Page 9 of Still Missing You

But he’s not, and my heart rate kicks up. A cool sweat breaks out over my skin despite the cold morning air.

Despite the dull skies and piles of salt-stained snow at the edge of the street, Fieldstone is a charming tourist town that looks like it’s out of a Vermont postcard. The main cross streets are lined with old red brick buildings, most of which are New England colonial in style and typical of the area, filled with touristy stores that sell everything from fudge and baked goods to overpriced antiques and handmade quilts. Winding tree-lined streets edged with big old trees and bigger old houses branch off the main intersection like streams from a slow-moving river.

I never would have imagined Dylan settling down in a town like this. Hell, I never would have expected him to stay in Vermont. I pictured him in New York or LA, somewhere with energy and teeming with life. Somewhere far from the kind of place we grew up in.

The Maple Shade Café is on the corner with a burgundy awning covering the sidewalk and entrance, and wide windows with a white grid dividing the glass into multiple small squares that look out onto the street and side street. Like the other shops on the road, Dylan’s café is charming and inviting and completely different from the kind of place I expected him to work. Almost as if I had never really known him at all.

“Was it Matty?” I hear a woman ask the man standing next to her. She has frizzy white hair spilling out from under an ugly crocheted pink beanie and falling past her shoulders.

“Who else?” the man replies. He’s older and heavyset, with two newspapers tucked under one arm and his hands jammed into the front pockets of an old pair of denim overalls that have seen better days.

“Matty’s a good guy,” a middle-aged woman interjects. She’s almost as tall as I am, with thick, wavy red hair falling past her shoulders. I recognize her from the photo Dylan sent me. Hannah, I think he said her name was, and she worked for him. “He wouldn’t have done something like this.”

Like what? I want to shout. My pulse beats so fast in my throat, I can almost taste it. What happened? Where’s Dylan? My panicked thoughts beat inside my head like moths thudding against a lighted window. I hover near the edge of the group, close enough to listen but not close enough to be pulled in. I’m not ready for their questions—or my own reactions. Instead, I stay quiet, hanging far enough back from the group that they don’t notice me, but I can still hear everything they say.

“Just a coincidence, then?” the man asks, his sharp tone clearly indicating he didn’t think so, and for the record, I agreed with him. “He shows up out of nowhere, disappears just as quickly, and now someone attacks Dylan.”

Attacked? My stomach bottoms out. What the fuck happened? I take a step towards the group, open my mouth to start demanding answers, when the woman with the ugly hat points. “There he is. Thank god.”

I look up just as Dylan rounds the corner of the café, speaking with a cop. The officer says something to him, shakes his hand, and then starts for his car parked next to the curb.

I don’t wait for Dylan to notice me, striding toward him and closing the short distance between us. As if sensing my approach, he looks up, and his brilliant blue eyes widen when they meet mine.

“Hunter?” he asks like he doesn’t quite believe it’s me. A confused frown tightens his features.

“What happened?” I ask once I’m next to him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I have information about your case.” His confusion morphs into something far more cagey, and his gaze slides away from mine to the group still standing behind me.

“What happened?” I ask again, jerking his attention back to me.

He shrugs. “I startled an intruder in the apartment over the café.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the café.

“Did they get him?” I ask, meaning the police.

He shakes his head. “He shoved me out of the way, and I fell down the stairs, before he took off.”

“You’re okay?” Even as I ask, I notice the dark, clumpy hair at the side of his head where he’d probably been bleeding, and there’s a pretty noticeable bruise forming over his cheekbone.

“I’m fine.” He wraps his arms around his middle, and I notice he’s not wearing a jacket, just a dark blue, cable-knit sweater and worn jeans. He must be freezing. It’s nearly April, yet winter still clings stubbornly, its grip sharp and frigid. “I only fell a few steps before I caught myself on the railing. I was lucky,” he says. That’s an understatement. Another stomach swoop at the thought of what could have happened. “You should probably get checked out at the hospital anyway. Just in case.”

“The paramedics checked me out. Just a few bumps and bruises. Nothing serious.”

My fingers itch to touch him, to personally check the wound on his head, and confirm for myself how badly he’s been hurt. Then pick him up, put him in my car and take him to the hospital myself, whether he likes it or not...which I realize is not a normal reaction to a man who dumped me ten years ago, disappeared from life for a decade and only reached out again because he needed something.

I should have handed Dylan’s case off to Colin. I still could. I could have Colin drive out, introduce him to Dylan and go over the details of what I found then walk away before I’m sucked in any deeper. But I already know I won’t. I’m not going anywhere.

“Are you okay?” Hannah asks. The group I’d been eavesdropping on has moved closer, and I can feel them looking at me, assessing me, trying to work out who I am and how I know Dylan, especially the woman in the ugly hat.

“I’m fine.” He smiles, but it’s forced and stiff and doesn’t reach his eyes. “I just surprised a burglar.”

“Do you think it was Matthew?” The older man asks, leaning closer.

“Evan.” Hannah lets out an exasperated sigh and rolls her eyes.

“Not Matthew.” Dylan reaches up to drag his fingers through his hair, but winces when they tangle in the blood-hardened clumps. “The guy was bigger.”