Wyatt placed his new business card on the counter. The man picked it up, adjusted his bifocals, and read it.

“A reporter from New York? I bet you’re here about the missing girl?”

“That’s right.”

The man blinked several times.

“Not surprised. Our place was filled with press people when it happened. Police types, too. Then the excitement dropped off.”

“Could I talk to you, interview you on the record for the story I’m doing?”

The man scratched his stubbled chin.

“Don’t see why not. Felt like I talked to every reporter in the country at the time.”

Wyatt took out his notepad and recorder.

“Can I get your name?”

“Jonas Seaver.” The man passed Wyatt his card. “I own and manage the place. Been in the family for more than thirty years.”

“Were you on the desk here the night Kevin Tatum and Samantha Moore checked in?”

Seaver nodded.

“What can you tell me about them, and that night?”

Seaver’s face filled with sadness as his thoughts carried him back in time.

“Not much to tell. They came in, asked for a room for one night. I gave them Number 6. Then less than half an hour later, the boy comes back, asking me if I’d seen the girl. I hadn’t. Then he went out for another few minutes, came back upset, almost in tears, fearful, saying she had disappeared. I tried to calm him, but he demanded I call police. So, I called. The deputy came, and then things snowballed.”

“What was the couple’s demeanor when they arrived?” Wyatt asked.

“Everything seemed all right. No arguing, nothing like that. Maybe a little tired and hungry. The girl bought some food.” He nodded to the cooler. “Then she asked about drinks. I told her about the machine.”

Wyatt continued with questions about other guests that day, security cameras, and the strange vehicle on the back road where the couple ran out of gas. When he sought Seaver’s theory on what happened, the transom bells rang. A bearded man in his 30s, wearing a ball cap, entered and placed a box with building items on the counter.

“Hi, Fletch,” Seaver said.

“These are the samples.” The man was all business. “Steel, asphalt, or rubber membrane. The costs are taped on the back. You decide which way you want to go, and get back to me. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Quite all right,” Wyatt said.

“Fletch, this is Ray Wyatt,” Seaver said. “A reporter from New York. He’s working on the story of the missing woman.”

The man regarded Wyatt.

“Reporter? I thought we were done with you guys.”

“Just looking at the case for an anniversary story,” Wyatt said. “What do you think happened to her?”

The man looked down, gave his head a little shake of disgust.

“I think that girl is long gone, and we’ll never see her again.”

“What makes you say that?”