“Why?” Austin asks.
“Because she knew I’d heard the real story. And her face was blank, but at the same time I could read it exactly. Like her actual expression was written in invisible ink. The sadness, the energy it took to play along.”
Instantly Clare sees it, the shift in his expression, a flicker of understanding.
“Sounds like you could relate,” he says.
“I think we all can,” Clare says, sipping her soda, regrouping. “My turn. Tell me about the Westman business.”
“Oh man. I could write a book. I will write a book.”
“I’ll take the crib notes for now. The missing women. Your exposé. ‘Connections people haven’t made before,’ as I believe you said yesterday.”
“Wouldn’t be much of an exposé if I spilled it all to you, would it?”
“Come on,” Clare says, smiling. “Just a crumb.”
“The biggest crumb is Donovan Hughes. Jack Westman’s business partner.”
“I’ve read about him. He’s in jail.”
“Yeah. He went down for racketeering and tax fraud about a year after the murder. The prosecution tried to tie the money stuff to the murder, make the jury think that Jack Westman was dead because of the shit they were pulling. There was no direct evidence, but it’s not a stretch—”
“Have you ever gone to the prison?” Clare asks.
“Hell, yes. It’s a nice drive. It’s a regular field trip for me. Donovan’s funny. He’s like a scholar now, all-serious. He’ll sit across from me for the entire visit and say next to nothing. He once told me he’s been reading up on law books. Trying to support his appeal. I think he only agrees to see me because he likes a break in the monotony. Not sure he gets many visitors. But he’s certainly not answering any of my questions.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”
This time Austin doesn’t laugh at all. He cocks his head at Clare.
“How did you meet Malcolm?” he asks. “How exactly did this little working relationship begin?”
“He hired me.”
“But why you? I’m guessing he didn’t put an ad in the local paper.”
Clare can only shake her head. She must give him credit for his astuteness.
“You never sent me that link,” Clare says. “The one about the missing women. The niche blog, I think you called it.”
“Right,” he says, opening his laptop again. “I’ll send it right now. Should I use the email on your card?”
“Yes, please.”
“Done.” Austin drains the last of his beer and looks at her. “Hey, want to hear something crazy? I looked up Detective Somers. I knew her name sounded familiar. I knew it. And guess what? She was the detective assigned to one of the missing women cases. Stacey Norton. I guess the last Stacey Norton sighting was in Somers’s jurisdiction. Case has been open for about two years. Pretty much gone cold by now. But you probably knew that. Right?”
A knot of bile rises in Clare’s throat. Austin’s eyes are trained on her. She flashes a smile before pulling her phone from her pocket and lifting the screen to fake an incoming call.
“I’ve really got to take this,” she says.
Austin appears unconvinced. “Sure.”
“Hello?” Clare says, standing and walking to the door of the bar.
Once outside, she unlocks the screen and punches in Somers’s number. Somers answers on the first ring.
“Clare,” she says. “Everything okay?”
“What haven’t you told me?” Clare asks.
“What do you mean?”
Clare turns around to face the bar’s door. The street traffic is loud. She must adjust the volume on her phone and press a finger to her ear to hear Somers clearly.
“You’ve got some missing woman case tied to the Westmans?”
“So?” Somers says. “I’ve got cases tied to every corner of the country.”
“But you never told me that. You lied to me.”
There is a long silence, Clare certain she can hear Somers’s deep breaths.
“I wasn’t lying,” Somers says. “I didn’t want to distract you. It’s not really relevant.”
“Yes, it fucking is,” Clare hisses.
“Clare—”
Before she can think better of it, Clare swipes to end the call. Every muscle in her body is tight with rage. It will take her a few moments to gather herself so that she might go back into the bar and address Austin again.
It is early afternoon. Clare sits on the hotel room bed encircled by papers and photographs from her Malcolm file, the articles she printed in the hotel business center after arriving back here, anything on Donovan Hughes she could find. The article Austin emailed her that mentions the two women ostensibly vanished from Lune Bay. She didn’t speak to Austin again after her call with Somers ended. When she’d retreated back inside, Austin had been on the phone too, hovering in a dark corner of the bar, his voice too low for Clare to listen in. She’d paid for their drinks and left without a formal goodbye, texting him only once she was back in her rental car to let him know she’d be in touch soon.
Clare spreads the contents of the file out across the bed, forming a timeline. She places today’s date at the end, working backwards until she
