“Is that what you think or what you hope?”

  “Both.”

  Neither of us had anything to say for a few minutes. Rory finished his omelet. I drank my coffee. Weber and his crew departed, as noisy and boisterous as a high-school football team heading out for practice. The dining room felt a lot emptier after they left.

  Finally, I said, “If the prevailing opinion is that Deirdre’s case has already been solved, I’m not sure what you’re doing here.”

  Rory prayer-styled his napkin across his mouth. Then he neatly laid the napkin and silverware on his plate and moved the plate out of the way. “Because sending death threats, whether through email or phone or the goddamned pony express, is a federal crime. My boss looked over every single piece of information you sent us, and he felt that the threat was credible. He also felt that, while the person making the threats might not be Deirdre’s killer, it’s someone with a powerful, even vested interest in the case.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that person might or might not be local, but there’s a high probability they’re going to be here for the vigil.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Is Jason your boyfriend?”

  We were in the archives, a.k.a. storage room, of the Woodlark Weekly, viewing microfiche slides of local obituaries. Simon Overhiser had not been in the office, but the young woman at the front desk was friendly and helpful and showed no hesitation in giving us access to the fifteen-years’ worth of back issues.

  The newspaper had one scanner and reader designated for public use, so Rory and I had been sitting shoulder to shoulder on hard wooden chairs, peering at the computer monitor for what felt like hours.

  Probably because it had been hours.

  I had learned a couple of things about Rory during that time. He wore reading glasses—the kind with retro, square, black frames—and he made little faces, shook his head, and made murmurs of amusement as he read, which he did more slowly than me. His phone rang, well, vibrated, a lot.

  I liked how engaged he was in the process of absorbing information. I liked how patient he was with the constant interruptions. And I liked his aftershave.

  “Jason?” he repeated blankly.

  “You were on the phone to him last night.”

  Rory still looked blank. Maybe, probably, because this was absolutely none of my business? But I was almost positive Rory was gay, and I needed to know so that I didn’t misinterpret any of the signs I believed I was picking up.

  I prompted, “When I was checking the rear entrance to the Swiftwater.”

  He thought back, and his face lightened. “Oh, Jason.” He laughed. “God no. He’s my boss’s boyfriend.”

  “Oh.”

  “My boyfriend and I broke up about six months ago.” He looked into my eyes and smiled, and my heart fluttered around in my chest like a butterfly on the first day of spring.

  “Your boss too? There must be something in the watercooler. I just assumed the FBI would be pretty homophobic.”

  “I can’t argue some ground’s been lost over the last couple of years, but for the last decade the Bureau’s made a conscious effort toward inclusiveness. In fact, I’m not the only gay agent in our unit.”

  I nodded, turned my attention back to the monitor. I took a closer look. “Here we go,” I said. “Rusty Bailey’s obit.”

  “Rusty wasn’t living locally when he died. He was in Canada.”

  “Correct, but he’d lived here most of his life. He still had strong connections to the community. You heard Simon on our hike to the crash site.”

  “Yep. Pretty defensive.”

  “Maybe with good reason. I’m sure you’ve seen the online speculation regarding Rusty.”

  Rory nodded. “The fact that he moved away three years after Deirdre went missing didn’t help his cause. Nor did committing suicide two years later.”

  No. And it also didn’t help that Rusty had been a bit of an oddball. With his wispy long hair, missing teeth, and what-the-hell-accent-is-that, he looked like every TV-movie-of-the-week backwoods serial killer. The internet had not been kind.

  I bit my lip, reading the Weekly’s surprisingly lengthy—and glowing—obituary. “I read a fictionalized account of the case, and the asshole author not only openly blames Bailey, he promoted the book by continuing to accuse him and berate anyone who disagreed.”

  Rory said neutrally, “Not nice, I agree. But the book was written long after Bailey was dead.”

  I stared at his profile. “You weren’t kidding about doing your homework.”

