I dunk the tea bag and feel foolish. “It’s nothing. It’s just not having Jay.” Do I tell her about the man who called me? What would she know about that? What would that have to do with her? It was stupid to come here.

“You’ve been through hell, Molly. Why don’t you let me refer you to somebody?” She’s at the counter, digging through her purse. “Morgan Blanton is wonderful. You’ll be comfortable with her. I guarantee it.” She turns to me, lifts a business card in the air. “And you know you can always talk to me. Always.” Her cat has silently entered the room and twines around her legs. Sadie sits up but doesn’t seem too interested.

Elise sets the card next to my cup. “Why don’t you have some breakfast? I don’t have to be at the office for another thirty minutes. We can talk about whatever you want. Jay or not Jay or the weather.” She smiles.

I nod and sip my tea, but the man’s muffled voice flutters through my mind. I know who you are.

CHAPTER 27 - Rita

CHAPTER 27

Rita

THE LITTLE TOWN OF MOUNTCLAIR IS BISECTED BY TWO MAIN ROUTES, two-lane highways that get a fair amount of traffic, people cutting through on their way to somewhere else. We meet Sheriff Skinner in the parking lot of the Mountclair Dry Goods store on the corner. He’s a burly man, late fortyish and well fed. His eyes are dark and direct and convey a sense of let’s get this done.

After introductions, Chase and I hop back in our cruiser. He insisted we drive a department vehicle, not trusting my van to make it through New Hampshire mountain country. The air is raw, damp and cold, but at least it’s not snowing. We follow Sheriff Skinner. There are a few businesses on either side of the road: a car-repair place with old tires piled along an outside wall, an ice cream shop, a small pink motel, a gas station with two pumps, and a bar. We turn into the Mountclair Tavern lot and jump out.

“This is where Ms. Robb was drinking with her boyfriend the night of the Fourth,” Sheriff Skinner says.

It’s a small place, painted gray, reasonably new with unlit neon beer signs in the two big front windows. It’s dim inside, not open this early in the morning, but we follow the sheriff through the front door.

There’s a thirty-something man behind the bar stocking glasses.

“This is Sid Jenkins,” the sheriff introduces us, and Sid offers a meaty hand. His bulging biceps are on display. He’s wearing a T-shirt despite the cold weather.

“Annalise and Lyle were sitting in that booth.” Sheriff Skinner points to a spot near one of the front windows. “The place was packed.” He glances at Sid.