Chapter Nineteen
Dylan
I’m in a better mood than I should be. We’re on our way to see the man who probably killed Matthew and tried to kill Hunter, but warmth still spreads through my chest every time I glance at him across the cab ... clinging to the passenger door handle, jaw set, eyes alert, while I drive.
The weight of what we’re doing should be crushing. And yet it isn’t.
Hunter catches me looking and lifts an eyebrow. “What?”
I smile before I can stop myself. “Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes, unconvinced, but lets it go. The corner of his mouth quirks upward anyway, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and doesn’t mind.
“Eyes on the road,” he tells me, and juts his chin at the windshield.
“I’m fine. Been driving since I was sixteen.”
It had snowed overnight, leaving the roads slick with slush. I’ve driven through Vermont winters my whole life. Hunter gripping the door like I’m about to steer us into a tree feels like an overreaction.
I pull into Lyle’s driveway, and Hunter and I exchange a glance.
Lyle’s rusted white pickup is in the driveway.
We’d staked out the man’s house more than once since we came to Coldwater, and no matter how long we waited, he hadn’t turned up.
Maybe after the break-in and Hunter’s fall, Lyle figured we’d back off.
“Park at the bottom of the driveway so we block him in if he tries to make a run for it,” Hunter says.
I nod and cut the engine, doing my best to ignore the way Hunter’s voice slides under my skin.
I like this version of Hunter, focused and intent, different from the boy I knew, but maybe not so much.
He’d always taken hold of the situation, and even back then, I’d felt secure, taken care of.
We get out of the car, and the cold air bites at my hands and face.
My breath creates thin puffs of smoke. Hunter moves around the front of the truck, his limp barely perceptible.
Anyone who didn’t know him would have no idea that his knee was giving him trouble.
There’s a coiled energy to him. If Lyle tries to bolt, he’ll regret it, injured knee or not.
Lyle’s stone cottage is old and squat, and the porch light flickers as if it’s on the verge of burning out. I knock, but there’s no answer. He’s home. His truck is in the driveway, and I can hear the muffled murmur of a television.
I knock again, harder this time. Footsteps sound inside, and the door cracks just wide enough for Lyle to peer out with sharp eyes and a defensive scowl. “What do you want?”
“We have questions.” Hunter’s voice is calm, but I can hear the edge beneath it.
Lyle snorts. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I got nothing to say to you.”
“We just want to talk.”
“Yeah, cops already did.”
“We’re not the cops,” I say. “And we’re not here to accuse you of anything.” Which isn’t exactly true, but I was willing to bend the truth if it meant getting answers.
“You might not be cops, but you’re not just Matthew’s friends,” he mutters.
“He’s missing. We just want to find him.”
“Yeah, right.” Lyle rolls his eyes, but he opens the door wide and steps aside.
Inside, the place smells musty, like old cigarettes and dust, and once again I ask myself what the hell Matthew had been doing with this guy.
The grime on the windows turns Lyle’s living room dull and gloomy, with only the glow from the television to brighten the room.
He’s watching a cop show I don’t recognize and switches it off before I can work it out.
Half-packed boxes clutter the living room. Lyle catches me noticing and scowls.
“Don’t start,” he says. “I was planning to move, anyway.”
“Where?” Hunter asks.
“None of your business.”
“Have a seat.” He gestures to a sofa that might have started with a white and green swirl pattern, but years of dirt and cigarette smoke had dulled the color and made the pattern indistinct. “Sorry about the mess, boys. Maid’s day off.”
We sit, Hunter at one end of the sofa and I on the edge of the other. Lyle sinks into a threadbare recliner that looks like he found it in someone’s trash.
“So what’s the plan here? You going to accuse me of more shit I didn’t do?”
“I doubt it,” Hunter says. “Look, I’m going to get straight to the point.”
Thank god, I think.
“Matthew’s camera bag was stolen from our room two nights ago.”
Lyle grins, sharp and humorless. “I heard about that. Heard you had a fall. You should be more careful on the stairs.”
I can feel Hunter tense, but his expression remains neutral. “Did you take Matthew’s camera bag?”
Lyle rolls his eyes. “You think I broke into your room? Seriously?”
“You saw we had his equipment,” I say. “You knew about the film he was working on.”
“So what?” Lyle snaps. “I didn’t give a shit about his stupid documentary when he lived here. Why would I now that he’s gone?”
Hunter studies him. “Where were you two nights ago?”
“Here,” he answers instantly. “I had a job the next day.”
“Anyone who can verify that?” Hunter presses.
Lyle’s jaw tightens. “Nope.”
I watch his hands as he speaks. Faint yellow-purple bruises mark his knuckles, half-hidden by his sleeves.