  “Due diligence is the name of the game.”

  I sat back in my chair. “We’ve got a several people dying of cancer, a couple of drug overdoses, an eleven-year-old accidentally shooting himself, one maybe accidental death—”

  “Overhiser’s brother? The one who struggled with depression?”

  “Right. There’s no obituary for anyone besides Rusty who’s remotely connected with Deirdre’s case. Should we assume HPD considers Rusty their prime suspect?”

  Rory removed his glasses, wiped them on his forest-green plaid flannel shirt, slid them back into place. “It’s never safe to assume.”

  “Yeah, but ninety-nine percent of these obituaries are people dying of old age.”

  “You’ve got a large population of retirees up here. It’s not impossible that one of them hit the kid by accident when she was walking down the road. Maybe that person panicked and disposed of her body.”

  “So the alternate theory is Mr. Magoo mows Deirdre down, dumps her body somewhere, and goes on to live a long and otherwise blameless life?”

  “The hit-and-run isn’t a new theory.”

  No. It wasn’t. I’d never liked that theory, though. Partly for the reason that hit-and-runs are noisy and messy, and surely someone in one of those nearby houses would have heard it. Partly because my impression of small rural communities was that these people tended to trust the local law, which meant they were more likely to report that kind of accident with the expectation of not being blamed unfairly.

  “Did Rusty leave a secret suicide note?”

  “No.”

  “Was there any mention of a deathbed confession in connection with another suspect?”

  “No.”

  “Then Rusty has to be their guy.”

  Rory continued to study the screen. “You don’t like the theory that Rusty is our unsub. Why? As far as we know, he was the last person to see her alive. He had a vehicle on scene. He lived right down the road. He was encouraged by Deputy Dempsey to take part in the initial searches for her that evening, which he conducted completely on his own.”

  “If Rusty intended harm to Deirdre, why did he call the accident in?”

  “To cover his tracks. Given the location of the crash, he could safely assume someone else was sure to call it in.”

  “Okay. This middle-aged guy, who, as far as anyone knows, up until now has led a completely blameless life—he was an ex-cop, in fact—is on his way home from work. He’s tired, his wife’s waiting with supper, and he comes across a crashed car and a stranded girl, knows everyone living along the road has probably seen the crash and knows the girl is there, knows the cops are probably going to show up any minute, but he twirls his mustache and thinks, Bwahaha! My chance has come!”

  Rory opened his mouth, and I said, “And yes, I know the predator always has a plan, but doesn’t that seem far-fetched?”

  I’m not sure why I was arguing so hard for Rusty’s innocence when he was my own alternate pick for Deirdre’s killer. I believed she’d accepted a ride from the wrong person. I just found it hard to believe that person was Rusty. Was that professional instinct or egotistical reluctance to let go of a pet theory?

  “I don’t know. I do know that whatever did happen to Deirdre happened under those exact same unpromising circumstances.”

  He was right. I frowned over it for a minute or two.

  Rory smiled faintly, watching me. “Very often these types of crimes are about impulse and opportunity.”

  “I know. I’m the guy who teaches criminology, remember?”

  “I remember. But there’s a difference between theory and practical application.”

  “Granted, but there are so many practical, logistical problems with that theory. Like, how did he get Deirdre on the bus? How did he keep his wife quiet all those years? What did he do with Deirdre’s body?”

  “She’d have willingly gotten on the bus. If I’m not wrong, that’s another theory. Deirdre told him she couldn’t risk a DUI, begged him for help, and he drove her somewhere, dropped her off, and kept his mouth shut about it.”

  “And then what? Is he supposed to have dropped her in the middle of nowhere? Wouldn’t the idea be to drop her off somewhere where she’d be safe?”

  “You’d think. And maybe he did. Maybe something happened to her way out of his ken and our crime-scene radius.”

