The town of Echo Harbor is a quintessential tourist spot with a quaint Main Street lined with adorable little boutiques and gift shops filled with souvenirs and little offerings made of shells and other beachy touches, even though the water isn’t the ocean but the bay. We’re able to find a parking spot not too far from the coffee shop and walk in.

  We look around for someone sitting alone and looking like they are anticipating being joined. I don’t have a picture of Clayton to go on, and there isn’t anyone who seems to fit the image I’m searching for, so Xavier and I go to the counter for drinks and pastries, find a table highly visible from the front door, and sit down.

  It takes a few minutes before a man walks through the door already craning his neck to search around. He meets eyes with me, and recognition flickers across his face. He must remember my picture from my website where he got my contact information. He goes for his own drink and snack and comes to the side of the table.

  “Mr. Steele?” he asks.

  “Dean,” I tell him, standing and extending my hand. “And you’re Clayton Bassinger?”

  “Clayton, yes,” he says.

  “This is Xavier,” I say, gesturing toward him.

  I’ve long since stopped trying to come up with a creative way to describe why Xavier is there. He isn’t really my assistant or my associate, so I stopped using those. I experimented with a couple of other descriptors, but none of them really fit. That left me abandoning the whole thing and just introducing him by name. Sometimes we get a curious look, but no one has caused too much difficulty over it.

  “Nice to meet both of you,” Clayton says.

  “Please,” I say, gesturing to the empty seat at the head of the table.

  We both sit, and I take a sip of my coffee to give Clayton a few seconds to get settled.

  “Thank you for meeting with me,” he says when he seems comfortable and has taken an almost nervous bite of his panini. “And for agreeing to look into my mother’s case.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Has anything else developed since we last spoke?”

  “No,” he tells me. “I haven’t heard anything else from the detective who is supposed to be working her case, and none of us have heard from her either.”

  “All right. What can you tell me about your mother’s disappearance?”

  “She’s been gone for three days,” he tells me. “Without a single phone call, text, anything. That is just not at all like her. She likes to be in touch with everybody, and she would never want to worry my sister or me.”

  “What about your father?” I ask.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Your father,” I repeat. “You said that your mother would never want to worry your sister or you. Would she care about worrying your father?”

  “That’s harder to answer. I want to say that she would. I don’t want to think that she would willingly upset or hurt him like this, but the truth is, the reason she left was because they had a fight,” he says.

  “A fight?” I ask.

  “An argument,” he corrects himself quickly. “It was an argument. They don’t always see eye to eye on everything, but they’ve been married for almost thirty years. I think that just about any couple who is together for that long has the occasional blowup.”

  “And it was occasional?” I ask. “Meaning, you don’t think that they were in a bad place in their marriage or considering divorce?”

  “Not that I know of,” he says. “But they don’t really talk to us about that kind of stuff. I only know about the argument because my father called me after my mother left the house to tell me that they’d gotten into it and he wanted me to check on her later on after she had a chance to cool off.”

  “So, he knew when she left?” I ask.

  “Yes. He said they got into an argument. He didn’t tell me about what, and that she had gone off to take some time to herself, so he wanted me to check on her later. He didn’t feel like talking to her for a while, but he didn’t want her to be so upset that she got into a car accident or anything, you know what I mean? But when I called her later, she didn’t answer. I thought she might have just put her phone on silent because she wasn’t feeling like having anyone bother her, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with her since,” Clayton tells us.

  “Was your father worried when you told him that you weren’t able to get in touch with her?” I ask.

  “Not at first. He said she was just being stubborn and trying to get more attention, that she would call soon or show up again at home. But when she didn’t, and she wasn’t home the next morning, that’s when he started to get upset. All three of us, him, my sister, and me, have all been trying to get to her, but she’s not answering anything. We called the police the next day, and they took the report, but they don’t seem to be taking it seriously at all. That’s why I got in touch with you. I’d heard about a case not too long ago that you were a part of, and I was hoping you’d be able to figure out what happened to her,” he says.

  “Well, right now we don’t know for sure that anything happened to her,” I try to reassure him. “It’s still possible that she is just off on her own, taking some time to herself. Has her vehicle been located?”

  “No,” he says.

  “And she didn’t leave behind all the types of things that she might need, like her purse?” I ask.

  “No. She had a bag with her,” he says.

  “All right. So, for now, I wouldn’t get too worked up. Just because it’s not going to do you any good, and it’s not going to help your mother’s situation. For right now, try to think clearly and come up with places you think she would like to go or people she might have decided to hunker down with for a little while until she feels like talking to your father again. How is he feeling about this situation? I know you said he’s worried, but why did you contact me rather than him?” I ask.

  “He’s too upset,” Clayton says. “He thinks the police aren’t doing enough, but at the same time, he wants to let them do their jobs. I think he’s just feeling really overwhelmed and not sure what he’s supposed to do.”

