“Winner over what?”

“Us,” Montrose says as we pass by the mix of expensive megahomes and those more modest structures of the original weekenders that line the highway. Many are named with a play on the owner’s surname: Boyd’s Nest and Potts of Gold. Others play on puns: Shore Thing, Going Coastal, and my personal favorite, Latitude Adjustment. Seriously.

“It’s us versus them,” he says. “And news flash for Facebook or Twitter or whatever you post on: we’re going to win this one.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

LEE

Montrose is off at a doctor’s appointment late in the day when Facebooker Sheila phones, falling all over herself apologizing for not getting back to me sooner. She’s more than just eager to talk to me. Frantic actually. She says she can come by the station whenever I like. All I have to do is tell her a time.

I say now is fine, and twenty minutes later she’s in the reception area. She’s in her late twenties. She’s wearing jeans and a scoop-neck tee with “Hama Hama” embroidered on the front.

“I work at the oyster saloon,” she says when I take her into the interview room and pull out a notepad to capture whatever it is she’s going to share—that she hasn’t already posted on Facebook. “I was there when that lady’s husband came in asking for leads on his missing wife. Now dead wife, I guess.”

“So you talked to Adam Warner and his father-in-law?” I ask.

She shakes her head. Her hair is curly, and it literally bounces like a Slinky when she moves her head.

“No. Not really. I just heard them talking. The older guy did the talking mostly. Said that someone had abducted someone—his daughter, I guess—and asked if we’d seen anything. He said it happened in front of those cool old-timey rentals with the flower names. Believe it or not, I knew the place.”

“You did?” I ask.

“Yes. Stayed there a few times with a guy I dated. Lived with his parents, and we needed a place. Okay, at the time I lived with mine too. Anyway, I pass by there every day.”

“But something caught your eye that day?”

“Right. I was on my way to work. It was around ten thirty, and I was late. I’m supposed to be there at ten thirty. Anyway, I saw a truck parked there on the side of the road.”

“Where exactly?”

“Right before the turnoff to the cabins.”

“What kind of truck?”

“I’m not a truck person. More of a Jeep girl. I think that it was a Ford. Maybe a Chevy. Big. I really don’t know what make, but I can tell you the color.”

“That’ll help,” I say, though I already know from her Facebook post.

“Red,” she says. “Red.”

“Okay. Fine,” I say. “Did you see the driver?”