

“He’s got a place on Grange Road, just outside of town,” Jim explains. “From what I know, Matthew stopped seeing him, probably around the same time he left town.”

“Thanks. We appreciate the info.” Hunter tugs me back from the desk toward the front doors. “I think we’ll go out and explore some of the town.”

I hope that’s code for track down Lyle Kirkland and shake the truth out of him.

“Good luck,” Jim calls.

Nancy nods. “I hope you find him safe.”

Once we’re outside, Hunter shakes my hand loose, glares, then starts walking to the car, leaving me to scramble after him. “So, we’re going to find this Lyle Kirkland first, right? He’s got to know something.”

“He’s definitely a good place to start,” Hunter says, as he opens his truck’s door. I climb into the passenger seat as Hunter taps his phone’s screen until he has Kirkland’s address.

I remember the bruises on Matthew’s throat. Had it been Kirkland’s handiwork? A mix of anger and worry gives my insides a twist. Had he been lying in wait in the apartment above the café yesterday morning? The same man who shoved me down the stairs? If he was, what had he been looking for?

Hunter steers us through town until the houses give way to forest. Kirkland’s house sits back from the road, a stone bungalow half-buried in knee-high grass and scattered garbage. A rusted truck carcass sinks into the lawn.

Hunter hesitates before getting out of the truck, pulling back his jacket to check the handgun in a shoulder holster. Where the hell had that come from?

“Stay close,” he orders, letting go of his coat and covering up the gun again.

I nod, still staring where that gun had been. “Do you always have that on you?” He must have put the holster on while I’d been unpacking, before pulling on his coat.

“I do when I’m investigating a missing person who may be connected with several other missing persons,” Hunter replies.

Fair point. Knowing he’s carrying a gun drives home the reality of what we’re doing—searching for a man who could be dead by the hand of someone who’d killed more than a few times over if Hunter’s research was right. A man who’d attacked me just yesterday.

Absently, I rub my fingers over the swollen cut on my head. It didn’t really hurt unless I touched it, then it felt like a bruise.

I think of Matthew, who’d worked with me for just a short time. He was funny and clever as he slowly emerged from his shell. I sincerely hope we’re wrong and that we find him safe and sound.

I pop open the truck door and step onto the rutted driveway. Together, we wade through the sea of wet, knee-high yellow grass that gives way to uneven pavers leading to the front door.

“Nice place,” I mutter. I can’t picture Matthew living here, though maybe Hunter’s right. Coldwater seems to swallow people’s better instincts. I hadn’t known the man very long, but he’d been organized and hard-working at the café, and he kept the apartment tidy.

“I don’t know,” Hunter says. “It sort of fits.”

I get what he means. Everything we’ve seen of Coldwater, the inn, Kirkland’s place, hell, even the town itself, is wrapped in a general sense of shabby neglect.

Hunter knocks hard on the front door. Flakes of green paint shake loose and flutter to the ground. We wait a minute, watching for signs of life behind the grime-streaked windows.

Nothing.

Hunter tries again, but there’s still no answer.

“I don’t think he’s home,” I say, stating the obvious.

Hunter sighs. “I think you’re right.”