“I’ve been trying to reach you. I left several messages.” I smiled at her. “I’m an old friend of Suze’s. May I come in?”

Taking a final glance at the neighborhood—was she expecting to see a news van? A couple of suits in an undercover vehicle?—she reluctantly stepped aside.

Cheryl’s living room was furnished with two enormous beige couches. I let my gaze drift around the space. There were pictures of her son and granddaughter all over the place, at all stages of life. Little Erynn had Suze’s coloring and a long mane of dark hair, but the eyes were pure Copely, jewel-toned and bright. “She’s gorgeous,” I said.

“I know who you are.” Cheryl’s expression was smug. “People talk, you know. Brett was your uncle. You interviewed Crissy and Russell Loming. But you’re not the investigator on his case.”

The local grapevine covered even more ground than I’d realized. “Not officially,” I admitted, though that was putting it mildly. “I have a personal interest in knowing what happened to Brett. I’m sure you do as well.”

“What are you implying?”

Cheryl lowered herself onto the sofa, and I did the same. There was a basket of toys on the floor, and a half dozen minuscule figurines lined up along the edge of the coffee table. “Just that I’d appreciate your help,” I said. “I know you two used to date.” I slipped out my notebook. “How long were you in a relationship with Brett Skilton, Mrs. Copely?”

“About eight months,” she said.

Eight months. Based on what I knew about Brett and Felicia’s marriage, that meant the affair started before they split. “Would you say it was serious?”

“I was a single mother working my you-know-what off to support my son. I wouldn’t have bothered unless I believed Brett and I could have a future.” That last word caught in her throat. “He’d already left Felicia. He was going to ask for a divorce. I just don’t understand it: one day we were talking about renting a place in St. Albans to get a fresh start, and the next he was gone.”

“How did you feel when he told you he was moving?”

Cheryl wrung her hands in her lap. “He didn’t tell me. He just disappeared.”

“He didn’t tell you in advance?”

“No.”

“Huh,” I said, scribbling furiously. “Did you have an argument?”

A crease appeared between her eyebrows. “No. Everything was fine.”

“Did he seem unhappy? Unstable in any way?”

“He was perfectly normal.” Those hands. They couldn’t be stilled. Plucking one of the tiny figurines off the table, she rolled the colorful knob of plastic between her palms.

“Can you think of any other reasons why he’d want—or need—to leave? I know he had a gambling problem—”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “He quit gambling as soon as we started seeing each other. I insisted. Brett promised he was done with that.”

Only because he was onto bigger and better things. “It seems like he was under pressure to leave quickly, though. Could he have been mixed up in something?” I looked up from my notes. “It’s been suggested that he was trafficking drugs.”