Page 38 of Still Missing You

“I hope I still have a job,” Justine says before climbing out of the truck when we drop her back at the store. “I’ve been gone a hell of a lot longer than fifteen minutes.”

“Is there anything we can do to help you?” I ask. The last thing I want is for her to be out of work over all this.

“No way. The fewer people who know I spoke to you, the better.”

There are only a few cars in the lot, and no one else is outside, at least that I can see. She should be able to make it inside without anyone else spotting her.

“Who are you afraid of finding out?” Hunter asks.

“I don’t know,” Justine says, popping open the back door. “But Matthew was afraid of someone, and I don’t want to vanish the way he did.”

Before we can say anything else, she climbs out of the truck, shuts the door behind her, and then hurries into the store.

I look over at Hunter, who is already looking at me. “What do you think?”

“I think I want to look at whatever Matthew had filmed before he turned up at your café.”

“You and me both.”

I drive us back to the inn and pull into the driveway behind a rusted white pickup. The rain has let up, and the sky is brighter, as if the sun might actually burn through the veil of gray clouds. Glimpses of blue leave me hopeful for a break from the rain and bleak skies.

I slide out from behind the steering wheel, close the door with a thunk, then move to the back seat for Matthew’s things, but before I open the truck’s rear door, I notice Lyle Kirkland on a ladder, replacing one of the shutters on the side of the inn. Hunter shifts beside me, and I hear his breath hitch as he puts weight on his bad leg.

Dull anger swells in my chest at the sight of him, and I can’t stop thinking about the chain of bruises around Matthew’s neck the night he showed up at my café, terrified of something, someone.

“Hey!” I storm away from the truck to the bottom of the ladder that Jim is holding in place. “I want to talk to you.”

From behind me, I hear Hunter mutter a curse and follow.

“Mr. Kirkland’s doing some work for me just now,” Jim says, eyeing me carefully. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to speak to you when he’s done.”

I ignore him, my attention fixed on Kirkland. “What did you do to Matthew? How did he get the bruises around his throat?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” Even from where I’m standing at the bottom of the ladder, I can see him roll his eyes.

“Someone choked him. Are you telling me it wasn’t you?” My hands are curled into fists at my sides, and I want him to come down from that ladder. He’s bigger than me, taller by a few inches and broader too, but I’m furious at what he did to Matthew, and I think that rage is enough to hold my own.

“It wasn’t me,” Kirkland says, then drops the rotted shutter he’s replacing, and I have to jump back to avoid being hit.

“What the fuck?” Hunter snarls, as pissed off as I feel.

“Gentlemen,” Jim strategically places himself between us and the ladder. “As I said, Mr. Kirkland is doing some work for me right now. If you want to speak to him, you’ll need to wait until he’s done.”

I let out a frustrated sigh, the sound draining some of my anger. Whatever Kirkland did to Matthew, he is never going to admit to it. Even if he did, it wouldn’t bring Matthew back.

“Shit,” I mutter, turning away. I grab Hunter by the elbow and pull him to follow me. “Come on. There’s nothing he can tell us that’s going to help.”

Together, we unload Matthew’s equipment from the truck and carry it all up to our room—camera, mics, tripod, lights, and a hard drive.

After I order Hunter to lie on the bed, before going downstairs and asking Nancy for ice. She hands me a freezer bag full; however, once I’m back in the room, I can only sigh.

Hunter is off the bed and attaching Matthew’s hard drive to his laptop. Before I can order him back to bed, he looks up at me. “There’s a lot of footage on here. Hours and hours. It’s going to take us forever to go through all this.”

“Up,” I tell him, pointing to the bed. “Let’s get this on your knee. Then we can look at Matthew’s work.”

Hunter rolls his eyes, but by some miracle, doesn’t argue. He stands and shimmies out of his pants before flopping back onto the bed in just his underwear and t-shirt. He slides a pillow under his bad knee. “Happy?”

“I will be.” Taking care of him feels instinctive, like something I should have been doing all along. I grab a hand towel from the bathroom and wrap it around the bag of ice before carefully laying it over his scarred knee.