Page 55 of Still Missing You

“What are you doing here?” he snaps. “This is my home.”

“We just have a few questions,” Dylan says smoothly. “It won’t take long.”

Peters’s gaze flicks to me, lingers a beat too long. “I don’t know why you think I can help you. I barely knew Matthew.”

“You knew about the problems between him and Lyle.” Let him think we’re still focused on Lyle, like he wants us to be. Whatever convinces him to let us in.

After a moment’s hesitation, he steps aside. “Fine, but I have work to do.”

“We stopped by the store first,” I say, following Dylan inside. “They said you’d been ill.”

“I’ve been dealing with migraines,” Peters explains, waving his hand. “The way the weather changes and temperatures fluctuate, they’re always a problem this time of year.”

“Are you feeling better now?” My mother struggled with migraines and would often have to lock herself in a dark room until they passed.

Peters nods. “I took something earlier, and it has taken the edge off.”

He leads us through his spotless house to his equally spotless living room. Minimalist furniture. Neutral colors. No personal photos. It feels like a waiting room.

I sit in a beige armchair next to a brick fireplace, and Dylan sits at the end of the sofa, a slightly darker shade of beige. Peters remains standing and slips his hands into his pants pockets, as if he’s not sure what to do with them.

“I don’t know what more you think I can tell you about Matthew,” he says. “I barely knew him.”

“You didn’t know he was an independent filmmaker and that he’d come to make a documentary about Coldwater?” I ask.

He shoots me a pointed look. “I don’t pry into my employees’ personal lives.”

That isn’t a no. “You didn’t answer.”

His mouth purses, and his head dips while he brushes invisible lint from his pants. “I’d heard some of the other merchandisers gossiping, but I don’t know anything about it.”

Dylan cocks his head to the side and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So you didn’t know what his movie was about, then?”

Peters shakes his head, but red creeps up his neck into his face. He knew exactly what Matthew’s documentary was about. “Just rumors.”

“He was making a film about men who disappeared from Coldwater,” Dylan says, his gaze unusually hard and locked on Peters.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Matthew’s film or the men who disappeared?” I ask.

Peters exhales, a mix of irritation and frustration, and pushes up his glasses again. “Both.”

“So you haven’t heard about the men who have been vanishing from Coldwater for all these years?”

“People talk.” He jerks his shoulder like a sulky child. “But I never put any stock in the stories.”

“Careful,” I say quietly. “So do we.”

“Strange coincidence, isn’t it? Matthew makes a documentary about missing men, and then he vanishes,” Dylan says, drawing the man’s gaze back to him. “Are you putting some stock in those stories now?”

“None of this has anything to do with me,” he bites out.

“Did he ever interview you for his documentary?” I ask, drawing the man’s attention back to me. I don’t like the way he’s glaring at Dylan.

He shakes his head. “Of course not.”

“Did you know he asked a friend to hide his equipment?”