Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

I don’t think the smile I deploy is especially convincing. “Anyway, the answer is yes. I did drive my baby around in the middle of the night sometimes. And I remember how exhausted I was, and how surreal everything seemed. When you’re a new mother, you’re just in a fog of hormones and exhaustion most of the time.”

“Yeah, already feeling some of that,” she sighs. “So that’s likely what she was doing out there in the middle of nowhere. Getting the kids to sleep?”

“Or she was meeting somebody.”

“I thought about a drug deal, but honestly, nothing about that car or her house screams junkie to me. House needed some outside work but seemed pretty orderly inside.”

“We both know of high-functioning addicts, especially opioid addicts,” I say, and she nods. “But you’re right—that seems an especially lonely place to go for a drug exchange. Pretty strange when truck stops and convenience stores exist.”

“Could have been some kind of romantic rendezvous,” Kezia adds. “Though I can’t imagine that as a make-out spot even on a damn sunny day.”

I have to agree with her. If ever a place had a bad spirit, it’s that one. And now it has claimed two lives . . . or two more. You’d have to be exceptionally high or drunk to have some kind of consensual encounter out there. “So, if not a drug deal gone bad, we’re looking at a straight-up abduction of the mother that he covered up by pushing her car into the pond?”

“That would have to be random, wouldn’t it?” she says. “What are the odds of some predator trolling those back roads and scoring at that hour?”

“Depends on how often she drove those babies around,” I say. “If she had a routine, a route . . .”

“Then it wouldn’t be random at all,” she finishes. “He’d know her habits. Damn.” She sighs. “But we haven’t got shit as far as evidence of any of this. We’re just guessing.”

“Is this the turnoff up ahead?” We’ve already passed the exit to Stillhouse Lake, and I’m weirdly relieved not to be headed that direction . . . and at the same time, a little sorry too. It’s such a strange, mixed feeling for me. Longing and loathing in equal measure.

“Yep, that’s it. Take a right. We’ve got about twenty minutes before we get to the crime scene.”

We arrive there exactly on time and pass the flapping crime scene tape; the TBI’s attention must be elsewhere, because there’s a minimal presence. We drive past without pausing, and Kez says, “Okay, should be about five possibilities. I’m not sure any of them will check out, but it’s worth looking into.”

“How many of them have a view of the pond?”

“None. But they may have a view of the road. Best we can do.”

Driving on this road takes concentration; the flicker of light and shadow seems more disorienting than usual, and the road curves and loops and wanders, with steep drop-offs on either side. Barely big enough for two cars to pass, if they do it carefully. My SUV seems monstrously large in the space, and I don’t know where I’d pull over if someone came from the opposite direction.

It takes the better part of an hour to strike the first two off our list. The third time seems to be the charm. It’s new construction set far back from the road, almost embarrassingly large, with double-paned windows and solar panels on the roof and a tidy garden on one side. A suburban McMansion dropped into the hills, immaculate and deeply out of place. Even though it’s overdone, I still feel a guilty twinge of house envy as we pull to a stop on the evenly paved driveway. “Jesus. They know where they live, right? A double-wide trailer is luxury around here.”

“Feels like a middle finger of a house,” Kez says. “So I’m guessing they do know. And don’t care what folks think about it. But we’re in luck. Cameras.”

She nods toward the eaves. She’s right—there are two aimed at the driveway and, hence, the road.

“Doorbell cam, too,” I note before we get out. “Let’s hope they don’t greet us with guns.”

“Out here, that’s a solid bet. You go first,” she says, and shoots me a wicked grin.

I do.

The doorbell rings inside with a soft chime, and a woman’s tentative voice through the speaker says, “Yes?” Even the one word sounds guarded. I make sure she can see me clearly on the camera.

“Hi, my name is Gwen Proctor. I’m investigating a crime that happened down the road,” I tell her, which is technically both true and a lie. “I just need to ask you a couple of questions and, if at all possible, look at the camera footage from your security cameras. Would that be possible, ma’am?”

There’s a long silence, and then she says, “Go on. Ask your questions.” She’s not going to come out. Fair enough.

“Did you see any cars pass early this morning? Maybe after midnight, but before dawn?”

“No.” She’s lying. I can feel it.

I try a different tack. “You didn’t hear anything either?”

“No. What kind of crime are we talking about?”

“We may have a missing woman,” I say. “She’s a mom, two baby girls. We’re just looking for any description of vehicles that passed on the road. That’s all.” I play a hunch. Something in the way she asked what kind of crime makes me think she’s worried that we’re here about . . . something else. Something she definitely knows about. “This isn’t about Belldene business, nothing like that.” She knows the Belldenes. She’d have to, living up here. And having this much cash? She probably knows them real well, either on the business or buyer end of things.

“I—” She hesitates, then says, “There were two cars out last night. One was a regular sedan, kind of old. The other one was a dark SUV. A nice one.” She says it like she knows she shouldn’t be talking. It comes in a rush, and then she takes a deep breath. “That’s all I