  “I’d like a chance to talk to him,” I say. “Can you give me his contact information?”

  I get the contact information for Bruce Bassinger, Clayton’s father, and call him to introduce myself.

  “I know who you are,” he says. “My son told me he was going to get in touch with a private investigator.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ve actually just been meeting with Clayton. I’d like to talk to you about the situation. Would you be willing to meet with me this afternoon?”

  “Sure,” he says. “You can come to my place.”

  “That would be great.”

  I get the address and tell Bruce that we will be right over. I’m glad he suggested we meet at his house rather than somewhere else public. I don’t generally like talking about my cases in public and prefer to have the chance to see people involved in cases in their own surroundings. That is where they are the most comfortable and the least guarded, so I am most likely to get good information from them.

  The address leads me to a larger but modest house in a quiet neighborhood full of old trees and well-used mailboxes. The kind of neighborhood where the older people probably still remember having block parties around the Fourth of July and leaving their doors open during the summer months so all the neighborhood children could run in and out as they pleased.

  I park in a driveway that used to be all gravel but is now mostly packed-down grit and scattered rock with grass growing up through it. A pickup truck at the head of the drive must belong to Bruce. There are no other vehicles or signs of another person being there.

  I knock on the front door and hear Bruce’s voice coming from the other side.

  “It’s open.”

  I let us in, and we walk directly into a cozy living room decorated in shades of brown and cream, the built-in shelves in the wall heavily laden with family pictures and books. An old hound dog is sprawled happily across a massive bed on the floor. It looks like a place I’d like to relax in if it weren’t for being here because a woman might be missing.

  “Mr. Bassinger?” I ask.

  “Call me Bruce,” he says in a somewhat gruff voice.

  “Bruce,” I say. “I’m Dean, and this is Xavier.”

  He nods at both of us. “You’re the private investigator my son hired.”

  “I am,” I tell him.

  “Might as well come in and make yourself comfortable.”

  He sounds resistant, but on the phone, he said he was willing to talk to me, so I’m going to take the opportunity. Xavier and I take places on the couch set up beside the recliner where Bruce is sitting.

  “Thank you for letting us come here,” I say.

  “Get you some water or something?” he asks.

  “No, I’m fine, thanks,” I say.

  Xavier shakes his head.

  “All right,” he says.

  The more he talks, the more it sounds like some of the gruffness in his voice comes from emotion. I remember what Clayton said about his father not being sure about hiring a private investigator and wanting to trust the police, even though he didn’t feel like they were doing their jobs very well. I can understand the hesitation. Bringing in someone else to investigate is just admitting that something might be wrong. If he just relies on the police, he can continue to tell himself that everything is all right. I still hope he’s right.

  “When I talked to your son earlier, he said that you and your wife had an argument the day you last saw her,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We didn’t always get along. But we’ve been married a long time. No couple married as long as we have are always lovey-dovey with each other.”

  He sounds like he’s defending himself, not because he’s worried I might think he knows more about his wife’s disappearance than he has said, but because he doesn’t want me to judge their marriage.

  “Of course not,” I say. “People who are married for a lot less time get into arguments. Can you tell me about what happened?”

  “Like a lot of people, I lost my job and haven’t been able to find another one. Marcy got frustrated at me because she didn’t think I was putting enough effort into finding something else, and I liked going out with the guys. She said I shouldn’t be out with them so much and shouldn’t be drinking so much. The other day I came home late, and she was just angry. She wouldn’t stop harping on it, and all I wanted to do was go to bed. She had been calling me all night, and I texted her back a couple of times, but most of the time, I ignored her. I’ll admit that. She yelled at me for more than an hour before I finally went to lie down. I’d hoped that when I got up, she would be better,” Bruce tells me.

  “But she wasn’t,” I say.

  “If anything, she was worse,” he says. “We got right into it again, and it just turned into a massive blowup.” The emotion starts to build in his voice, and I can tell he’s upset. “She told me she was leaving and not coming back. I didn’t pay much attention. I was so mad at her that I just didn’t feel like looking at her anymore. I just wanted nothing to do with her for a while. I figured she would just go out and blow off some steam for a while, and then she’d end up right back home. We’d talk about things, and it would be fine. But then she didn’t come back.”

  “Clayton said everyone tried to get in touch with her for a day,” I say. “What were you thinking when she wasn’t answering?”

  “At first, I thought she was just being difficult. That woman is one of the most difficult people I’ve ever met in my life,” he says. He stops and looks at me with a slightly frightened expression. “I probably shouldn’t say things like that, should I?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Everybody always looks at the husband. The second something happens to a woman, the first thing that happens is people look right at the man in her life. I know people think I had something to do with her disappearing, but I didn’t. I was the first one to start saying something was wrong. But if I say things like that, people are just going to think more that I did something to her,” he says.

