It was the exact same story—the shooting in Worcester, how Reyes had quit his job, fallen apart. How he’d applied for an opening in Hastings and Watkins had hired him, pieced him back together.
Only now, a new fact—he’d arrived three months after Daisy Hollander went to that camp.
Nic didn’t tell him what she’d seen in that yearbook. But she pressed on with her questions about Daisy and Reyes.
“Was there anything between them? Maybe something Roger Booth didn’t know about?”
“Reyes? No way. Never saw them together. Daisy didn’t give any man the time of day unless he could do something for her. She had gifts but she was also wily as hell. A survivor, you know?”
“And what about you?”
“Me? Me and Daisy?” Watkins laughed then. “Look, I have my vices, especially since my wife died. But she could have been my daughter. I’m not one of those creeps.”
Nic thought about what she’d seen in the parking lot of the casino. The way he’d treated that prostitute. He may not be one of those creeps, but he was something.
She moved on.
“The taillight on your truck.”
“What about it?”
“You fixed it six days ago.”
“I did.”
“How long was it out?”
“Not a day before I fixed it. I’m the chief of police—can’t exactly go around with a broken taillight.”
“Broken cover and light bulb?”
“How would you know that?”
“Just tell me.”
“Okay. I walked out of the casino on a Thursday night, the way I always do, and someone had smashed the glass cover and the bulb. I figured it was some drunkard who backed into me. The thing is, there was no other damage to the car. You’d think maybe there’d be some scratches to the paint around the casing. Anyway, I went to the auto body and they fixed it.”
“The one in town?”
“No. I use one up the road. Got a friend there. Why?”
“So you didn’t order parts through the town? Charged to the department?”
“Hell, no. That’s a sure way to get my ass fired. What is all this about—wait a second, is this about that woman? The one who saw a pickup truck the night your mother disappeared?”
Nic didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
“Just ask it, then. Ask the question you really want to ask.”
“Okay,” Nic said. The words choked her at first, then exploded. “Did you see my mother the night of the storm? Did you take her somewhere? Did you help her leave us? Did you do something else? Did you hurt her?”
“Jesus Christ,” Watkins said. “I mean—Christ! No. No, no, no. A thousand, million times. No. How could you even think that?”
Nic told him then about Edith Moore and the truck and the taillight and the invoice Reyes had shown her. She told him about the house on Abel Hill Lane and how Reyes had known about the lock and the chains. And she told him about the fence that backed up to the inn and how there was a hole someone had tried to cut open. Finally, she told him about Edith Moore, or Bickman, and how she knew Kurt Kent and how he met with her the day aftershe came back to Hastings and told the story about the pickup truck.
When she was finished, Watkins stared at her for a long moment. Thinking. But then—
“You should go home,” he said. “This is not for you to sort out anymore. No wonder you asked me those questions. Everyone you turned to for help has been lying to you, or hiding things…”