I glance at Hunter. He’s noticed them too. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“Those look recent,” I say.
Lyle follows my gaze, then curses under his breath. “Don’t.”
“What happened?” Hunter asks.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Matthew concerns us,” I say softly. “He might be dead.”
That lands. Lyle flinches, and for just a second, his bravado cracks, something raw flashing underneath.
“I told you, I never put my hands on him,” he says flatly.
I shoot him a pointed look. “Someone did.”
“Not me.” Lyle’s hard stare holds mine. “I know what people say about me, but it’s not true. Yeah, we fought, and I yelled. Half the time, it turned him on. He liked it rough.”
Hunter leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “Careful.”
Lyle’s grin falters.
“And the other half of the time?” Hunter asks, calm as ever.
“I didn’t touch him, and I definitely didn’t kill him.”
Hunter doesn’t interrupt. He waits.
Lyle exhales hard, raking a hand through his hair. “He came home from work late, and I could see the bruises around his throat. He wouldn’t tell me who did it or what happened. Wouldn’t tell me anything. He just packed his shit and left. Said it was safer.”
“Safer from who?” Hunter asks.
Lyle laughs again, but there’s no humor in it. “If I knew that, don’t you think I’d tell you?”
Silence settles, thick and uncomfortable. I’m not sure if I believe him or not.
“I didn’t steal his equipment.” Lyle grabs a cigarette from the table next to his chair. “And I sure as hell didn’t break into your room. If I wanted the footage, I’d have taken it from Matt directly. Before he left.”
Strangely, I believe him. Not because he’s especially convincing, but he makes a valid point. If he’d been the one to choke Matthew, he could have taken his equipment then. Instead of taking it then, he gave Matthew the chance to hide with Justine.
Hunter seems to come to the same conclusion.
“One more question,” he says. “Did Matthew ever say if he was afraid of anyone?”
Lyle stiffens. “No, but that last week he lived here, he was acting strange. Jumpy, and he kept looking out the windows.”
Like he had the night he turned up at the café.
“You didn’t ask him why?” I ask.
“If he wanted to tell me, he would.” Lyle takes a long drag of his smoke and exhales. “I told him to sit the fuck down and stay still.”
“Very helpful,” I mutter, shaking my head.
When we leave, Lyle doesn’t follow us to the door. He leans back in his ugly chair and takes another drag from his cigarette while looking at his half-packed boxes.
Outside, the cold feels sharper, seeping through my clothes and stinging my skin. It was too cold for early April.
We get into the truck without speaking, but I hesitate before starting the engine. My thoughts are racing, pieces shifting into new, uglier shapes.
Hunter breaks the silence first. “It wasn’t him.”
“I don’t think so either.” I finally turn the key in the ignition and put the truck in reverse. The snow crunches beneath the tires as I back out of Lyle’s driveway and start us back to town.
“I believed what he said about Matthew acting spooked. He was like that when he first started at the café,” I say, keeping my attention on the road. “If Lyle didn’t try to choke him, someone else did.”
“You’re right,” Hunter says. He must be distracted by his thoughts. He barely pays any attention to my driving. “Whoever did that to Matthew knew him well enough to scare him into leaving.”
The memory of Matthew that first night, bruised and haunted, plays again and again in my head. Now, he was probably gone. Something sharp twists in my chest. I wish I could have helped him. I wish he’d trusted me enough to tell me who he was running from.
“There’s someone we haven’t really considered,” Hunter says carefully.
I frown and glance at him before turning my attention back to the road. “Who?”
“Mason Peters.”
“The store manager.”
Hunter nods. “When we first met him, he was cagey, but he pushed us toward Lyle. Maybe he was using his reputation as a cover.”
“Maybe we should talk to him,” I say slowly.
Hunter’s hand covers mine on the gearshift. The warmth of his skin eases some of the dread gripping me. “Maybe he knew about Matthew’s documentary.”
“Possibly. If that’s the case, what about a documentary detailing the town’s missing men would make him go after Matthew?”
“Go after us,” I remind him. “Breaking into our room wasn’t easy. Whoever it was took a real risk.”
Hunter glances at me. “He probably didn’t expect us to wake up. Maybe he thought he’d be in and out before anyone noticed.”
“Unless he hoped to do more than steal Matthew’s camera.”
Hunter’s jaw hardens. “Then he underestimated us.”
The quiet ferocity in his voice makes my pulse jump. I reach over and rest my hand on his thigh, careful of his knee. “Yeah, he did. We’ll figure it out.”
He looks down at my hand, then back up at me. “We will,” he says, and I believe him.
Snow crunches beneath our tires as we head back toward town.
Somewhere in Coldwater, the man who hurt Matthew is watching.