“But you don’t actually know him,” Clare says.
Austin says nothing. Clare knows she can’t fully trust the version of Malcolm offered to her by those here in Lune Bay. She has often thought of what people in her hometown might have said about her after she left, how they might have described her as bitter, cruel, detached, a drug addict married to an angry drunk. Clare drains her whiskey and orders another one. Fuck it. She needs it.
Austin flicks her empty glass so it edges down the bar.
“A PI with an Irish name drinking whiskey,” he says. “That’s very on brand.”
Clare smiles tightly. “Beer’s not my thing.”
“Was it your husband’s thing?” Austin asks.
“Excuse me?”
Austin lifts Clare’s left hand from where it rests on the bar and gently rubs at the base of her ring finger. “You see right here? The little dent in the skin? It’s almost faded. Almost. Your wedding ring might have gotten a bit tight over the years. Literally, I mean. My mom still had that dent two years after leaving my dad and chucking her wedding ring. It drove her nuts.”
“That’s pretty observant,” Clare says, a heat in her cheeks.
“That’s my job.”
“Yeah, well. My husband’s long gone. He’s not relevant to this.”
“Fair enough. Then why don’t you tell me who hired you to work this case?”
“You don’t need to know that either,” Clare says.
The bartender returns with Clare’s food and a refill on the whiskey. Clare pours a pat of ketchup next to the fries and folds one into her mouth.
“You want to hear something funny?” Austin asks. “I was supposed to be on a blind date tonight. It was a setup. My mom says I don’t date enough. She thinks I take my work too seriously. So she and some friend from her book club matched me with this woman’s niece. Anyway, I got a text about an hour ago that my blind date wasn’t coming. She said her dog was sick, but I’m guessing she googled me and figured me to be some kind of crazed person fixated on an unsolved murder. Or maybe she peeked into the bar and didn’t like what she saw.”
He’s fishing and Clare knows it. “That’s too bad,” she says.
“But then your email came through about five minutes later.” Austin shrugs. “These things have a way of working out.”
Clare says nothing. She leans over the bar to bite into her burger, a graceless task that seems to amuse Austin. Does he believe that she’s flirting with him? How is it that some men can see anything they want in nothing at all?
“I’ll make you a deal, investigator Clare,” he says. “Question for question. A little game of get-to-know-you.”
“Okay,” Clare says. “I go first. When did you meet Malcolm Hayes?”
“Twice, I think. First time was right after Jack Westman’s murder. I tracked him down, tried to get him to talk to me. Second time, a few years later, maybe? Definitely before Zoe vanished. He finally agreed to an interview, then sat through the whole thing stone-faced, like he was mocking me. After Zoe went missing, I stalked him for a while. Camped out in front of their crazy cliff house. Confronted him a few times, but what’s he going to say? Then he was gone. I tried to track him, but he had every one of my sources stumped. I’ll give the guy credit: he knows how to disappear.”
The bartender brings Austin another beer and swipes the first one from his grasp. Austin makes a show of protesting, then takes the cold bottle and clinks the top of Clare’s whiskey glass.
“My turn,” he says. “So what’s your skin in this game?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know any of the Westmans? Any of the missing women?”
“Women?” Clare asks. “Women, plural? As far as I know, there’s only Zoe.”
“Ohhh.” Austin drawls the word, then taps a finger to his temple. “See? Secrets. You haven’t made that connection yet. I’ve been working on this big piece. An exposé, you could say. My mom tells me the Zoe Westman case is dead, no pun intended. But did you know that in the years before Zoe Westman vanished, at least two other women went missing in this town? Possibly even more. Women who knew each other, ran in the same circle. The Westman circle. But not the kind of women who’d raise serious alarms with the police. Women they figured just took off with boyfriends. One of them had developed a pretty bad prescription drug habit. I don’t even think any of them made the front page when the missing persons reports were filed, if they made the papers at all. But I’ve been piecing things together.” He touches finger to thumb. “Connections people haven’t made before. I wrote one piece about one of the girls’ dads. He’s been on the hunt for his daughter, but the cops have him labeled a conspiracy theorist. No one wanted to print the story. It’s online on this niche crime blog. I’ll send you the link.”
“That’s a big share, Austin. Thank you.”
“Hey, I like the fact that you’re a PI,” Austin says. “But wait. We’re getting out of order here. The question is still mine. You never answered. What is your skin in the game?”
“I was hired to come here,” Clare says, her tone unconvincing. “That’s it. I work alongside a detective named Somers. Hollis Somers. You can look her up. She’s not based in Lune Bay, obviously. We worked a case together a while back.”
It occurs to Clare that she should tell him the truth about Malcolm too, given she’s told Charlotte. It is not her secret anymore. But something holds her back.
“My turn,” she says. “Do you know Charlotte Westman?”
“I know her well,” he says. “Really well these days, actually. She’s been crashing at my place. She got evicted a few weeks ago. It’s tight quarters,
