The officer—A. Hardy, his name tag said—gave Wyatt’s ID a look. Wyatt noticed the cop was in his late 20s. Pinned to the black shirt of his uniform, above his heart, was his starred badge.

“You’ve come a long way.”

“I’m up here researching the missing-person case of Samantha Moore,” Wyatt said. “Would this activity here, given the proximity to the motel, have anything to do with the investigation?”

Working to keep a poker face, Hardy shook his head slowly.

“I’m sorry, sir. I have no comment. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

Hardy started his SUV, slid the transmission into gear.

Before he pulled away, Wyatt managed to steal a glimpse of a few words of the report on Hardy’s clipboard on the passenger seat: “…residential video cam recording…”

They must have something. A break in the case. A lead. Something.

Wyatt glanced around.

I’ve got to check this out.

CHAPTER 33

Spiritsburg, Vermont

Wyatt returned to his window seat at Edna’s Diner and ordered coffee.

He watched the house, thinking.

Not long after the last police vehicle had left, he went to the door and rang the bell. It was answered by a man with mussed white hair and a white beard.

“Yes?”

“Sir, I’m Ray Wyatt. I’m a reporter from New York. I’m researching the missing-person case of Samantha Moore from Queens. She was last seen at the motel across the street from your home.”

Somewhat bewildered, the man assessed Wyatt, who then handed him his ID.

“I was at the diner and happened to notice a number of police cars were just here, and I was wondering if it had anything to do with the Moore investigation.”

The man looked up from Wyatt’s ID, returned it, and took a moment to process his question.

“Well, your timing’s astonishing,” he said.

“Coincidental, I guess.” Wyatt put his ID away. “I’m sorry to bother you like this, but I was in town doing some work on the story when I saw the police cars. Well—”

“No, it’s your job to be curious and ask questions, Mr. Wyatt.” The man extended his hand. “George Houghton. I don’t think we can be of much help, but come in.”

The air inside was pleasant, smelling as if a pie or bread was baking. It was a Victorian-style house with hardwood floors and area rugs. The man led him to the living room, where a grandfather clock ticked. A stone fireplace was flanked with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves jammed with books. There was a sofa, and two matching chairs with a coffee table. A woman with white hair, wiping her hands on a dish towel, entered the room.

“This is Hilda, my wife. Hilda, this is Ray Wyatt, a reporter from New York.”

“Oh, hello.” She shook Wyatt’s hand. “Excuse me. I’m making cookies.”