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

the half hour I spend there is easy and calm. I wash up and put things away and leave him tuning in to a boxing match. Night’s fallen dark and heavy around the lake, but the stars are out, stark and beautiful. I lean against the car and finish up the last of my Coke before I three-point it into the recycling bin. I whistle for Boot, and he comes bounding down the stairs and into the back of the car.

Cruising around the lake road is a strange experience now; I always look over at the house where I first met Gwen Proctor. It looks the same. Odd I won’t find her there now.

I check my phone in the car. No calls, but Gwen’s emailed that she’s heading out to Valerie tomorrow to interview neighbors and see if there’s any sign of a stalker in Sheryl’s life. It’s late, but I need to run down Sheryl’s ex, Tommy Jarrett. The old detective theory of “it’s always the husband” is cliché because it’s mostly true. If not the husband, it’s almost always someone close—family, friends, ex-partners, neighbors. I’d have to eliminate Tommy anyway to go anywhere else. An investigation is a spiral, moving out. And when you miss something, you have to go back to the beginning.

I prefer going at odd hours if I plan to doorstep somebody, but it’s closing in on ten at night, and that’s pretty late in these parts. Still . . . I have the nagging feeling I’d best push on. I don’t locate an address for Tommy, but there’s an Abraham Jarrett living out in the sticks beyond Norton. Good bet. I head there and text Prester once I roll to a stop at the destination. I give him the address and what I’m there to do. He sends back BC30 . . . which, in Prester-speak, means be careful, and that he expects a check-in thirty minutes from now. Good enough. If I don’t have backup, at least I’ll have someone alert for trouble and getting help rolling fast.

The Jarrett place is . . . pretty typical. Half-farm, half-junkyard. The small farmhouse on the property hasn’t got a roof, and I don’t think anybody’s lived in it in decades, but there’s a seminew single-wide trailer sinking into the dirt not far away. It’s maybe half a mile out of Norton proper, but it might as well be in the heart of the wilderness, it’s so dark and quiet around here. Lights are on in the trailer, though, and that gives me a little confidence.

I walk up the steps and knock briskly on the flimsy door. I hear heavy thuds, footsteps moving toward the front of the home, and then the door flies open with such force I’m glad I moved a few treads down, out of respect. An old, grizzled white man glares down at me. “What you want at this hour? Jesus wept, it’s late.” But then he blinks, and sees the badge I’m holding out, and his body language shifts. “You here to tell me you found him? My boy?”

“You’re talking about Tommy?” I ask, and he nods and comes out on the steps. He’s wearing a checked bathrobe that’s too thin for the cold, but he doesn’t seem to care. Weathered old house shoes on his feet. I glance behind him inside the house—habit—and see that it’s fairly neat. That’s unexpected. “I’m here about him, yes. You’re saying he’s missing?”

“I’m saying he left a long while back, and nobody believes me when I say he wouldn’t have done that,” Abraham says. He squints at me. “You must be new. Never dealt with you before.”

“I’m Detective Claremont,” I tell him. “Can I ask you a few questions? I know it’s late, but it may be important.”

He rocks back and forth in his slippers for a minute, then nods. “You want to come on in? Have some coffee?”

“I’d be much obliged.” I’m guardedly pleased to be welcomed. At least he’s talking. That’s a good start.

Inside, the trailer is just as neat as the glimpse implied. The carpet’s old, but there’s very little clutter. Photos on the walls, and some generic dollar-store art. Nothing in the place makes me think there’s been a woman living here for years, if ever; the small touches all seem masculine. My gaze catches on a framed Confederate flag as I turn, and I take a beat, then move on. Not exactly unusual in this part of the world, but indicative of several things.

He’s getting out a couple of mismatched mugs, and there’s a half-full pot of coffee in the machine. He pours and, without looking at me, says, “Cream or sugar?”

“Black is fine,” I say. He sends me a look, as if to figure out what I mean by that, then nods and carries the coffee over to the small two-person table. We sit. “Late to be making these kinds of calls, ain’t it? You’re lucky you didn’t get shot.”

“I know it’s late,” I say. I let the implied threat slide. “Sorry about that, sir. I know you were probably just settling down for the night.” I put some warmth in my voice, and it helps; his shoulders come down a touch. Anything I can do to disarm him right now is useful. “I didn’t know about your son’s case. Can I ask—”

“He’s been gone over a year now,” he says. “And I’ll tell you what, I think that woman of his killed him. I said as much to the other detective, but I don’t think he even listened.” I hear the anger, and see the muscle harden in the line of his flabby jaw. “Damn shoddy job he did. Said my son just ran off and left his pregnant wife. If that’s true, why’d he sign over his damn car and house to her first? And his whole bank account too? Man’s going to run out on his responsibilities, he takes what he owns.”

“You’re right, that sounds strange.” I say it, but I