Page 95 of Juniper Bean Resorts to Murder

Crap. This is not working. His expression couldn’t be more skeptical or suspicious if he tried.

I sigh, running my hand through my hair and frowning when I remember how gross and sweaty I am. “The last time anyone has seen her was at the Homecoming dance. Her mom thinks she’s on a road trip, but…” I trail off, debating how much to tell him. “But she’s not,” I finally say, the words heavy on my tongue. “I can’t tell you how I know. I really can’t. It’s too crazy of a story. But I can promise you that something happened to her, and whatever you know might help me figure out why.”

He continues to stare down at me, and his expression doesn’t change, but I do notice with rising hope that his face has paled a bit. Maybe I’m getting through to him after all.

He finally breaks eye contact, his gaze darting away as he looks at the photo above the water fountain.

“Did something bad really happen to her?” he says in a quiet voice.

I swallow. “Yes,” I say.

His eyes cut back to me. “Did she—is she—” His voice breaks, words cracking jaggedly in half before he finds them again. “Is she gone?”

“Yes,” I say, because I know what he’s asking. “She’s…gone.”

“And you’re sure.” It’s not a question.

I think back to Sandy’s body, lying on the forest floor. “Yes,” I say softly. “I’m sure.”

“Why haven’t you told the police?”

That’s a fair question. “I have,” I say with a sigh. “But someone has Sandy’s phone and is using it to impersonate her. Her mother refuses to admit she’s missing, and there’s no…no body.” I swallow again. “So the sheriff isn’t convinced.”

“It’s a small town,” Gus says, rubbing one hand over his face and looking more tired than I’ve ever seen him. “Their resources have never been great, and they’re understaffed. It doesn’t surprise me.”

I nod. “I know. So…will you help me?”

He nods without hesitation, and I try to clamp down on the relief that floods through me.

“Sandy was seeing someone,” he says bluntly.

“I—what?” I say, my eyes widening. “How do you know? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” he says. His words are weary as he goes on, “And it wasn’t a high school boy, either. It was a man.”

“A…man?” Lionel?That’show she knew him? They were sleeping together? “You’re positive? How do you know?”

“I saw a picture on her phone,” he says, looking uncomfortable. “She left it on the bench”—he points to the bench lining one wall of the room—“and I picked it up just as it started ringing. His contact picture was the two of them in matching pink hoodies. Their hoods were up, and I didn’t recognize the guy, but I could tell he wasn’t a kid her own age. He looked older.”

“He could just be a tall student,” I say, thinking.

Gus nods slowly. “I thought that was possible too, until she answered the phone. I—well, I sort of eavesdropped.”

I raise my eyebrows, silently telling him to go on.

And then Gus drops a bomb that obliviates everything in my mind, every racing thought and half-formed idea. Four words, immeasurable impact.

“He was a teacher.”

* * *

Gus’s wordsplay through my mind over and over as I rush from the studio, flying down the stairs and jumping into Sunshine.

She called him ‘Teach,’ and then they started arguing about her calling him that when someone might hear. She told him he was acting like a crotchety old man and then started teasing him about his gray hairs. I think maybe she was trying to calm him down. She told him she would see him at school the next day. I was about to stop listening when she started saying a bunch of lovey-dovey stuff—I really was. But she, uh…well, she caught me listening. It was awkward, and she got really angry.

My brain is buzzing so loudly that I almost miss the correct turnoff—twice. I do manage to make it to the high school, though, maybe miraculously. The student lot is small but mostly empty now that the school day has ended; I park at the edge of the lot overlooking the track and football field, not bothering to adjust my car within the space. Then I hop out, slamming the door shut behind me.

I’m not even sure what I’m doing here. All I can think about is the photo of Sandra her mother showed us, the one of her in the fuchsia hoodie. That image keeps flashing through my mind, alternating with the faint memory of the first day I arrived here in Autumn Grove—the bad parking job in front of Grind and Brew, and the one thing that was just obnoxious at the time:

---