“It’s the way things go up here. I gotta go.”

He left, with a hint of body odor in his wake. The transom bells rang, and through the window, Wyatt saw the man drive away in a pickup truck with a camper on it bearing a leaping fish decal.

Seaver’s chin crumpled slightly, and he rubbed it hard.

“That’s my son, Fletcher. He’s a contractor in Orleans. He’s helping me get a new roof on the place. Winters take a toll.”

Wyatt nodded as Seaver set the box aside.

“I apologize. He can be abrupt and come off as rude. I’ll tell you why.”

“That’s okay. No need.”

“No, I want to tell you. You seem like a nice man, like you’d understand. You see, Fletcher hasn’t been quite the same since he fell off the roof while doing a job in Evansville. He broke his wrist. Other than that, the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong. But he gets into these moods. Took medication for it, but it didn’t work. I tried to get him help, get him to see a psychologist. He won’t go. It got so Sharon, his wife, couldn’t stand it. So last year, she took the kids to her people in Kansas. Fletch lives alone in a trailer in Hemlock Creek Estates.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Well, that’s how it is.” Seaver rubbed his chin again to shift the subject. “You ask me what I think happened, and I have to say I really don’t know. I guess it’s like Fletcher said, and he would know. He took part in every volunteer search he could. He knows the Kingdom like the back of his hand, spends a lot of time hunting and fishing in the woods. So, he took searching for the girl to heart. The talk around here is that someone somehow took her.”

Seaver removed his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth.

“Over the years, people have gone missing in this part of the state. It’s just something that happens.”

Wyatt nodded and made a note.

CHAPTER 19

Spiritsburg, Vermont

Room Number 6.

It had twin beds, a small TV on a credenza, fridge, desk, coffee service, and the citrus chemical smell of carpet cleaner—the standard American motel room. But it made Wyatt’s skin prickle.

This had been Sam Moore’s room.

He imagined her here with Tatum, as he took a moment to process the fact that this room may have been one of the last things she saw.

But he was too tired to think further on it.

His stomach yowled. He needed to eat.

The sun was setting when he walked a short distance to Edna’s Diner, a small, stainless steel structure. It had a black-and-white checkered linoleum floor, laminated counters, red vinyl high-back booths, and plastic-covered menus, with prices updated with Wite-Out correction fluid. He ordered a club sandwich.