“Did you keep in touch with him after he left?”

“Oh sure, we were pen pals. I was partial to scented paper and purple ink.”

“Mr. Loming—”

“No,” he said grudgingly, “we didn’t keep in touch.”

“Not even a phone call? Didn’t you wonder where he ended up?”

“Brett’s the one who convinced me to hand over my paychecks to that goddamn casino up in Montreal. He was a bad influence.”

I studied him. “You don’t seem like the type to be easily influenced,” I said, thinking, You don’t look that virtuous, either.

Loming’s shrug was loose. “Okay, so maybe it went both ways.”

Something about Russell Loming’s attitude reminded me of Crissy. This wasn’t your average death, to be sure. Brett was gone long before we knew he was gone for good, and that made it difficult to gauge the nature of his relationship with others. How close had these men been, really? Loming knew about Brett’s problems with Felicia, but that could have been due to idle talk. Half the town had heard about their squabbles. Were these men gambling buddies, plain and simple? I just couldn’t be sure. “Do you remember what you were doing in June of 1998?”

“Do you?”

“Was there anyone else Brett was close to before he moved out of town?” I asked, plowing on.

“I was a married man by then, with two boys at home. I had better things to do than keep track of Brett’s love life.”

Wait, what? “I didn’t say anything about his love life. Was Brett dating someone, Mr. Loming? You’re under no obligation to answer my questions, but if you don’t and I find out you know something, I’ll wipe that grin right off your face.”

“Ohh,” Loming said, feigning an epiphany. “You’re asking about Cheryl.”

“Cheryl?”

“Brett’s girlfriend.”

My mind went into overdrive. As far as I knew, Brett hadn’t left Felicia for another woman. It was possible, however, that he was in a new relationship before his death. “Got a last name for me?” I asked.

“Aw, hell, I can’t remember that.”

“When exactly were they dating?”

Lazily, he lifted his gaze to the room’s low, dingy ceiling. “Don’t know when it started. But I can tell you when it ended.”

So can I, I thought, picturing Brett’s lifeless body among the trees.

Loming’s stare was distant. His mind was in overdrive, too. “Now that I think about it,” he said, “if you really want to find out who did this, you should talk to Cheryl. They were hot and heavy for a while. I don’t believe she was too thrilled when he took off.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Loming,” I said, tearing a piece of paper from my notebook. “I’ll be needing your number and address, if you don’t mind.”

“Call me Russ.” He scribbled down his number and forced his sweaty hand against mine. “And call me. Anytime.”

SEVENTEEN

In the parking lot of the plant, I messaged Tim. He’d responded to my previous text with a thumbs-up emoji and no questions asked, but now he had bad news. Got a land survey of the houses in town with standalone structures like garden sheds. Sol and Bogle searched the few we found. Nothing there, or in the basements. I felt my shoulders slump. I never imagined thinking about my scar could give me comfort, but I’d been hopeful that Bram might incorporate parts of our shared past into his game. That maybe the reference to swans was only the beginning. At least then I’d stand a chance.