Page 52 of Still Missing You

“We’re not the cops,” I say. “And we’re not here to accuse you of anything.” Which isn’t exactly true, but I was willing to bend the truth if it meant getting answers.

“You might not be cops, but you’re not just Matthew’s friends,” he mutters.

“He’s missing. We just want to find him.”

“Yeah, right.” Lyle rolls his eyes, but he opens the door wide and steps aside.

Inside, the place smells musty, like old cigarettes and dust, and once again I ask myself what the hell Matthew had been doing with this guy. The grime on the windows turns Lyle’s living room dull and gloomy, with only the glow from the television to brighten the room. He’s watching a cop show I don’t recognize and switches it off before I can work it out.

Half-packed boxes clutter the living room. Lyle catches me noticing and scowls.

“Don’t start,” he says. “I was planning to move, anyway.”

“Where?” Hunter asks.

“None of your business.”

“Have a seat.” He gestures to a sofa that might have started with a white and green swirl pattern, but years of dirt and cigarette smoke had dulled the color and made the pattern indistinct. “Sorry about the mess, boys. Maid’s day off.”

We sit, Hunter at one end of the sofa and I on the edge of the other. Lyle sinks into a threadbare recliner that looks like he found it in someone’s trash.

“So what’s the plan here? You going to accuse me of more shit I didn’t do?”

“I doubt it,” Hunter says. “Look, I’m going to get straight to the point.”

Thank god, I think.

“Matthew’s camera bag was stolen from our room two nights ago.”

Lyle grins, sharp and humorless. “I heard about that. Heard you had a fall. You should be more careful on the stairs.”

I can feel Hunter tense, but his expression remains neutral. “Did you take Matthew’s camera bag?”

Lyle rolls his eyes. “You think I broke into your room? Seriously?”

“You saw we had his equipment,” I say. “You knew about the film he was working on.”

“So what?” Lyle snaps. “I didn’t give a shit about his stupid documentary when he lived here. Why would I now that he’s gone?”

Hunter studies him. “Where were you two nights ago?”

“Here,” he answers instantly. “I had a job the next day.”

“Anyone who can verify that?” Hunter presses.

Lyle’s jaw tightens. “Nope.”

I watch his hands as he speaks. Faint yellow-purple bruises mark his knuckles, half-hidden by his sleeves.

I glance at Hunter. He’s noticed them too. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Those look recent,” I say.

Lyle follows my gaze, then curses under his breath. “Don’t.”

“What happened?” Hunter asks.

“Nothing that concerns you.”