Chapter Twenty
Hunter
Mason Peters lives in a tidy side-split that looks like it was built in the seventies.
A mix of gray brick and taupe vinyl siding, the house screams money without taste.
Last night’s snow, blanketing Peters’s yard, is pristine, untouched.
Only his carefully shoveled stone walk hints that anyone lives here at all.
Dylan parks at the curb, cuts the engine, and looks at me. “You ready?”
I sigh. “No, but let’s do it, anyway.”
Besides, talking to Peters would give me a break from Dylan’s driving. Between the abrupt lane changes and late braking, I’m not sure which will kill me first—Dylan’s driving or whoever broke into our room.
We’d stopped at the General Store to talk to Peters before coming here, but he wasn’t in. Justine, who had been manning the cash register, explained that he’d called in sick—he’d been off for the past two days, apparently—then she’d told us where he lived and even gave us directions to get there.
Coincidence that he hasn’t been to work since our intruder showed up? I’d tackled him to the floor in the hall before falling down the stairs. Could I have injured him?
We climb out of the truck, and my knee is stiff. It gives a faint twinge of protest when I put weight on it, but I don’t let on. I can feel Dylan watching me, and if he suspects I’m in any kind of pain, he’ll insist on going back to the inn so I can rest.
As appealing as spending the afternoon in bed with Dylan is, I don’t want to give Peters any time to prepare for our visit. One of his employees probably already told him that we were asking for him. The less time he has to think about what he’ll say to us, the better.
“I’m good,” I say, answering Dylan’s unspoken question as I join him at the bottom of Peters’s walk. I just wish the limp weren’t so obvious.
Together we start toward the house, and I can’t shake the low hum of unease crawling up my spine. I look up at the building. All the curtains are closed tightly. As if he has something to hide.
Peters answers the door on Dylan’s second knock.
He’s dressed in plain khakis and a blue sweater hanging loose on his narrow frame.
His dark, hooded eyes narrow when his gaze meets mine, and he pushes up his oversized glasses with his fingertip.
His mouth purses with annoyance at the sight of us.
He doesn’t look sick. And I don’t see any obvious signs that he tangled with me a few nights ago, either.
“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?”
“Why would I?” He sounds defensive.
“But she turned it over to us.” His gaze holds mine, but he doesn’t respond. “Two nights ago, someone broke into our room and took his camera bag. Someone really didn’t want us to see what was on that camera.”
“Again,” Peters snaps, “none of this has anything to do with me.”
I ignore him and push on. “The thing is, I had already copied Matthew’s footage. So someone who might not want anyone to know that they had participated in Matthew’s film will be disappointed.”
Peters’s lips thinned. “And you think that was me?”
I lean back and fold my arms across my chest. “Was it?”
Peters lets out a short laugh. “Of course not.”
“He had bruises around his neck like someone tried to choke him,” Dylan says.
“Lyle Kirkland probably put them there,” Peters snaps, his expression stony.
“He says he didn’t,” Dylan says. “He says Matthew came home from work with them.”
“You can’t honestly believe I did that to him.”
“I’m not sure what I believe, but I’m convinced that you’re not telling me the truth.”
Peters’s jaw tightens. He looks between us, calculating. Then his gaze settles on me. “I suppose that’s something we have in common. I know who you are, and you’re not just Matthew’s friends.”
“Who do you think we are?”
“You’re a private investigator,” Peters continues.
Dylan goes still and glances at me.
How did he know? “What makes you think that?”
Peters smiles, thin and humorless. “People talk.”
Someone had been snooping in our room the first day Dylan and I checked in. We’d assumed it was Jim or Nancy. Could it have been Peters? Unlikely. Someone would have noticed him lurking around the inn.
It probably had been Jim or Nancy in our room, and they had somehow worked out what I did for a living and blurted all over town.
“Is there a bathroom I can use?”
Both Dylan and Peters look at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. This conversation is going nowhere, and while I don’t love the idea of leaving Dylan alone with Peters, I doubt we’ll have the opportunity to get inside his house again. If I’m lucky, Matthew’s bag will be easy to find if it’s here.
Peters studies me for a long moment, then he gestures vaguely toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s down there. Second door on the right.”
“Thanks,” I say, and head down the hall.
The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is spotless, but I don’t linger. Instead, I move quietly to the next door. Peters’s bedroom, I guess. It’s as clean and void of personality as the rest of the house. I check behind the door and in the closet, but there’s no sign of the camera bag.
Across the hall, the door to a spare bedroom converted into an office is open just enough to slip inside. The room is dim; the curtains drawn tight. A desk sits against one wall, a closed laptop in the center. Filing cabinets and shelves with neatly labeled boxes line the far wall.
Unlike the rest of the house, the desk is cluttered with something—photographs; I realize once I’m closer. Polaroids. Dozens of them, not even hidden.
I pick one up. My stomach drops.
A young woman. Early twenties, maybe younger. Shot from waist height. She’s standing in front of a mirror in a public bathroom, mid-adjustment of her jacket, unaware she’s being photographed. The angle is intimate. Invasive.
I flip to the next one.
Another woman. Different hair. Same bathroom, only she’s sitting on the toilet with her pants around her knees.
Cold anger floods my veins. He’s clearly somehow taken these pictures of women in the bathroom at The General Store.
I quickly scan the rest. Too many.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
All women. All candid. All taken without consent. Some blurred, as if the photographer rushed. Others carefully framed.
All his caginess? It isn’t about Matthew. It’s this. He’s afraid someone will find out.
I photograph the pictures with my phone, documenting the desk, the room, and the context. Then I put everything back exactly as I found it.
When I return to the living room, Dylan looks at me and frowns. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “My knee is a bit stiff.”
“Are you finished here?” Peters asks.
“One last thing,” Dylan says. “Did Matthew ever tell you he was scared of someone?”
Peters rolls his eyes. “Of course not; he wouldn’t have discussed that sort of thing with me.”
I believe that. But that doesn’t mean he’s clean. Not because he’s trustworthy, but he no doubt had bigger worries than Matthew’s documentary.
Once we’re in the car and headed back to the inn, Dylan turns to me. “Why are you acting weird?”
I tell him what I found in Peters’s office while I dig out Alvarez’s business card from my wallet.
“I knew there was something off about the guy,” Dylan says. “He gave me the creeps from the start.”
“Me too,” I admit. “But I don’t think he had anything to do with what happened to Matthew.”
“Unless Matthew caught Peters and filmed him in the act,” Dylan says.
“Maybe,” I say. It’s not implausible, but I doubt it.
“The PI thing?” Dylan says, glancing at me. “Someone told him.”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s impossible to know who, but I have some guesses.”
“I probably have the same ones.” Dylan reaches over and squeezes my hand. “We’ll deal with it.”
Warmth blooms in my chest at the way he says we. But somewhere in this town, someone is watching. “I’m going to report Peters to the detective. What he’s doing is a crime. But instead of going back to the inn, let’s grab dinner at The Four Corners. I’m starved.”
“Are you sure? I can tell your knee is bothering you again.”
“It’s not bad, I promise. I can definitely sit in a chair and eat.”
“Fine,” he says. I dial the detective’s number and press the phone to my ear.