  “You don’t have to worry about that with me,” I tell him. “People say things. And I don’t know Marcy, but you do, so you know how she is. Some people are more difficult than others. That’s just the way it is.”

  “And she is,” he says. “But I love her.” Tears well up in his eyes. “I love her, and now she’s gone.”

  “We don’t know what’s happening right now,” I point out to him. “Like I told your son, we need to focus on trying to figure out her movements and understanding what she was thinking so we can hopefully find her. Tell me about the police and how they’ve been handling the case.”

  He scoffs. “Barely is how they’ve been handling it. We called them after Marcy had been gone for a day, and I thought they would immediately start an investigation, but that didn’t happen. They took the report that we hadn’t heard from her or seen her, but they said she’s an adult and since there were no signs of any kind of foul play, including the fact that her car is apparently wherever she is, right now it just looks like she went off somewhere on her own and is doing what she wants to do.

  “They said she can do that if she wants to and doesn’t have to answer to anybody. There’s no real reason to think that anything bad happened to her, and she can come back whenever she wants to. They said we should keep trying to reach her and to let them know if anything happens that makes us believe that something serious has happened.”

  “I’m sure that’s frustrating,” I said. “Unfortunately, that’s often the official take of the police because they want to give people as much freedom as they possibly can. Adults can do as they please, even if that sometimes is something that their families and the people around them wouldn’t want. I can speak with the detective who is handling this case and get more information so that I can help you find out what might have happened to your wife. Unlike police departments that are bogged down with other cases and overwhelmed with the amount that they are doing because they are understaffed, I work, for the most part, alone, and I decide the cases I’m going to do at any given time.”

  Before I can say anything else, the front door opens, and a young woman comes inside. She looks startled to see Xavier and me.

  “Hello,” she says.

  “This is my daughter, Stephanie,” Bruce tells us. “Stephanie, this is Dean Steele.”

  “The private investigator?” Stephanie asks.

  “Yes,” I tell her.

  She’s still looking at her father, an incredulous expression on her face.

  “You let Clayton call a private investigator?” she asks. “I thought we talked about this. I’ve been with the detective this afternoon trying to work things out through the official channels. That’s what we agreed we were going to do.”

  “That’s what you said you were going to do,” Bruce tells her. “But Clayton thought that they weren’t doing enough, and he was worried, so he wanted to get more help.”

  “But what if that just makes the police angry? What if it pushes them away and they don’t do anything anymore? They have resources that a private investigator doesn’t,” she says. “We need to be taking this seriously.”

  “We are,” Bruce says. “Your mother is missing, and we need every bit of help we can get. Dean has convinced me of that.”

  “I understand that you want to find your mother as soon as possible,” I tell Stephanie. “I’m not here to get in the way or to make anything more difficult for anyone. I’m not operating completely separately from the police or in any kind of opposition to them. My services are a supplement to their investigation. I will use the information they are able to give me to run my own investigation and work with them to align with theirs, so hopefully, the answers will come faster.”

  “He’s helping us,” Bruce says firmly.

  “Do you really think that you can help?” Stephanie asks.

  “He’s one of the best,” Bruce tells her. “That’s why Clayton got in touch with him. He’s not new to this.”

  “Not by a long shot,” Xavier says. “And you’re lucky just to have him sitting here in your living room.”

  “X,” I say under my breath.

  “It’s true. If they want the best chances of finding her, they’ll trust you,” he says.

  The argument agitated him, and now he’s going to put in his two cents no matter what I think about it.

  “All right,” Stephanie finally says.

  “Good,” I say. “Now, what can you tell me about the detective handling the case?”

  “His name is Peter Bronson. I can give you his contact information,” Stephanie says.

  “That would be great,” I say. “Thank you. You said that you spent the afternoon talking to him about the case. What did you talk about?”

  “I was just trying to understand what is happening in the investigation and why it seems like more isn’t being done. I don’t understand why they haven’t been able to find her car or anything,” she says. “But he didn’t want to talk to me about it. He said they had a few things they were following up on and that they would let us know as soon as they had more information about it,” she says. “But that just doesn’t seem like enough. How can they not have more than that?”

  “Investigating a missing person’s case isn’t always as simple as people want them to be. It’s easy to think that you can just track someone, especially with all the technology around today, but if someone doesn’t want to be found, they can make it much harder for authorities to find them. It has only been a few days, which means they might not have access to all the information yet. Getting warrants and accessing surveillance or records takes time. When I go talk to the detective, I’ll find out everything I can and let you know. For right now, can you show me a picture of Marcy?”

  “Sure,” Stephanie says, opening her phone. She scrolls through a few screens, then turns the phone toward me. “This is her.” She laughs softly. “She says she’s always cold, so she’s always wearing a hoodie of some kind. Unless it’s the middle of summer or someone has cranked up the heat, she’s going to be in a sweatshirt or jacket with the hood pulled up.”