All the Missing Girls(47)

“I think she’s sleeping,” I heard Daniel say. “Look, I’m on my way to work, so I can’t stick around. Maybe try again this afternoon.”

“It’s important. A woman is missing, and every day she’s not found, she’s more at risk. It’s our moral duty to track down every possible lead.”

Like it had come straight from Witness Questioning 101. What was he, a month out of training? Moral duty. Hilarious. Like it was their moral duty to crack open every facet of anyone’s life, anyone who came within three degrees of separation. To destroy the living to find the dead.

It had been eight days since Annaleise was reported missing. Asking me questions about Tyler now wasn’t going to change the outcome for her. They weren’t looking for her. They were looking at him. Despite Daniel’s good intentions, despite his warnings, if I didn’t go out there, the police might think I had something to hide.

I pulled on fresh clothes and padded barefoot down the stairs, the conversation muted behind the wood and plaster. I pushed open the screen door and shaded my eyes from the sun. “Daniel?” I called.

The unmarked car was parked halfway up the driveway. This cop wanted it to seem like he was just dropping by, just in the neighborhood, nothing serious. It was navy blue with tinted windows, and it needed to be washed.

“Is everything okay?” I said.

The man wasn’t in uniform, and he was bigger than I’d thought, and younger, given his voice. About my age or younger—-Annaleise’s age—which made him too young to be part of Corinne’s investigation. The way he spoke made me think he wasn’t from here. Not this town, anyway. An hour east was all it took to make a difference. The mountains and the single winding road kept this place separate, insular.

“Nicolette”—he checked his notepad—“Farrell?” Definitely not from here. Even if he was too young to know me personally, the names go with the houses. It wouldn’t be a mystery. The Carter property backs to the Farrell property, and the McElrays own land on both sides, though neither was built on yet. The Lawsons made a bid for the house and land across the lane when Marty Piper, the last of the Pipers, passed on after his third and final heart attack, but the house and the land were unoccupied, tangled in legalese and court paperwork.

I was staring off through the woods, in the direction of Marty’s place, when the cop said, “Miss?”

“Yes?” I said.

Daniel rolled his neck and came to stand beside me on the porch.

“You’re Nicolette Farrell?”

“I am.”

“My name is Detective Charles. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Tyler Ellison.” He seemed to be waiting for something—maybe for me to be the Southern hostess, like Laura, open the screen door and beckon him inside, offering him some tea. Outsiders only come in when the investigation shifts. Detective Charles, I was sure, was the new Hannah Pardot.

After he took a few hesitant strides toward the house, I walked down the porch steps, meeting him in the middle of the yard, my feet sinking into the ground, moist from last night’s rain.

“How’s the motel?” I asked, just to check. “Or are they putting you up someplace nicer?”

His mouth twisted. “I’m sorry, have we met?” he asked.

“You’re not from here, are you?” I countered.

“No, ma’am,” he said, flipping through his pad. He towered over me, so I couldn’t see the writing. He cleared his throat, pen poised over the paper. “This will just take a moment. I’m following up on some questions, here. Heard this might be a good place to start.” He didn’t look up the entire time he spoke. Not until he said, “Please describe your relationship with Tyler Ellison.”

“This will be really fast, Detective. We have no relationship. Sorry you wasted your time coming out here.”

His eyes flicked up to mine, then back to his paper. “How about in the past, then?”

“He was my high school boyfriend,” I said. “I’m twenty-eight.”

He flipped pages back and forth, umm-ing and uhh-ing, before finding what he was looking for. “You’ve been together since?” he asked. “It’s my understanding that you’ve been seen with him since then.”

I smiled up at him. “I live in Philadelphia. But when I used to come visit, sure.”

“Not anymore?” he asked.

“I’m engaged,” I said, and I saw his eyes drift to my bare finger.

He flipped the pages again. “Uh, he’s been seen around your house. More recently. Very recently.”

I was getting irritated, and I didn’t make any attempt to hide it. “He’s been helping—”

Daniel stepped forward, cut me off. “I asked him to. He runs a construction business. We’re fixing up the house. Nic’s only home for a little while. He’s helping me as a favor.”

Detective Charles faced my brother. “You’re friends?”

The briefest of pauses, but I felt it. “Yes,” Daniel said. Be smart. Give the most finite possible answer. Close the loop, don’t make unnecessary openings, because they will seize them. They will fill them.

“So, the thing is . . .” Detective Charles flipped pages, and I caught a glimpse of a blank sheet. The jerk was playing me—-playing us both. The pages were nothing. A few words scribbled in the margins. It was an act to pretend he didn’t know who we were and all our history. In truth, he had it filed away in his head. He’d been studying us, and he was playing his angle. God, how long had he been here?