“And you think she was kidnapped?” Clare asks. “Taken against her will?”
“She wouldn’t just leave. Do you know anyone who would just leave their family out of nowhere?”
At this Clare feels a stab. Yes, she wants to say. If you have no choice, you will leave everything behind, everyone. For a moment they both look out the window, each quieted by their own sadness.
“I never fit in here,” Douglas says. “Last spring I showed up to the Veterans Day parade. You know how many of us were marching? Four. People who fight in real wars don’t move to Lune Bay. This place is about money.”
“Why did you move here, then?” Clare asks.
“Because my wife was born here. I was gone most of the time. So where we raised our daughter was her call.”
“I can help you,” Clare says. “We can help each other. Can’t we? I feel like it might all be connected, right? You obviously believe there’s something bigger at play too.”
Without answering her, Douglas stands and leaves the kitchen. He gestures for Clare to follow him. Next to the hall closet is a pocket door blended almost seamlessly into the wall. Douglas opens it and hits the light. They descend to a lower apartment, a nanny flat overtaken by rubber bins neatly stacked and labeled with dates. The space that would be the living room is instead set up as an office, a desk at its center with a computer and color-coded files, the largest wall a corkboard adorned with a labyrinth of photographs. Some faces Clare recognizes at once. Kendall Bentley is at the center, a web woven out from there. Clare sees Jack Westman. Zoe, and as an extension of her, Malcolm. Stacey Norton too, the other missing woman, a line drawn from her to Kendall.
“Jesus,” Clare says. “Has Austin been down here?”
“Are you kidding me? So he can write a story about how I’m unhinged? Some crazy dad with a perp wall taking his cues from bad cop shows.”
“Right,” Clare says.
“We built this flat for Kendall. She moved down here from her bedroom upstairs and six months later she disappeared. So.” Douglas removes his glasses and rubs hard at his eyes. “I’ve taken over the space, as you can see.”
For a long time, Clare sidesteps along the length of the wall, studying the photographs, the connections Douglas has drawn.
“Who are all these people?”
“Most of them are Kendall’s friends. Some from high school, college. Beefs she had. Guys she dated. Dead-end leads.”
“I see Stacey Norton.”
“Yeah. They worked together for a summer. Maybe two.”
“At Roland’s?”
“Yeah,” Douglas says. “It seems like it should mean something, but Roland is one of the only guys in town who hires students. Most kids have worked there at one time or another.”
Clare points to the line linking Kendall to Zoe Westman.
“The Westmans figure pretty prominently. What connects these two?”
“They met at a fund-raiser. Kendall was helping out with the catering. Zoe took an interest in her.”
“What do you mean by interest?”
“She offered her some side gigs. Bartending at little private events Zoe would throw. Kendall would leave the house in these white dress shirts with a tie, and these tiny fucking miniskirts. Serving cocktails to the biggest assholes Lune Bay has to offer.”
“It’s pretty clear how you felt about that.”
“What am I going to say? I’m just her overprotective father.”
“Right,” Clare says. “When was this?”
“In the months before she disappeared.”
“What were these parties she was working?” Clare asks.
“Cripes,” Douglas says, arms crossed. “I think it’s pretty common knowledge that Lune Bay was built on handshakes and backroom promises. When the tech boom hit and this area became hot, I think a lot of pockets got lined. It was a different place when my wife was growing up here. More like a small town. Some fishermen around. Some industry. Now it’s a suburb for rich people. The kind of rich people who went to Zoe Westman’s parties. And my theory is that Kendall got wrapped in something she didn’t fully understand. Maybe she overhead something or witnessed something… I don’t know. Maybe I am a conspiracy theorist, but I feel like this stretches further than Lune Bay’s borders. All I know is that my daughter met Zoe Westman and a few months later she was fucking gone.”
“Was Malcolm part of this too?”
“Well.” Douglas rubs at his chin. “He was married to Zoe. He must have known there was shady stuff going on. I went to him once. Shortly after Kendall disappeared. Tried to appeal to him.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much,” Douglas says. “He listened to me. Heard me out. Then he told me he couldn’t help. Just like everyone else.”
Clare keeps her back to Douglas. She recognizes the photograph of Malcolm on this wall. It was taken by a reporter as he left the police station after Zoe’s disappearance. She weighs her options. Surely Douglas could be useful to her, might help her cut corners in her efforts. She can build some goodwill with the truth. And so she turns to face Douglas, outlining the basics of her history with Malcolm. He sits back against the desk and listens, his expression never flickering from steady focus.
“Anyway,” Clare says, “I’m here. I’m listening. I know you haven’t had much help, but I hope to change that. What I can tell you is that in some indirect way, my story is linked to Kendall’s. I wish I knew more. I wish I could tell you more. Right now I can’t. But I think we can help each other.”
“Maybe,” he says. “I’m not exactly sure how.”
“No one has me labeled a conspiracy theorist. There’s that. I can dig where you can’t.”
Douglas offers a small laugh. “Well. Where do we start?”
“Why don’t you tell me about Kendall? What was she like?”
“Yeah,” he says. “She finished college six years ago. She was only twenty-one. Skipped a few grades along the way. She started medical school way too young.
