“What do you mean?” Clare asks.
“Cops have a very thick rule book we have to live by. I try to do things by that book. Sometimes that puts me at a real disadvantage. A disadvantage that you don’t have.” She points to the file handed to Clare. “It’s all in there. Everything I’ve got on Stacey Norton.”
Clare opens the file. Clipped to the inside face is a large black-and-white photograph of a young woman. Stacey Norton. She smiles, carefree. She is young, pretty. A twenty-three-year-old aesthetician who moved to Lune Bay to take work in the spa at its most exclusive hotel.
“Kendall Bentley’s dad is worth a visit,” Clare says, closing the file. “His name is Douglas. Army vet. Like I said, he’s been looking for his daughter. He’s been pretty diligent. We could go see him.”
“I’d like that,” Somers says.
For a few minutes they say nothing, Clare making a show of flipping back and forth through the Norton file, sipping her coffee. The knot still sits in her stomach, threatening to rise through her and emerge as tears. She works to keep her face set to neutral, but she can sense from Somers’s gaze that she isn’t doing a very good job of it.
“You’ve got to be tired,” Somers says. “A crazy few days, barely any sleep.”
“Yeah,” Clare says quietly. “I’ll push through.”
“Hey,” Somers says. “You’ve got to learn to show yourself some compassion, you know that? You’ve been through the wringer.”
Clare drops her head. “Can we not do this right now—”
“My guess is you’ve only told me half the story,” Somers interjects. “If that. My guess is some part of you is still hoping for a happy ending with this Malcolm character, even when all signs point to that being wishful thinking. And I think some part of you is even protecting that ex-husband of yours. Glossing over the worst of it. Because you married him, right? So he had to have some redeeming qualities, right? You don’t want to make him out to be that bad, because what does that say about you?”
“That I’m an idiot.”
“No,” Somers says. “That’s where the compassion comes in. People fool us all the time. We all get fooled. You were young, and you had a lot of shit going on in your life, and he fooled you, and you married him. And you paid way too steep a price for that, didn’t you?”
“I really don’t want to talk about this,” Clare says, a crack in her voice.
“You lost everything. You left everything behind. And here you are on the other side of the country, looking for ways to take blame, for other people to hate. You’re this ball of rage. But why? You picked yourself up, and you took this job, and now you’re doing good work. Maybe you’ve found a calling. I believe you’re trying to stay clean. Maybe it’s not a straight line, but you’re trying, right?”
“Stop,” Clare says. “Really. I don’t need a therapy session right now.”
“I’m trying to intervene here, Clare. Because now you’re pulling guns on guys in bars.”
Clare says nothing. Somers sits on the bed at arm’s length from Clare.
“Look at me,” she says. “You don’t need to take this to your grave. Show yourself some compassion. You were fooled. You deserve more. So let it go.” Somers takes Clare’s hand and squeezes it. “And, Clare? Just to drive it home: I am not one of the bad guys.”
All Clare can do is nod. She can’t bear tears right now. She drinks the last of the coffee and stands to use the bathroom, closing the door behind her and bracing herself on the sink.
You were fooled, Somers said. How well Clare knows this to be true.
Douglas Bentley places the sandwich plates down in front of Somers and Clare. Since they arrived at his house he has busied himself in the kitchen, mostly in awkward silence. He seems nervous, his hands shaky, Somers’s presence in his home a twist he wasn’t expecting. The Stacey Norton file Somers gave Clare rests on the counter next to her sandwich plate.
“I saw your face on the news this morning,” he says to Clare.
“Let’s not talk about it,” Clare says. “It was a misunderstanding.”
“Clare told me on the drive here that you made high rank,” Somers says to change the subject.
“I did,” Douglas says.
“My husband served. Two tours. He retired a sergeant.”
“Is he managing well?”
“He is.” Somers smiles. “Thank you for asking.”
Douglas gives a small yep without making eye contact. He sets water glasses down for Somers and Clare, then sits at the counter so the three of them form a triangle. Somers directs a look to Clare that asks the obvious question: What are we doing here? Clare nods as if to say, be patient. Only when Clare bites into the ham sandwich does she realize how ravenous she is. She eats as Somers makes small talk, commenting on the view, on the house, just as Clare had done yesterday. Was that only yesterday? Clare thinks. That feels almost impossible.
“I was hoping we could take Somers downstairs,” Clare says, patting the file. “She’s got a cold case that has a lot of parallels to your daughter’s. A young woman who was also from the Lune Bay area. Maybe if the three of us—”
“I don’t like working with cops,” Douglas says. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Somers says. “I’m sure they’ve given you no reason to trust them. But as Clare says, I’ve got a case that’s been lingering a long time. A young woman with some ties to the Westman family.” Somers reaches down and lifts her satchel. “I pulled up whatever I could on your daughter. Seems to me like there’s some… as Clare said, some parallels.”
“You’re talking about Stacey Norton,” Douglas says.
“I am,” Somers says. “Do you know of any others?”
“Women who went missing, you mean? None who were reported. But…” Douglas rubs
