Page 22 of Still Missing You

“About as well as I know any of my employees,” Peters replies.

“Really? You said he only worked here for a few months. How long has Alma, over there, worked here?” Dylan nods to the cashier, watching the exchange with unabashed interest. “Did you know Matthew as well as you know Alma?”

“Well, no.” Peters takes a step back towards his office door in retreat. “But I make a point not to get involved in my employees’ personal lives. I don’t know why you’re even bothering to ask me about him. You should be talking to Lyle Kirkland. Your cousin lived with him, and Lyle is trouble. Just before Matthew quit, he had bruises on his neck, and we all knew where they came from.”

“You think Kirkland did it?” Dylan asks, his face paling. “Why?”

“He has something of a reputation in this town. He’s a handyman and does odd jobs around town. He does good work when he’s sober. But when he’s drinking,” Peters lowers his voice as if he’s afraid Kirkland might overhear him, “he’s dangerous. He put the last man he was with in the hospital. Broke his jaw. He should have gone to jail, but the poor guy was too terrified to press charges. He left town, too, and no one ever saw him again.”

Chapter Nine

Hunter

Dylan is quiet when we get back to the inn, which, even in the short time I’ve known him again, is odd. I unlock the door to our room and stand aside, letting him go in first and trying to read his expression as he passes. Aside from a faint frown tightening his features, his face shows nothing.

Maybe he’s mad about the kiss. I really crossed a line there. Absently, I rub my chest where shame burns like indigestion. I should apologize, but I hate bringing it up. This situation is awkward enough.

“Hey.” I follow him inside and close the door behind us. Dylan looks at me expectantly, sinking onto the edge of the bed, face beautifully open. I lean back against the door and jam my hands into my pockets. “About earlier. When I kissed you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

His open expression shutters, and his shoulders hunch. “Oh. Yeah. I mean, it’s fine. Probably sold the whole boyfriends thing if anyone saw us, so...”

He doesn’t look at me when he speaks. Instead, his attention is fixed on his fingertip, tracing the intricate pattern on the quilt.

“I thought you might be mad. You’ve been quiet. Is your head hurting?” Someone tried to shove him down a staircase yesterday, and today has been long enough. My knee aches after so long on my feet, and I hope Dylan hasn’t been in pain without saying anything all afternoon.

He shakes his head. “I was a little achy this morning, but I took a couple of ibuprofen. I’ve been fine since.”

“You’re quiet,” I tell him again, and he shoots me a weak smile.

“Just thinking, I guess.”

“Care to share with the class?”

This time, when his gaze meets mine, those deep, endlessly blue eyes are dark and haunted. “Do you think he’s dead?”

It’s a possibility. An abusive ex with a history of violence... Yeah, it’s a definite possibility. But for some reason, I can’t force myself to say so. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It won’t do us any good to fixate on one person without considering every angle.”

“I just can’t stop thinking about what Peters said about Lyle Kirkland’s ex, leaving town, and no one hearing from him again. What if Kirkland killed him, and now he’s done the same thing to Matthew?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.” I push off the door and drop onto the bed next to him. “We don’t even know that Kirkland had an ex, let alone that he murdered him.”

“Peters said—”

“Peters couldn’t even remember the guy’s name. He gossips like an old woman. I doubt half of what he says is true. Besides, even if he is right about what went on between Kirkland and his ex, it doesn’t mean it has anything to do with what happened to Matthew.”

Though even I can admit Kirkland is a walking red flag, and I would bet money that whatever happened to Matthew, this guy knows something.

“Let’s order something to eat; then we can consider everything we know.”

Dylan lets out a slow breath and nods. “Yeah, okay. I’m going to have a quick shower.”

I nod. “I’ll order food. Is there anything specific you want?”

“I’m good with whatever.” He shrugs and stands. “You probably remember what I like.”

He slips into the bathroom and closes the door behind him, while I pretend his words haven’t hit me like a truck, knocking the breath right out of me. I do know what he likes. Even after all these years, I know he doesn’t like onions, especially on pizza; he prefers Thai food to Chinese, and he hates tomatoes. He has a sweet tooth that would rival a child’s, and given the choice, he’d live on dessert. It’s strange remembering so easily. I’m not sure I could remember Jenna’s favorite foods as clearly, and we were engaged.

After a quick review of Coldwater’s limited takeout options, I order a pizza—pepperoni, mushrooms and extra cheese, the way Dylan likes, and his favorite soda and a bottled water for myself—then flop down on the bed with a pen and notebook. I start to make quick notes, listing everything we learned today, but after a few quick strokes, my pen dies.