  “Also, this guy’s a school bus driver. Is he really going to risk losing his job—and maybe losing his wife her job too because they both drove school buses—by using his bus to help this strange girl, who might or might not have been drinking, flee the scene of an accident?”

  “Clearly, you don’t think so.”

  “I really don’t. I think most people are not looking for the chance to behave like a character in a mystery novel.”

  “But you have to agree Bailey is the guy with opportunity and means.”

  “And his motive is that he’s a secret psycho?”

  “You know as well as I do that motive can be hard to discern even when you have a solid suspect.”

  There was no arguing with that, so I tried another angle. “I agree he had opportunity. I don’t know that he had the means. He wasn’t in good health, and he doesn’t appear to have owned a gun.”

  Rory said flatly, “Everybody up here owns a gun. He was an ex-cop. He owned a gun.”

  I retorted, “I’m pretty sure he wasn’t carrying it on the school bus.”

  He shrugged. “We’re now in the realm of speculation.”

  Hadn’t we been the whole time?

  “Speaking of the realm of speculation…” I glanced at my phone. “If I’m going to catch Weber’s reading, I should probably leave now.”

  “Are you going to the reading?”

  “It’s liable to look pointed if I don’t.”

  “And that matters because?”

  “Because I don’t actually need or want to go to war with anyone. Plus, it’s probably the closest we’ll get to a drawing room with all the suspects.”

  Rory looked confused.

  I prompted, “You know. Like in an old-fashioned murder mystery where at the end of the book, the detective gathers all the suspects and then explains why everyone could or couldn’t have done the crime, before he reveals who the real murderer is.”

  “Right. Got it. Except Weber’s book already revealed who he thinks the murderer is.”

  “Yeah. I still think it might be useful to go.” I added tentatively, “Did you want to meet afterward? Maybe grab something to eat or have a drink before the vigil?”

  “Meet afterward? No.” Before I had a chance to register my disappointment, Rory said, “I’m coming with you.”

  That made me way too happy. I liked Rory. I thought he was really attractive, more attractive than I’d found anyone in over a year. But there was a high probability I’d never see him again after this weekend, so I wasn’t going to let myself get more interested than I already was. Which was too interested.

  I said lightly, “You’ll make Weber’s day. Maybe he’ll even sign a copy of his book for you.”

  * * * * *

  It was standing-room only at the Woodlark Free Public Library.

  Rory and I crowded in, lining up against the back wall with the other latecomers. I spotted Hailey in deep conversation with Iliana and a few of the murder-and-makeup crowd. I recognized Blake and Tony’s toques bobbing in the front row of chairs lined a few feet from the long book-signing table where Weber was chatting with a slight, earnest-looking woman. Their mics kept feeding back as someone to the side of the room tried to figure out the sound system.

  Rory’s phone buzzed. He checked it, murmured, “I’ll be right back,” and squeezed out of formation.

  I shrugged out of my coat. It was already getting very warm inside the crowded room. There was some tapping of mics, more feedback, and finally the earnest-looking woman rose and introduced herself as Head Librarian Sandy Reve. This got a round of applause from the small contingent of local attendees.

  Sandy smiled nervously and proceeded to read a long and effusive introduction I couldn’t help thinking Peter Weber had written himself. It left out the part where he’d been fired as an investigative journalist from the New Hampshire Inquirer for making up sources. As well as the part where he’d been sued successfully by the family of the subject of one of his true-crime books. The rest of it was true, though, if slightly inflated. His memoir of his deep dive into the Deirdre O’Donnell case really had spent an entire week on the New York Times Bestseller list, and Weber really was viewed by many as the ultimate expert on Deirdre.

  Weber beamed all the way through the introduction and, when it was his turn to speak, proceeded to give another introduction, this time about what had drawn him to the case, why he was uniquely qualified to investigate Deirdre’s disappearance, and why, when it came to his theories, we should accept no substitutes.

  I was vaguely aware of the rustle of papers as someone brushed against the bulletin board to the side of me, and then someone whispered in my ear, “Maybe I owe you an apology.”

