Free The Darkness Gathers by Lisa Unger

extensive,” he said as he scribbled something on a piece of paper and slid it across the desk at her. It read “Not here.”
    Lydia and Jeffrey exchanged a glance and she nodded.
    “We had an encounter last night, Detective. A kind of unfriendly greeting.”
    “Really,” said the detective, looking at his phone and then his watch. “We should get moving—only two hours before Jenna Quinn’s weekly manicure appointment. You can tell me about it on the way.”
    Outside, the detective sat in the backseat of their Jeep for a few minutes as Jeffrey relayed the details of their encounter the night before. In turn, the detective told them how his research on Nathan Quinn had been cut short. “Maybe I’m being paranoid, but I feel like I’m under surveillance. You know, on the one hand, it’s like the brass is on top of me to solve this case. And on the other, they’re trying to keep me from finding out what really happened to this girl,” he said, the frustration he’d been reining in at the precinct showing now.
    “Well, maybe we can help each other, Detective,” said Lydia.
    He smiled grimly, nodding his head, and reached for the door. “Just don’t disappear on me like the private detective that Nathan Quinn hired. One minute, this guy is all over me, following up leads, traveling to New York after that Greyhound driver thing; the next thing, he’s gone. Stopped returning my phone calls a couple days ago. He just dropped the case. Left a message finally night before last saying it was a dead end and he had better things to do.”
    “That’s weird,” said Lydia. “Did you follow up?”
    “No,” he said with a cheerless chuckle. “I have too much on my plate to chase after Stephen Parker, PI.”
    He left the Jeep and then led the way to the Quinns’ in his Taurus. On the way over, Lydia called Craig in New York.
    “One more thing to add to your search,” she said to him. “Find out what you can on Nathan Quinn, his connections, associations, et cetera. Any shady business dealings. You know the drill.”
    “You got it,” he said. She could already hear the soft tapping of his fingers dancing across the keyboard.
    “Is your uncle still freaking?”
    “He’s not even here today.”
    “Yeah? Where’s he at?”
    “I don’t know,” he said, sighing. “Don’t care as long he’s off my back.”
    “Jacob’s not in today,” Lydia reported to Jeffrey after she had hung up with Craig.
    “His wife … Myra’s been having some problems. Jacob’s been vague.”
    “Health problems?”
    “I think so.”
    The conversation ended when they made a left off the highway and onto the bridge that led to Snug Island. The ocean waters of the Intracoastal Waterway glimmered on either side of them, and Lydia rolled down the window to take in the salt air.
    A nervous, wide-eyed Valentina Fitore barely contained a gasp as she opened the door and saw Lydia standing between the two men. The small woman, who looked to be approaching sixty, had the shadow of prettiness on her face. She still might have been an attractive woman, but Lydia could see years of hard living, sadness, and struggle in her tired eyes and wrinkled skin. Bending over in physical labor had left her in a permanent slouch, and her hands were cracked and dry. But there was something delicate and ladylike about her, something that made Lydia want to reach out and comfort her. She wore an English maid’s uniform—black skirt and blouse, an apron of ruffled white cotton. Someone’s idea of what the maid should wear, thought Lydia, someone vain and controlling.
    “Good morning, Valentina,” the detective said kindly. “Is Mrs. Quinn at home?” His tone indicated that he already knew the answer.
    “Yes, I’ll see. Please wait,” she said haltingly, trying to shut the door and have them wait on the stoop.
    “It’s awfully hot, Mrs. Fitore. Do you mind if we wait in the foyer?” the detective asked gently but firmly, pushing his way into