“Patrick, why am I here? Why am I really here?”
He didn’t answer.
“You can trust me, Patrick. You know that.”
“You can’t trust anybody, Juliet. Because you don’t know that, you’re here. And because you don’t believe me, you’re going to have to be here awhile, until I can prove it to you.”
“Maybe I understand more than you think.”
“I am certain you don’t.” He looked at her. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“What, exactly, do you see in my eyes? You’re not a mind reader.”
“But I am an observer. It’s what makes me able to do what I do. You are an observer too. That’s what makes me look away—I know you can see. It is why you can hold my gaze for mere seconds.”
Jules held her breath as she watched him. He was back to staring at the fireplace.
“It would be much more gazeworthy if there were fire in there,” she said with a small smile.
He rose and she thought she might’ve convinced him, but he left the room momentarily. She glanced at the door. How easily she could run! But like he said, she had no idea where she was. And it was snowing. She didn’t even have a coat. But his hung by the door. Still, as far as she could tell, she wasn’t in immediate danger.
Patrick returned with a stack of paper in his hands. He set it down beside her, then picked up his wineglass but took no more sips. He stared toward the curtainless window, though it was dark outside. The only thing visible was the light from the porch and the snowflakes that fell through it.
“What if I’m not in chapter 17? What if I’m actually at the end, ready to reveal everything? Wouldn’t they be surprised? Wouldn’t they wish they’d not chosen their words so carelessly?”
“Who is ‘they’?”
He blinked as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Go away now,” he said. “Into your room. You have reading to do.”
Jules stood, throwing off the afghan. “Fine.”
“Don’t be childish. This is important work.”
She glared at him as she picked up the pages. “No. This is childish. Your toying with me. Your speaking in riddles.”
“I’m doing this for your own good.”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Pain can be a good teacher.”
“I don’t need to be taught.”
“Then already,” he said smoothly, “I see that you are in desperate need of truth.”
“Who was that?” Addy stepped out onto the porch, where Chris stood with his jacket zipped high as it would go.
“It’s cold out here. You should get a coat.”
“I’m fine,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. She leaned against the other post. “The Lt. Colonel?”
“Yes. Drunk out of his mind. Confused. He thought I’d left a voice mail saying that I’d found Jules.”
Addy reached out and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re taking this so hard.”
Chris couldn’t deny it. He stared into the patchy groupings of trees that surrounded his house. “The last time I saw Jules was on the front porch of her home. We . . . She was upset. With me. Not really, I guess. But she said some things and I should’ve been strong. I should’ve understood where that pain was coming from.”
“What did she say?”
“She blamed me for Jason’s death. Said I should’ve had his back. Which is true, Addy. Of course I should’ve had his back. I just . . . I never saw it coming.”
“You couldn’t have. Chris, you can’t continue to blame yourself—for Jason’s death or for Jules.”
“But I’ve failed Jason twice now. I couldn’t protect him, and then when things got rocky, I stopped checking in on his wife.” Chris stared at the grass. “I should’ve kept checking on her, even if she didn’t think she needed it. Now she’s gone to who knows where. And I’m no closer to finding her than when I started.”
Addy stepped closer, put her arm around him. “Maybe you’ll get something big tomorrow in New York. This Walker guy pretty good?”
“Yeah, I guess. That’s what they say. Kind of egotistical, but who isn’t around that department, you know? I just appreciate the captain letting me stay on the case. It’s a nice gesture.” His fingers were freezing and he dipped them deep into his pockets. “He was acting strangely.”
“Who?”
“Jason. A couple of weeks before he died. He was withdrawn, not really himself. He was always such a funny guy, and he just looked so burdened. I thought he and Jules were having problems, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He said he would, but he didn’t want to yet. I gave him his space. That’s what he seemed to need. Just some space.”
“Well, I’m not giving you any space,” Addy said. “I’m staying here with you until you find Jules.”
“Sis, you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to do anything. But you need me.”
“Please tell me you’re not hanging around because of Greg Maecoat.”
“Sweetie, I promise, he’s not on my radar. I’m nice to him because he’s your friend.”
“I’d trust that guy with my life, but not with my sister. You know what I mean?”
Addy laughed. “I know what you mean. Now, you stay out here and ruminate for a bit longer. I’m going to make us some hot chocolate. And then you’re going to get some rest so you’ll be ready for tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Addy went inside and Chris tried to get his thoughts in order. But he couldn’t piece together one coherent thought without flashing back to Jules on that porch, tears streaming from her eyes. She’d yelled at him, told him never to come by again. He knew it even then—she was engulfed in grief—but he was dealing with his own grief and couldn’t put it aside long enough to go back to her.
But he’d still felt this sense of needing to protect her. From then on, he kept an eye on her from a distance. It got harder, the more reclusive she became. He figured, though, she was safe enough in her house. Maybe one day that grief would lift and she’d be able to live again.
