“We’ve got missing-person cases across Vermont, some going back decades. Just like in every jurisdiction in every state. Some people—especially some living up here, who don’t have all the facts—get carried away with theories, myths, and conspiracies. So, let’s not lose perspective and get ahead of ourselves here, all right?”

Kevin rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “Okay.”

“So, what more can you remember about Cass and Gibby?”

“Nothing. It was a short ride. They were friendly and harmless.”

“Did you get a plate and description of their vehicle?”

“No. It was dark, foggy.”

“Did Samantha talk to them?”

“Briefly, to say thanks. They told her that road was not a good place to be alone at night, which made her uneasy.”

“And she was already anxious about moving to Canada, the route you chose, the arguing?”

“Yes, but we smoothed it all over.”

Hardy nodded, took a moment, and made notes.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, and this was odd. Sam said that while she was waiting for me to come back with gas, a strange vehicle was watching her.”

Hardy’s eyebrows went up slightly.

“A strange vehicle?”

“She said it parked in the distance behind her, then watched with its lights on in the fog, before speeding off. Then it did the same from the opposite direction.”

“Did she give you a plate or description of the occupants, the vehicle?”

“No. That’s all I know.”

“And this was out through Lucifer’s Notch on your way to the crossing at Richford?”

“Yes.”

After finishing his notes, Hardy requested that Kevin give him Sam’s driver’s license. He then looked around the room and casually poked through their things. He took in the urn, their phones, clothes, the uneaten food, thinking this could be a potential crime scene. Hardy asked Kevin to wait next to his marked unit, a Ford SUV. Then he tugged on latex gloves and looked through the pickup truck, again using his flashlight. Spotting the dashcam, he made a note to check it for any recording that might help.

On his way to the motel office, Hardy stared at Samantha Moore’s New York license and an organ donor card. She was five feet four inches tall, pretty, with brown eyes and brown shoulder-length hair.

At the counter, Jonas Seaver, owner of the Green Rolling Hills Inn, kept shaking his head. “No, no, they weren’t arguing.” Seaver stroked his cat. “Everything seemed fine. My only guests for the night.”

“Did you hear or see anything unusual?”

“No.”

“What about your security cameras?”

Seaver shook his head again.

“Lost them in that storm last month, and still haven’t settled the insurance claim to replace them.”

“Anyone drop in before or after them, asking for directions, buying snacks? Anyone?”

Seaver gave his head another shake.

“Like I said, it’s been quiet.”