Page 56 of Still Missing You

“Why would I?” He sounds defensive.

“But she turned it over to us.” His gaze holds mine, but he doesn’t respond. “Two nights ago, someone broke into our room and took his camera bag. Someone really didn’t want us to see what was on that camera.”

“Again,” Peters snaps, “none of this has anything to do with me.”

I ignore him and push on. “The thing is, I had already copied Matthew’s footage. So someone who might not want anyone to know that they had participated in Matthew’s film will be disappointed.”

Peters’s lips thinned. “And you think that was me?”

I lean back and fold my arms across my chest. “Was it?”

Peters lets out a short laugh. “Of course not.”

“He had bruises around his neck like someone tried to choke him,” Dylan says.

“Lyle Kirkland probably put them there,” Peters snaps, his expression stony.

“He says he didn’t,” Dylan says. “He says Matthew came home from work with them.”

“You can’t honestly believe I did that to him.”

“I’m not sure what I believe, but I’m convinced that you’re not telling me the truth.”

Peters’s jaw tightens. He looks between us, calculating. Then his gaze settles on me. “I suppose that’s something we have in common. I know who you are, and you’re not just Matthew’s friends.”

“Who do you think we are?”

“You’re a private investigator,” Peters continues.

Dylan goes still and glances at me.

How did he know? “What makes you think that?”

Peters smiles, thin and humorless. “People talk.”

Someone had been snooping in our room the first day Dylan and I checked in. We’d assumed it was Jim or Nancy. Could it have been Peters? Unlikely. Someone would have noticed him lurking around the inn.

It probably had been Jim or Nancy in our room, and they had somehow worked out what I did for a living and blurted all over town.

“Is there a bathroom I can use?”

Both Dylan and Peters look at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. This conversation is going nowhere, and while I don’t love the idea of leaving Dylan alone with Peters, I doubt we’ll have the opportunity to get inside his house again. If I’m lucky, Matthew’s bag will be easy to find if it’s here.

Peters studies me for a long moment, then he gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s down there. Second door on the right.”

“Thanks,” I say, and head down the hall.

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is spotless, but I don’t linger. Instead, I move quietly to the next door. Peters’s bedroom, I guess. It’s as clean and void of personality as the rest of the house. I check behind the door and in the closet, but there’s no sign of the camera bag.

Across the hall, the door to a spare bedroom converted into an office is open just enough to slip inside. The room is dim; the curtains drawn tight. A desk sits against one wall, a closed laptop in the center. Filing cabinets and shelves with neatly labeled boxes line the far wall.

Unlike the rest of the house, the desk is cluttered with something—photographs; I realize once I’m closer. Polaroids. Dozens of them, not even hidden.

I pick one up. My stomach drops.

A young woman. Early twenties, maybe younger. Shot from waist height. She’s standing in front of a mirror in a public bathroom, mid-adjustment of her jacket, unaware she’s being photographed. The angle is intimate. Invasive.

I flip to the next one.