“Jules, where are you?” he whispered. But his words disappeared into the dark like his frozen breath.
THEY WERE AT THE AIRPORT at 6 a.m. and arrived in Manhattan still in the early morning. Jeff Walker seemed like a decent guy. He’d been with their police department for about seven years, but Chris still didn’t know him well. Turned out he’d worked in New York for ten years before that but wanted a slower pace and to get his kids out of the city.
Once in New York, they’d hailed a cab and were now standing on the sidewalk below one of many shiny, flashy skyscrapers that towered to the heavens. Like flowing river water, people moved effortlessly around them, as though they were a couple of immovable logs.
“We’re going to go in pretty casual,” Walker said, gazing upward while stroking his reddish-brown mustache. His head was shaved like the rest of his face.
“Yeah. I’m just following your lead. Bet the guy’s ticked he had to come in on a Saturday.”
“It’s a she. And she didn’t seem like it was going to be a problem.”
Through revolving doors, they walked into the lobby, a sparkling assault of gold letters, shiny tile, and sculptures that looked to be from another planet.
They found the directory and went to the elevator. Once inside, Walker hit 18.
“What’s your gut tell you about this?” Chris asked.
Walker shrugged. “I don’t know. Captain seemed to think it was worth looking into.”
“It sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“A little. But he knows what Jason meant to you.”
“Think he’s just placating me?”
Walker smiled. “Maybe. But we might as well have fun with the intellectual crowd while we’re here, right?”
“Hope I can keep up,” Chris laughed.
“Follow my lead. I’m a professional. It’s all about throwing multisyllable words into the conversation with ease.”
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“You’ve lost me already. I’m a one- to two-syllable word guy.”
“Me too, me too. Where I come from, a three-syllable word can get you punched in the gut and thrown out of the bar.”
Chris grinned. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
“And trust me, we’ll all be on the same page when we’re done in there. I spent three years in New York doing hostage negotiations. We’re just going to find our common ground.”
“Good luck with that. I haven’t picked up a book in years.”
“Well, when all else falls short, flash ’em the badge, right?”
The doors opened into a large waiting area complete with a towering white marble desk, behind which sat a receptionist, stick thin except for lips the size of buffalo wings.
“They have a receptionist even on a Saturday?” Chris asked. The office was buzzing with a weird energy like it was a Monday morning or something.
Walker stepped up and put his badge on the desk. “I’m Detective Walker. This is Sergeant Downey. We’re with the Wissberry, Maine, police department here to see Clarice Rembrandt. She’s expecting us.”
The poor girl looked startled—not because they were there, but just in general. Maybe it was her sprouted, spidery eyelashes. “You’re with . . . ?”
“The Wissberry police department in Maine.” Walker flashed a wide, friendly grin that said, We’re asking all nice, but we don’t have to. It seemed a little ridiculous since the editor knew they were coming, but Chris figured Walker was just having some fun with her.
She rose, her bones protruding through her black dress. Her elbows looked as sharp as the stilettos she marched away in.
Walker glanced back at Chris and shrugged. “What’s with all the excitement around here?”
They heard a door slam.
“Maybe that’s what happened to Little Bit,” Chris said, nodding to the desk. “She got slammed in one too many doors.”
Walker shook his head. “Why do women want to look that way?”
The receptionist returned, the clacking of her heels arriving a few seconds before herself. “Right this way,” she said.
The receptionist led them down a long hallway. They emerged in a large room with windowed offices on both sides and the open spaces filled with cubicles. Chris took in the atmosphere. People were milling about like it was a newsroom and a story just broke.
At the end of the room were double doors, already open to a small reception area with a desk and a computer, but the secretary wasn’t there. They followed Little Bit into another, larger office. She didn’t walk all the way in but quietly gestured toward the two leather chairs in front of the desk.
The woman behind it had a stick-straight bob, cut at the nose rather than the chin. She wore big square glasses that completely consumed her face. Her hair was jet-black, her skin as pale as the white foam of the shoreline. Chris thought she looked like a cartoon character.
In front of her, a tall stack of white papers rose from the shiny waxed desk. She carefully set the papers aside before making eye contact with them. She stood right before they sat and offered her hand in a way that made Chris feel like she might want them to kiss it.
“I’m Detective Walker. This is Sergeant Downey,” Walker said, pitching a thumb toward Chris. Chris shook her hand carefully, afraid he might break it off. Her fingers were ice-cold. She really had no color on her at all, except the tip of her nose, which was bright red like she was nursing an illness or had just stepped out of a meat locker.
“Gentlemen, please, have a seat.” With her severe features, her soft-spoken voice came as a surprise. “I am Clarice Rembrandt, Patrick’s longtime editor.”
“Thank you for coming in to see us on a Saturday,” Walker said.
“I was here already,” Clarice said, relaxing in her chair. She folded her hands slowly and deliberately over her lap. “We’re pushing a book out four weeks early. It’s a major undertaking.”
