Chapter Two

Day thirteen

The phone rang. Stopped. Rang again.

Nicole Clarke awoke, felt a body beside her. It didn’t stir.

The ringing was loud. The daylight bright, even through closed eyes. Remorse crept in as her hand reached toward the sound.

She pulled the phone to her ear, eyes pinching tightly together, then moved herself closer to the edge of the bed so she was no longer touching the stranger she’d brought home.

She managed a hello. Her voice was hoarse.

“Nicole Clarke?” a woman asked. She seemed nervous. “I’m calling about the disappearance of a woman in Hastings.”

The name of that town. Adrenaline, nausea. Nic didn’t answer.

Then came the flashes from the night before.

Vodka shots . . . the man at the end of the bar . . . now in her bed.

She’d told him to leave in the early morning hours. Or maybe she’d passed out before she could.

The woman continued.

“My name is Edith Moore. I hope this is the right thing to do, but I may have something . . . I may know something about that woman—your mother, right?”

The man groaned, draped a heavy arm over her chest. Nic pushed it aside.

There had been a moment last night when his arms couldn’t hold her tight enough. Now they repulsed her. It was always the same.

She rolled onto her side and pulled her knees to her stomach. “Hold on,” she said, waiting for the nausea to recede.

The calls about her mother had begun to slow. Most of the crazies had moved on to other things. Other ways to feed their appetite for attention. The psychologist had explained it to them, why people feel drawn to these stories, to other people’s grief, and why they seek ways to get involved even if they muddy the search for the truth with their lies. Their made-up stories. Their bullshit.

There was also the reward money. A million dollars for her mother’s safe return. Five hundred thousand for tips leading to her “whereabouts.” Nothing brought out a liar like cash. Her father had hired an investigator to manage the tips.

The woman continued.

“I live in Schenectady, which is two hours from Hastings—over the border into New York. I was on my way home from a trip to Manhattan. I met some girlfriends there. That’s why I was on the road.”

Nic began with the questions that would likely end the conversation. What day? What time? What road?

The callers never did their homework. They usually got the town right. Sometimes the make and model of her mother’s car—an Audi Q5, light blue. Stopped just before the gas station.

Edith Moore rattled off the answers. It was the last one that made Nic pay closer attention.

Hastings Pass.