“I most definitely am. I’m in town for two more days, and tomorrow’s your last day to get something out there, right?”
I’m not sure how I feel about the excitement in his eyes ... Predator zeroing in on his prey? Or decent, helpful guy who’s happy I might finally come clean?
“I have a few things I need to take care of first.”
“Okay,” he says. “What’s changed your mind? You haven’t had a scare like that drug rep guy, Mooney, did out in the woods?”
I pause. My breath hitches.How does he know about that?I want to ask him, but I stop myself. My mind whirls. I try not to appear surprised or confused as I tick through it.
Tim Mooneydidconfess along with a bunch of other men who looked like the sketch. And yes, he contacted the police, both of which a good journalist could figure out.
But the scare? Tim Mooney confessing because he became frightened near the end of his six days and felt compelled to divulge more ... that was not public information. Only the cops in Spokane and the FBI know that, and there’s no way they’d share that with Jeremy or any other journalist.
And clearly they haven’t, or it would be all over the internet already.
I pull away from him as naturally as I can, so it doesn’t seem abrupt. I have an immediate strong urge to get to my car and drive as far away from him as I can. This guy goes from warm and fuzzy to cold and creepy faster than a spinning top. I’m not sure what to make of it. Alderson’s voice rings in my ears:Trust no one.
But I tell myself to be cool, that that would be a gross overreaction to something very inconclusive. I could ask him how he knows. Right here, right now. But if he knows because he was the guy stalking Mooney out in those woods, there’s no way he’s admitting it to me. Then I’ll have played my hand.
As nonchalantly as I can, I shuffle a few steps away from him. I keep myself focused on what’s before me: the blue, brown, and wine-colored river rocks below the clear water, the strong breeze ruffling its surface, the peaks on the far end of the lake, the leaves on the cottonwoods beginning to yellow in the early fall, the weight of my gun tucked into my jeans.
Jeremy picks up a small, smooth pebble and side-tosses it so that it skips a good six or seven times across the water.
Again, so normal. So natural. His muscles at ease under his fleece. But is it a facade? I take the opportunity to slide farther away from him.
He turns and looks at me funny for a second, then smiles at me in his carefree way. “You’re antsy to get going, aren’t you?”
I force a sweet smile back, but my stomach feels like it’s twisted itself inside out. Whatever feelings I was having for Jeremy have turned to a syrupy sludge churning in my guts. Again, there’s nothing definitive, but still, it’s a significant detail I don’t like at all.
I kick myself for being so stupid. How could I trust this stranger who’s been on my back since Dallas? Since the day I saw the sketch?
“So, when would you like for me to interview you?”
“I’ll let you know soon,” I say, “but right now I should get going, and you need to make those calls.” I wave to the parking lot. “After you.”
He starts back toward our vehicles, his feet shifting on the pebbled beach as he takes each step. I follow a few paces behind, trying to navigate the rocks myself while not taking my eyes off him.
Chapter 42
Fiona has tried calling again. Wallace, too. But not Tim Mooney. One message, though, leaps out: Glacier Elementary.
Sam’s school.
“This is Wanda Collins from Glacier Elementary. I have you down as a contact for Sam. I’m calling because school got out a little over half an hour ago, and Sam is still here without a ride. I didn’t hear from his mom or dad regarding this matter, and I haven’t been able to reach her or Patrick on their phones. If you could please call us, that would be great.”
Fear shoots through me. I call the school but it’s long past closing hours. Voicemail. I hang up and call Jess. She doesn’t answer. Voicemail number two. I can barely live with myself now, but if something happens to Sam, I’ll die.
My heart hammers against my chest. If someone has targeted Jess’s vehicle, they know who she is, where she lives, and they could easily target Sam, too.
“Jess. Call me. I got a call from Sam’s school, and I have no idea what’s going on. Call me. Immediately.”
I hang up and listen to Fiona’s and Wallace’s messages in case they know something I don’t, but neither seems to have anything important to say other than that they’re checking in and still worried.
I drive faster than I should, gripping the steering wheel, panic closing in on me. My heart feeling like it’s going to beat itself right out of my rib cage.
It’s dark out when I pull up. The lights from Jess’s kitchen and living room shine onto her front lawn. I’m about to bolt out of my car and run inside when I see her cross in front of the kitchen window.
“Thank God,” I say out loud. But Sam? Where is Sam?
