Page 37 of Still Missing You

I think of the map Hunter showed me before coming to Coldwater, marking the people who had vanished from the area. Just a few every year for the past seventeen years, not enough to notice in the moment, not until you stepped back and considered the last decade and a half as a whole.

“Did you tell him that?” I ask.

“Yeah, but he said the pattern is easy to miss because it’s over such a long period of time. He said the same thing happened in his hometown around the same time his mom and stepfather disappeared.”

I look over at Hunter, and he looks at me. His brows lift, and he shoots me a that’s-interesting look.

“You know about that, right?” Justine asks. “That other people had gone missing around the same time his parents did?”

“We knew about his parents. Did he talk about what happened to them very much?” I ask. Did he believe that what happened to them had something to do with what was happening here? He must have. Why else would it have mattered to him?

She shakes her head, wraps her arms around her middle as if she’s cold. I turn the car back on and turn up the heat.

She shrugs. “Not much. Matty really only talked about the film he was making when he asked me to be in it and answer some questions about the men who disappeared.”

Hunter leans closer. Twisting around in his seat to look at Justine must be killing his knee, but his stoic expression gives nothing away. “What kind of questions did he ask?”

“Just what I knew about those men who vanished. I’ve lived here my whole life, and he wanted to know what the people in town say about the people who have gone missing.”

“What do they say?” I ask.

She shrugs again and turns back to the window. A thin layer of steam coats the glass, and she traces her finger through it, making squiggly lines. “Not a lot. I don’t think most people know. I mean, sometimes there’ll be an article in the local paper about someone who was passing through Coldwater, and now their family is looking for them. But it’s not all the time, or anything, just every once in a while. I don’t think most people know how many men have gone missing or were last seen in Coldwater. I didn’t until Matthew showed me. Even then, I still didn’t think it was a big deal. I thought it was just a coincidence.” Hunter goes still beside me, his jaw tightening.

I look at Hunter again and see how he stiffens. The tension is barely discernible to someone who doesn’t know how much he hates that word. “But you don’t think that anymore?”

She draws a trembling breath and turns away from the window, meeting Hunter’s gaze. “I think Matty found something, or someone dangerous, and he had to run.”

“Why do you think that?” I ask, remembering how hunted Matthew looked when he walked into my café.

She swallows hard. “I knew something was wrong, even before he left Coldwater. He was jumpy and nervous, then he turned up at my apartment. It was storming, but he had all his film equipment with him, and he asked me to hold on to it. He said I was the only person he trusted not to ask questions. He told me that if anything happened to him, he wanted me to take it all to the police.”

“Did you take his things to the police?” Hunter asks.

She shakes her head.

“Why?” Why didn’t you do what he asked? Maybe the police would finally start looking for him.

“I didn’t know,” she whispers softly. “I didn’t know where he was. I didn’t know whether he was safe or in danger. Until I heard about you two, staying at the inn and asking questions about him. Even then, I didn’t know whether you were telling the truth. I guess I still don’t.” I can’t blame her when I’m not sure I would have trusted anyone either.

She offers a weak smile that dissolves quickly.

“Will you give us Matthew’s equipment so we can see what he was working on, maybe figure out what sent him running?” Hunter fishes out a business card from his jacket pocket. “I’m a private investigator. Dylan hired me when he felt like the police weren’t taking Matthew’s disappearance seriously. I’d like to review the material and turn over what I find to the police.”

She nods and wipes at her glassy eyes. “Yeah. You can have it.”

There’s relief in her voice, as if she’s glad to hand the responsibility over. Still, there’s one more thing I want to know.

“When I met him, Matthew had bruises on his throat, like someone choked him.”

She nods. “I saw them too.”

“Did he tell you what happened to him?”

“No, but I didn’t ask. I just assumed Lyle did it. He’s awful, and I could never figure out why Matty stayed with him.”

***

We drive Justine back to her apartment, a small studio over a garage behind a Victorian house, only a little smaller than the inn. She brings out Matthew’s film equipment, and I carefully load the padded bags into the back seat next to her.