“Well, thank you, then, for your time, ma’am,” Walker said, pulling out his notepad. “We just wanted to ask you a few questions that would pertain to an investigation we’re conducting.”
“An investigation of Mr. Reagan?”
“No. Not yet.”
“So you would like me to answer questions about our most famous author without knowing why. And these answers might incriminate him?”
“Most likely not,” Walker said coolly. “But they might help us find a missing woman.”
“He writes mysteries, Detective. He doesn’t typically create them.”
“We just think he might have seen something in Wissberry. We would like to question him about whether or not he saw a woman at a grocery store, but we can’t seem to locate him.”
Suddenly her very small face opened up into a gigantic smile, revealing teeth that looked like they’d seen their share of coffee. She tossed her head back and chuckled reservedly, the way Chris suspected the uppity crowd liked to do at their uppity parties. Nobody howled in this circle, he bet.
Chris and Walker exchanged glances.
“Something funny?” Walker asked.
“Sorry. So sorry,” she said, blotting the corner of each eye with long fingers. “I just feel bad that you flew all the way here to ask that question.”
“Why is that?”
“Because everyone knows that Patrick Reagan never emerges in the winter. Everyone knows that. I would think, since he is a resident of your town, you would know that too.”
“We are aware of his . . . habitation schedule. . . .” Walker winced at his apparent attempt to use a big word that sounded more like they were talking about zoo animals. “That is why we found it unusual.”
“Whoever thought they saw him is mistaken. I’ve known Patrick for twenty-five years. He does not come into town in the winter. He simply wouldn’t do it.”
“We beg to differ,” Walker said.
“Did anyone see him again?”
“Not that we know of.”
“How many people saw him?”
“So far, just one.”
She shook her head and combed long fingernails through her short hair. “Trust me, he wasn’t there.”
“Humor me,” Walker said with a tight smile. “Let’s pretend he was. If I wanted to get in touch with him, how would I do that?”
“I’m sorry—I can’t give that information out.”
Chris suddenly leaned forward. “You don’t know how to get ahold of him, do you?”
Her eyes shifted to Chris as if she’d just noticed he was sitting there.
“Well?” Walker asked.
Clarice paused longer, her eyelashes fluttering with thought. “Well, he likes to be left alone in the winter. That’s when he writes.”
“So how do you contact him when you need to?”
“We don’t need to,” she said with a short smile. “Ever. We want him writing, obviously.”
“Is Sergeant Downey right? You don’t know how to get ahold of him?”
She sighed loudly. “It’s just how we work. The way we’ve worked for years. We leave him be for the winter months, and when spring comes, he usually reemerges with a perfectly polished manuscript.”
Walker started to ask a question, but Chris piped in. “Except the last couple—last three—weren’t that perfectly polished, were they?”
“That’s subjective.”
“His sales have been down. His critics haven’t been kind. It’s not been a good couple of years, has it?”
Clarice looked irritated, but weirdly, not at Chris. “The quality of his work—and his promptness—has slipped a little,” she said. “But that is to be expected. Patrick lost his beloved wife, Amelia. It’s been . . . difficult for him.”
“Is there anything you want to tell us about Mr. Reagan’s behavior lately?” Walker asked. “Has he been acting unusual?”
Clarice might be highly intelligent, Chris observed, but she apparently was not gifted with a poker face.
“Look,
” Chris said. “We know how to be discreet. We just need information that might help us find Mr. Reagan so we can ask him some questions. A woman is missing and we really need to find her.”
She threw her hands up. “There’s no other way to say this. Patrick is late.”
“Late?”
“On his manuscript. That is not like Patrick. He’s always been prompt on his deadlines. But not anymore.”
“But he released a book this fall. The Lion’s Mouth.”
“That’s correct. But that book was supposed to release in the summer. He was months late on turning in the manuscript. And now he’s late on the next one, which means once again moving his release date and all the financial commitments that go with it. It’s just been a big mess.” Her voice warbled with emotion.
“Has he told you why he is not finished?”
“No. He keeps saying he needs more time. That’s all. He needs more time.” She shrugged. “He’s Patrick Reagan. We don’t have the luxury of doing anything but waiting.”
“So you’ve talked to him lately?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“But you’re his longtime editor.”
“I’ve only gotten mail from him.”
“E-mails?”
“No. Snail mail. Updates periodically. He’s quite a kind man. He tells me not to worry, that this book is going to blow my mind. But we live and die by the deadline in publishing, so I’ve not been able to heed his advice.”
“Perhaps his agent will be able to give us some information? We’ve got an appointment with him too.”
Clarice smiled broadly. “Good luck with that.”
“Don’t tell me he winters down as well,” Walker groaned.
“No. Not at all. He’ll be there.”
They thanked the editor and rose to leave, but Chris stopped and turned. “One more thing.”
“I’m extremely busy.”
“Understood. I’ll make it quick. Have you ever heard of a writer named Blake Timble?”