Page 57 of Still Missing You

Another woman. Different hair. Same bathroom, only she’s sitting on the toilet with her pants around her knees.

Cold anger floods my veins. He’s clearly somehow taken these pictures of women in the bathroom at The General Store.

I quickly scan the rest. Too many.

My pulse pounds in my ears.

All women. All candid. All taken without consent. Some blurred, as if the photographer rushed. Others carefully framed.

All his caginess? It isn’t about Matthew. It’s this. He’s afraid someone will find out.

I photograph the pictures with my phone, documenting the desk, the room, and the context. Then I put everything back exactly as I found it.

When I return to the living room, Dylan looks at me and frowns. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “My knee is a bit stiff.”

“Are you finished here?” Peters asks.

“One last thing,” Dylan says. “Did Matthew ever tell you he was scared of someone?”

Peters rolls his eyes. “Of course not; he wouldn’t have discussed that sort of thing with me.”

I believe that. But that doesn’t mean he’s clean. Not because he’s trustworthy, but he no doubt had bigger worries than Matthew’s documentary.

Once we’re in the car and headed back to the inn, Dylan turns to me. “Why are you acting weird?”

I tell him what I found in Peters’s office while I dig out Alvarez’s business card from my wallet.

“I knew there was something off about the guy,” Dylan says. “He gave me the creeps from the start.”

“Me too,” I admit. “But I don’t think he had anything to do with what happened to Matthew.”

“Unless Matthew caught Peters and filmed him in the act,” Dylan says.

“Maybe,” I say. It’s not implausible, but I doubt it.

“The PI thing?” Dylan says, glancing at me. “Someone told him.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s impossible to know who, but I have some guesses.”

“I probably have the same ones.” Dylan reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We’ll deal with it.”

Warmth blooms in my chest at the way he says we. But somewhere in this town, someone is watching. “I’m going to report Peters to the detective. What he’s doing is a crime. But instead of going back to the inn, let’s grab dinner at The Four Corners. I’m starved.”

“Are you sure? I can tell your knee is bothering you again.”

“It’s not bad, I promise. I can definitely sit in a chair and eat.”

“Fine,” he says. I dial the detective’s number and press the phone to my ear.

Chapter Twenty-One

Dylan

The Four Corners is busier than the last time, loud in the way small-town bars always are. Too much laughter packed into too little space. Cutlery and glasses clink over the hum of conversation and old rock music. The air smells of fried food and beer.

We wind our way between the crowded tables until we find one where Hunter can stretch his leg out into the aisle. I’m glad he insisted we stop. Neither of us had eaten since breakfast at the inn, and I hadn’t noticed how hungry I was until Hunter said something. Now, reading the menu, my stomach grumbles unhappily.