Page 92 of Last Seen
He disappears into the cabin. On his heels, first responders and a contingent of townsfolk. They are bees in a disturbed hive; everyone seems to have a job to do—even the onlookers, standing in a knot at the base of the drive to the cabin, faces ashen and aghast, murmur incessantly. And lo, a slew of deputies appear, who Halley learns are all volunteers with their own specialized skill sets. Like firefighters in a rural area, trained well and on call as necessary.
She waits, but not as long as she should. Tammy’s body is being transferred much too soon for Halley’s liking. When she worked cases, years earlier, it could take hours before a homicide scene was fully processedand cleared for the victim to be moved. They are less than an hour in here, and she thinks the sheriff is being pressured to make it all disappear.
The sheriff is not interested in her help, nor her opinions. Instead, she is forced to sit by Noah in Miles’s golf cart, watching and being watched by the growing crowd, until summoned for processing by one of the sheriff’s volunteer strangers. On display to everyone, she is fingerprinted, her shoes confiscated, and, in a horrifying move that brings the sheriff running when she pitches a fit, her bag, containing her laptop, her gun, and her phone, is taken as well. And the note. They’re going to see the note.
Knowing another might be in danger pulls her back to herself at last.
“You can’t take my bag,” she says to the sheriff.
“Come on, Miss James. You know the drill. They will process everything and get it back to you shortly.”
“You have to at least let me keep my phone. It never left my bag. None of the contents did.”
Just let me get my hand in there. Let me slip out that note.
She can tell he’s wavering, but his father is watching, along with much of the rest of town. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he straightens. His tone brooks no arguments.
“This is procedure. Don’t make a fuss. I’ll return them to you myself.”
He ignores her retort—“Procedure my ass”—and disappears back into the cabin. Frustrated, she turns and sees the people of Brockville watching her. Theirs are not friendly faces. As if she did this. As if she were the murderer. Cunning glances her way, openly accusatory looks, the muttering of the crowd. Sweat breaks out on her forehead. Their frustration is growing. All they are missing are pitchforks and lit torches and cries of “Kill it, burn the monster!” In the sea of anger, there are faces she’s beginning to recognize. The four kids from the General Store are there, whispering behind their hands. The friends Tammy ate with, her round table of compatriots, noses red and cheeks streaked with tears. The people Halley passed on the street as she entered the town; the female jogger with her deluxe side-by-side double stroller and those cherubic blond angels within. It’s like the wholecast from a movie being gathered in one place for an announcement. They shuffle and stare and titter. She is exposed and raw.
All she needs now is the news showing up and trying to interview her. That will set Theo off. And her dad. Any reporter worth their salt will ask about her dismissal from the lab, too, and then she’s tarnishing their reputation and all that she’s built, and it will ruin her chances to sue for her job back, or at least get a proper severance, and Tammy’s face, so slack and empty, the flood of crimson ... Oh, God, this is bad.
She drags in a breath and the scene begins moving again. No one has noticed her freak-out. And she realizes that is what’s missing here, so stark in its absence.
There is no media.
This is a completely controlled scene, populated only by Brockvillians, and there is no one to report on the story of a dead body found in this small, isolated, exclusive mountain town.
It feels very odd, and very uncomfortable. Though she hasn’t been looking online at the news about Kater’s murder, or Dr. Chowdhury’s, she knows stories are being done. They must be. Two murders in a small town are catnip to reporters.
But here? There is nothing. No one. No news trucks with satellite dishes, no cameras, no field reporters. Their absence feels almost sinister.
Will the townspeople allow word to get out that one of their brethren has fallen? Or will this be hidden away, become part of the lore of Brockville?
Is that why they’ve taken her phone and she is being guarded by the founder’s son?
Halley is starting to spin out again. She needs to get herself together. Now. Her life depends on it.
With no real recourse, and not wanting to face the sea of fury lining the drive of the writers’ retreat any longer, she agrees to be given a ride backto her cottage to change and shower. Noah, pale and serious, follows in his own golf cart. He has become her unofficial bodyguard. Who knows, maybe he is the official one. The way Miles controls his sons is disturbing. She watches them all talking, sees the other two brothers who also worked for the town for the first time. They are uncannily alike, the four of them. All variations on a theme of their father. None of them are the man she met in Marchburg.
So where does the stranger fit into all this? The man who, for the briefest of moments, she saw in Miles Brockton’s face?
She isn’t sure she wants Noah near her, not sure she wants any of the Brocktons near her, but at the same time, she is strangely grateful for his company. He feels like he’s on her side. They have a strange connection, the intimacies of their overnight confessional coupled with ... something.
When she comes from the shower and sees him slumped in one of the chairs in the cottage’s living room, in a position not unlike the one she found Tammy’s body in, a streaking thought flies through her mind.Is he the murderer?
No, of course not. He would have his hands around her throat by now if he were.
Then another. Why is it only the women she’s talked to have died?
And one more. Why has the murderer not tried to kill her yet?
He will, soon enough.
She needs to alert Baird Early about what’s happened here. It’s time for her to raise the red flags and have someone drag her from the undertow. Because she is sinking; she is drowning. She is afraid. She is no longer in control.
But she needs to keep her head about her. Someone here asked for her help, and she is loath to leave before finding out who.