  I jumped, because strange voices whispering in my ear does that to me, and stared.

  Late forties-early fifties. Average height. Average build. Sandy hair, red, watery eyes, flushed face.

  “Sorry?” I whispered.

  “Last night. I think I was an asshole.”

  Recognition dawned. Blue T-shirt.

  “That’s okay. We all had a lot to drink.”

  He nodded. “I hate know-it-alls.”

  We were getting some disapproving looks from the people around us. I tried to silently communicate apology. I whispered, “Right. Thanks for apologizing.”

  Blue T-Shirt addressed an older man who was glaring at us, “This is a private conversation.”

  The man huffed, “Take your conversation outside.”

  “Fuck off,” Blue T-Shirt replied cordially. He said to me, “I’m thinking of starting my own podcast. Do you mind if I pick your brain?”

  I couldn’t help thinking he probably meant literally.

  “Another time? I want to hear Weber.”

  His face screwed up with scorn. “Don’t waste your time. What a poser.”

  “Do you mind?” A woman hissed from down the length of the wall.

  “Do you mind fucking off?” Blue T-Shirt returned.

  Up at the front of the room, Weber had started reading from his book.

  Rusty Bailey recognized trouble when he saw it, and the shivering young woman with the trembling smile was in trouble.

  Not from him. Sure, at 350 pounds, with his long hair and stained handlebar mustache, Rusty looked like a roughneck, but those days were long behind him. He was a solid citizen now. In fact, he spent his days carting kiddies in his bus up and down the mountain to school and back.

  “You okay?” He looked again at the black Saturn stuck in the snowbank. The flashers on the ground blinked blood red, briefly illuminating the cracked windshield, the blown airbags, the Massachusetts plates.

  “I’m okay. Just shook up.”

  “Happens on this curve a lot this time of year. I’ll call it into the sheriffs’.”

  “Oh no,” she said quickly. “That’s okay. I already called Triple A. They’re on the way.”

  A funny thing to lie about. There was no cell service this far up the mountain, which she had to know if she’d tried calling anyone at all.

  Rusty said, “Okey dokey. You want to wait at our house? We’re right over there.” He pointed a little way down the road, but she shook her head.

  “It’s all under control.”

  Sure it is, honey. But he left her there, walking up and down beside her car, and drove the remaining hundred feet or so to his driveway. He parked beside the garage so he could keep an eye on her, went inside to tell his wife to call the sheriff, and returned to the bus to fill out the day’s paperwork.

  When Deputy Col Dempsey arrived seven minutes later, the girl was gone. Vanished like a ghost in the night. The only sign she had ever been there, the—

  “You know all this,” Blue T-Shirt said impatiently. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Sorry about that,” Rory said briskly, wedging himself between me and Blue T-Shirt. “What did I miss?”

  I opened my mouth to say—well, I couldn’t say what I was thinking, which was Thank God. Blue T-Shirt beat me to it.

  “Jeez, buddy!”

  “Problem?” Rory opened his jacket ever so slightly, and Blue T-Shirt blanched. He backed up, turned, and started pushing through the crowd.

  Rory stared after him, smiling sardonically. He glanced at me, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He put his arm around my shoulders—and that warm weight felt all too natural, all too right—gave me a friendly squeeze, and proceeded to give Weber his full attention.

  Chapter Nine

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea who’s been sending you death threats,” Rory said.

  “The guy at the library?”

  We were having Irish coffees at a cozy little bar within walking distance of the library. Most of the true-crime crowd had headed over to the Swiftwater, but I was starting to feel tired and out of sorts. It had been a long weekend, and it was only Saturday afternoon. Or maybe it was the aftereffects of having been drugged kicking in.

  “His name’s Frank Davenport. He’s a graphic designer from Michigan. Divorced. No kids. No wants or warrants. However, his in-laws have a PPO on him, as does his ex-girlfriend.”