try to keep kids off the streets and off drugs.â
Heatherâs face flashed in front of Maeveâs eyes. âAnd do business owners sell booze to minors?â
He chuckled. âOh, yeah. Thereâs not a kid in this town who canât get a six-pack when they want it. A lot of the shopkeepers around here have what I call loose standards when it comes to selling booze.â
âGood to know,â Maeve said. She pulled a piece of cake from the refrigerator. âChocolate cake? Itâs your favorite.â
He thought for a minute. âWhat the heck. Iâm already turning into a fat slob. Will probably have a heart attack. Might as well go happy.â
âDonât say that, Chris. About the heart attack.â She sliced off a piece of her chocolate cake and put it on a plate, handing it to him. âMilk?â
âNo, thanks,â he said, taking a big bite. âActually, yes, please,â he said around a mouthful of chocolate.
âSo thereâs nothing on Taylorâs disappearance? Nothing at all?â Maeve asked.
He put his fork down, his appetite gone. âNothing.â He poked at the crumbs with his finger. âCounty says thereâs a missing person from a few towns up that they wonder about. A connection.â
âSame kind of thing?â she asked.
âYes.â
âDid I hear about it?â
âI donât know. Maybe? It was last year.â He picked his fork up again. âSounds like a runaway to me and everyone else. Girls leave small towns and thenâ¦â
âThen what?â she asked when he didnât elaborate.
âThey disappear. They never come back.â
âThatâs horrible,â she said.
He ate his cake in silence. She could see a sliver of a love handle pushing out the side of his shirt. He was right; he was putting on weight, but for some reason, it made her happy.
âYouâll find her, right?â Maeve asked.
âThatâs my job.â
But he didnât sound certain, and Maeve wasnât sure either of them believed he would get the job done. After he left, she turned on her computer and poked around, looking for the story about the case of the other missing girl.
Caroline Jerman, seventeen years old. Worked at the Rite Aid on Route 3, disappeared after work one night. No leads, no sightings.
It was as if she had vanished into thin air.
No mention of a father. Her mother had worked at Farringville Stone and Granite until it had shut down several years earlier. The former owner, Charles Connors, had offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to Caroline being reunited with her mother and sister.
Charles Connors. The name rang a bell. Maeve searched for him and found him, realizing that he had been at back-to-school night and had thanked her for her interest in his sonâs mission in Mississippi. He had been the sole owner of Farringville Stone and Granite and had incurred the wrath of its workers when he closed it down and sold the land to a developer. Maeve had been aware vaguely of this happening years before but hadnât paid too much attention, her focus on the girls and realizing her dream of becoming a business owner in her own right. The former stone yard was now home to a neighborhood of multimillion-dollar homes, contributing little in terms of taxes, ambience or respect for the townâs historical roots.
Cal had accused her of being âchecked outâ to what happened in the village, and if this story was any indication, he was right. She didnât pay attention to local politics, and anyway, Farringville Stone and Granite wasnât technically in Farringville, being on the far edge of town, so what did it have to do with her? Not much. The people who had moved into the homes were mostly the type who didnât eat cupcakes or brownies or quiches, spending their time at the gym and at the waterfront, running and biking and
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia