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A woman who appears to be a bit younger than the last woman I spoke to smiles at me from behind an old desk that looks like it belongs in an elementary school from the fifties.
“Here about the girl?” She chuckles.
“Am I really that obvious?”
She looks me up and down and then frowns. “Yes. Plus, no one comes to this town.”
My fingers trail against the surface of the wood in front of me, glancing around at the store before settling into my question. “Yes, I’m here about Cynthia Richards. Did you know her when she lived here?”
“She was a sweet girl, but that’s all I know. She used to work part time at the diner four doors down when she was a senior in high school. I bet they know something.”
“Thank you,” I say before heading out. I don’t bother buying anything, and I head straight to the diner.
When I get inside, it’s pretty empty, save for a few waitresses on staff.
Perfect.
I take a seat at the counter.
“How can I help you, dear?” a woman in her fifties says to me.
I pull the menu from where it sits next to the silver metal napkin holder and glance at it quickly before looking up. “I’ll just have a coffee, cream and sugar, please.”
“Sure thing.” A few seconds later, she brings me my mug. “What brings you to town?”
“Just trying to get a bit of information on someone. I wonder if you can help me.”
“You looking for information on Cynthia?”
I nod. They must never get visitors, or I stick out like a sore thumb.
“I’ll tell you what I told the last reporter. She was a sweet girl. Worked here for a bit until she got caught up in a relationship with a troubled kid.”
“What was the name of the kid?”
“I . . . I am not good with names, and that was a long time ago.” She grabs a rag and starts to clean. Something tells me she does know, but she doesn’t want to tell me.
“Oh, there’s more to the story than that . . .” the other server says as she steps closer.
I incline my head.
“Tammy, hush your mouth,” the other one warns.
“What? It’s true. Or are you getting too old in the sack you really don’t remember?”
The server gives the one I now know as Tammy a dirty look.
“What’s the rest of the story?” I ask Tammy.
“Cynthia fell apart about the same time as the fire.”
“What fire?” I ask, interested in getting more on this new piece of information.
“It was around the same time everything in New Jersey was blowing up with all those Compass killings. We had our own drama here in Somerset.”
“It’s hardly the same thing, comparing a fire to serial killers, don’t you think?”
“Still drama to all of us. So, do you want to know or not?” she huffs.
“What happened?” It might not have anything to do with what I’m looking into, but something tells me if I get these women to talk, they might tell me something they wouldn’t otherwise divulge.
“People don’t like to talk about it around these parts, but during the same time as the women went missing, there was a fire, and two boys died.”
“Did Cynthia know the boys?”
“Of course she did.” The other woman shoots her another look.
“No one wants to remember those days.” She scoffs at Tammy.
“And Cynthia, she showed up here after the fire crews had everything calmed down. She was completely distraught. Rightfully so. The one boy was her friend. She refused to say what happened. People thought she might be involved somehow by the way she was acting, but that girl couldn’t hurt a fly.”
I lean forward on the counter, placing my elbows down to get closer. “What happened?”
“Eventually, she started showing signs of PTSD. We don’t have the people to help with that here, so they found a hospital over in New York that could help. Years went by, and she never came back to the town . . . until recently.”
My mouth drops open, but I’m quick to rein in my shock. “She was here? In Somerset?”
“She was.”
“When?”
She looks up to the ceiling as if she is trying to remember. “Hmm. Maybe about two months ago.”
“What was she doing here?”
“She was digging for information about a boy she’d once had a relationship with. One of the boys from the fire.” She whispers this as if talking about the boy will get her in trouble.
The phone rings, and the other server goes to answer it. Tammy slides closer, wiping the counter right in front of me. She leans in. “The troubled boy she was in a relationship with . . . his name was North Abbott.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Where can I find his family?”
“Oh, honey, it’s the saddest story; they’re all dead. Have been gone for years now, but that was before I was in town.”
