Page 54 of Still Missing You

The memory of Matthew that first night, bruised and haunted, plays again and again in my head. Now, he was probably gone. Something sharp twists in my chest. I wish I could have helped him. I wish he’d trusted me enough to tell me who he was running from.

“There’s someone we haven’t really considered,” Hunter says carefully.

I frown and glance at him before turning my attention back to the road. “Who?”

“Mason Peters.”

“The store manager.”

Hunter nods. “When we first met him, he was cagey, but he pushed us toward Lyle. Maybe he was using his reputation as a cover.”

“Maybe we should talk to him,” I say slowly.

Hunter’s hand covers mine on the gearshift. The warmth of his skin eases some of the dread gripping me. “Maybe he knew about Matthew’s documentary.”

“Possibly. If that’s the case, what about a documentary detailing the town’s missing men would make him go after Matthew?”

“Go after us,” I remind him. “Breaking into our room wasn’t easy. Whoever it was took a real risk.”

Hunter glances at me. “He probably didn’t expect us to wake up. Maybe he thought he’d be in and out before anyone noticed.”

“Unless he hoped to do more than steal Matthew’s camera.”

Hunter’s jaw hardens. “Then he underestimated us.”

The quiet ferocity in his voice makes my pulse jump. I reach over and rest my hand on his thigh, careful of his knee. “Yeah, he did. We’ll figure it out.”

He looks down at my hand, then back up at me. “We will,” he says, and I believe him.

Snow crunches beneath our tires as we head back toward town.

Somewhere in Coldwater, the man who hurt Matthew is watching.

Chapter Twenty

Hunter

Mason Peters lives in a tidy side-split that looks like it was built in the seventies. A mix of gray brick and taupe vinyl siding, the house screams money without taste. Last night’s snow, blanketing Peters’s yard, is pristine, untouched. Only his carefully shoveled stone walk hints that anyone lives here at all.

Dylan parks at the curb, cuts the engine, and looks at me. “You ready?”

I sigh. “No, but let’s do it, anyway.”

Besides, talking to Peters would give me a break from Dylan’s driving. Between the abrupt lane changes and late braking, I’m not sure which will kill me first—Dylan’s driving or whoever broke into our room.

We’d stopped at the General Store to talk to Peters before coming here, but he wasn’t in. Justine, who had been manning the cash register, explained that he’d called in sick—he’d been off for the past two days, apparently—then she’d told us where he lived and even gave us directions to get there.

Coincidence that he hasn’t been to work since our intruder showed up? I’d tackled him to the floor in the hall before falling down the stairs. Could I have injured him?

We climb out of the truck, and my knee is stiff. It gives a faint twinge of protest when I put weight on it, but I don’t let on. I can feel Dylan watching me, and if he suspects I’m in any kind of pain, he’ll insist on going back to the inn so I can rest.

As appealing as spending the afternoon in bed with Dylan is, I don’t want to give Peters any time to prepare for our visit. One of his employees probably already told him that we were asking for him. The less time he has to think about what he’ll say to us, the better.

“I’m good,” I say, answering Dylan’s unspoken question as I join him at the bottom of Peters’s walk. I just wish the limp weren’t so obvious.

Together we start toward the house, and I can’t shake the low hum of unease crawling up my spine. I look up at the building. All the curtains are closed tightly. As if he has something to hide.

Peters answers the door on Dylan’s second knock. He’s dressed in plain khakis and a blue sweater hanging loose on his narrow frame. His dark, hooded eyes narrow when his gaze meets mine, and he pushes up his oversized glasses with his fingertip. His mouth purses with annoyance at the sight of us. He doesn’t look sick. And I don’t see any obvious signs that he tangled with me a few nights ago, either.