Page 49 of Trapper Road

“Juliette had a secret online boyfriend.”

As I’d expected, she’s impressed. “Whoa, that does seem like it would be important. That wasn’t in the files, was it?”

“Nope. Hence the fact he was asecretboyfriend.”

She purses her lips at me, and I have a moment of deja vu. It’s the exact expression Lanny would give me whenever I was being intentionally cheeky. For a moment I miss my sister fiercely. It’s weird to be here without her — it’s always been the two of us together, and I feel a little lost without her.

“Then why did Willa tell you and not the cops?” Vee asks.

I shrug. I already decided against telling Vee the rest — about the fight Willa had with Juliette the afternoon she disappeared. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I think Willa was right that it would just cast suspicion on her and muddy the waters. “She said she figured the secret boyfriend was the guy who picked Juliette up in the truck, so in a roundabout way, she did tell the cops about him.”

Vee thinks about this for a second. “I guess. Still seems strange to me. So what’s the next step, Sherlock?”

I can’t help but smile at her reference. Whenever Lanny and I worked together on one of Mom’s cases, she always claimed the title of Sherlock and made me her Watson. I like that I get to be the one in charge this time around. “I’ll see if I can track down this online boyfriend, and you see if there’s anything else Willa and Mandy know that they haven’t told the cops.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to tell your mom what you learned?”

I know I probably should, but I also know exactly what she would say. She’d be upset that I talked to Willa about the case, and she’d tell me I couldn’t see her again. Once again, she’d take away something good in my life.

“Not yet.”

She smiles. “Looks like you got a little rebel in you after all. Good on ya.”

13

GWEN

The Gardenia United Methodist Church sits on the same square as the police station, courthouse, and the Baptist church. It’s a massive structure made of white stone with a soaring square spire and is just as impressive inside as out. Stained glass windows run along both sides of the nave, culminating in a massive tableau of three windows behind the altar.

A helpful sign just inside the entrance points out that the offices are to the left, and I follow the arrows into a nondescript hallway that leads to a large reception desk with a petite older woman hunched behind it. I explain who I am and that I’m hoping to speak with someone about Juliette Larson.

She picks up the phone, murmuring briefly with someone on the other end, before smiling and showing me back toward a suite of offices. There’s a man waiting for me in one of the open doors and he introduces himself as the Reverend Timothy Walker. We shake hands and he gestures me toward a chair inside.

As I sit, I take a closer look at the man and his office. He’s fairly nondescript: white with brown hair that’s thinning a bit around the edges, and muddy brown eyes. His cheeks are a little pale, indicating he doesn’t spend much time outside. There are no laugh lines evident around his eyes or mouth. Frankly, he looks rather dull.

So does his office. His desk is immaculate, bare except for a well-worn bible sitting in the center. The rest of the room is equally sparse, except for a collection of crosses arranged on the wall behind him. There’s not even a computer in sight. I’d almost think he’d just moved in and hadn’t bothered settling in yet if I hadn’t read on the website that he’d been pastor of the church for the past two decades.

He sits and folds his hands on the desk. His nails are clipped and polished, the skin of his fingers smooth and clear of visible flaws or scars. This is a man who hasn’t spent much time in his life performing hard labor. “What can I help you with today, Ms. Proctor?”

I smile. “Thank you for taking the time to see me. The Larson family is a member of your congregation?”

He nods, his face folding into an expression of concern. “They are. I pray for them and their daughter every morning and night.”

Of that, I have no doubt. He seems a very devout human being. “How well did you know Juliette?”

He takes his time thinking about the question. “I baptized her. Watched her grow and flourish as a member of our flock. She was an exemplary member of our youth community.”

I shift in my chair. I wonder if he’d feel the same way if he’d seen some of the images on her social media feed. He seems like he’s one of those strict religious believers, the kind who would frown at makeup and talk of flirting and boys.

“Did she have many friends here?”

“I would assume so. She was quite involved in the church. Her devotion to the Lord was a joy to observe.” He says it so dryly that I almost wonder if he’s being facetious. But nothing about him points to the existence of any humor, dry or otherwise.

“What kind of activities was she involved in?”

“She was a member of the children’s choir for many years. An alto if memory serves. Unfortunately, she aged out. We used to have a choir for teens, but with homework and other obligations it became too troublesome to schedule practices.”

“What about more recently? Such as the last year or so?”

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