The Missing Ones Read online

  Books by Edwin Hill

  LITTLE COMFORT

  THE MISSING ONES

  Published by Kensington Publishing

  THE MISSING ONES

  EDWIN

  HILL

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 23

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Edwin Hill

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number:

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1933-1

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: September 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1935-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1935-2 (ebook)

  To Jennifer

  The Fourth of July

  Finisterre Island, Maine

  Lydia wolfs down a lobster roll she picked up at The Dock. She rips at it as though she hasn’t eaten since Sunday, as though she’d rather spend her precious free time with him rather than savoring the taste.

  At least that’s what Rory imagines.

  Since they’ve known each other, since before Rory can remember—certainly since before Lydia surprised everyone and eloped with Trey, an off-islander—Rory’s wondered what it would be like for Lydia to want him the way he needs her. He’s fantasized about her touch, her breath on his neck, a whisper in his ear. He’s pictured waking up and watching her sleep beside him. And he’s practiced confessing his love for her, and hearing her say she knows, that she’s always known, and that she loves him—adores him—too.

  But, in his heart, he understands. She relegated him to the friend category years ago. Or worse, brother.

  “This thing cost me eighteen bucks,” Lydia says. “You’d think Maggie would cut me a deal. But I’m treating myself. It’s a holiday, right? Everyone but the locals gets the day off. I get ten minutes, if I’m lucky.”

  They both take a tentative step away from the weathered clam shack. Sweat drips from their bodies. Mingling. Reacting.

  This is part of their daily ritual. First, Rory comes to the bakery where Lydia works. He stands in the long line until she notices him and brings him his coffee—iced, black, one sugar.

  “You’re the only person I know who drinks iced coffee black,” she says.

  He pats his flat stomach. “Watching my figure,” he says.

  The same conversation. Every day. Followed by this stroll as Lydia picks up an early lunch. She starts work at four a.m., so by ten o’clock her day is mostly over.

  “What a scene,” she says.

  So many visitors crowd the narrow dirt paths on tiny Finisterre Island, eight miles off the coast of Maine. People wander into the General Store, over to the hotel, tearing at cotton candy, waving flags, celebrating summer. Strangers moving shoulder to shoulder. Rory is the only cop patrolling the festivities, so he has to be especially alert, but he watches as Lydia’s eyes move from the mob on the path in front of them to the marina beyond. Her eyes match the color of the water and the sky and everything that’s beautiful. He wonders if she’s ever once seen him as desirable. He’s tall and fit, a handsome man he likes to think could sneak up on her.

  “Here, have some,” Lydia says, holding the lobster roll toward him, her hand cupped beneath the red-striped paper boat.

  Rory shouldn’t take a bite, because it means something to share food, but they’ve shared food—they’ve shared everything—for their whole lives. He chews the meat, his mouth so dry he barely tastes the sweetness. She sees him—really sees him—in a way no one else does, and in a way no one else ever has.

  “That’s about four dollars’ worth,” she says. “Pay up.”

  He reaches for his wallet, exaggerating in time to show he’s in on the joke. She laughs. A laugh right from the gut. God, he wants to touch her. He wants to take her in his arms and kiss her in front of these people.

  “Look at that,” Lydia says, nodding toward the General Store. A woman with greasy red hair and hollow eyes backs out through the screen door, a package of Hostess CupCakes in one hand. “I paid,” she shouts. “So, go to hell.”

  Rory is instantly on alert. He steps toward the store, his hand at his waist, placing himself between the building and Lydia. Merritt, the proprietor, comes to the door with a broom in hand and waves Rory off. “All set,” he says. Terse. To the point.

  “Yeah, all set,” the woman with red hair says, glaring toward Rory as she tears open the cellophane packaging and eats one of the cupcakes in two bites. She flips him the bird before noticing Lydia and trying to transform the gesture into a wave.

  “Hi,” Lydia says, with a weak wave back.

  “I’ll stop by. Tomorrow?” the woman asks.

  “Great,” Lydia says, watching as the woman hurries away.

  “You know her?” Rory asks.

  “She’s been around,” Lydia says. “She’s out at the Victorian with the rest of them. She comes by the bakery every few days. Pays for coffee with change she probably scrounged up, then loads it with cream and sugar and begs for a job. If I was a better person, I’d give her a chance.”

  “Never give a junkie a chance,” Rory says. “Things start disappearing.”

  The summer may bring tourists to the island, but it also brings people from away looking to disappear. For a tiny place, Finisterre offers plenty of hiding spots, including an old, dilapidated Victorian on the other side of the island where, last fall, Rory found a junkie who’d OD’d, the body gnawed at by raccoons. “What’s her name?” he asks.

  “I don’t remember. Anabelle, maybe? Or Annie?” Lydia says. “That house should be torn down anyway.”

  “Talk to your husband about that.”

  Rory has already reported the Victorian and what goes on there to the state police—he reported it to Trey, Lydia’s husband, a state detective—but nothing happened. Rory plans to take the state exam next month, and maybe once he passes it, he can start making a difference.

  “I should get back,” Lydia says.

  At the bakery, the line still stretches out the door, but Rory ducks into the shade of a maple tree to keep their time together from ending. Even here, the heat pummels them. A bead of sweat runs down Lydia’s chest and soaks into her pink t-shirt. Rory closes his eyes to keep from staring, but anyone who saw them now would know how much he loves her. She must know too. He focuses on a bevy of teenage girls in tight t-shirts
and short-shorts.

  “Eyes,” Lydia says. “I don’t want anyone thinking you’re a perv.”

  Rory mumbles an apology.

  “We never dressed like that, did we?” Lydia asks.

  They’re both north of thirty, only just but still on the wrong side of the number, and those memories of being young and moving forward have begun to fade behind regrets. “I never did,” he says.

  “I’d have paid money if you had!”

  She laughs again, and so does he because he’d never get away with short-shorts, but maybe he’d try. For her.

  She takes out the brown paper bag she brought with her lobster roll.

  “No containers,” he says. “Not on the Fourth of July.”

  She bites her lower lip and pouts. Or is that his imagination?

  He glances away as she holds the green beer bottle to her forehead, takes a long swig, and hands the bottle to him. Surely she can’t keep this up. She can’t pretend that the connection between them doesn’t lacerate her heart or that she doesn’t go home and stand paralyzed in the middle of her kitchen for five minutes or five hours, thinking about him, only looking up when she realizes the frozen pizza she’d put in the oven has burned to a char and that the smoke alarm is screaming. But then, if she felt that pain, why would she go on break with him? Why would she punish herself that way? She touches his arm. It’s like a burn, another scar to join the imaginary wounds of many years, remembrances of every touch of skin on skin. She brushes dark hair from her face. None of this should matter, but it does, to him at least, because if it didn’t, then he’d have no reason to be here anymore. She adjusts the apron around her waist and sweeps a stray hair into her ponytail. “Do I look okay?”

  Much better than okay.

  “Passable,” he says.

  “Shut up. These summer people . . .” she says. “Mass-holes. But they’re good for business. Only two months to go, right?”

  She takes a few steps and turns, walking backward on her way to leave, her hair catching in the breeze. “Look for Oliver,” she says.

  He smiles at the sound of her son’s name.

  “Bring him a worm. He’s into bugs these days. And he likes you. He thinks you’re cool.”

  “It’s the uniform,” Rory says.

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Where is he?”

  “With Trey.”

  Then she’s gone, waving over her shoulder as the crowd swallows her whole, and the mention of Trey lingers like a bad smell. Rory watches after her for too long. Then he wanders. Feeling empty. People part for him, as though these strangers know not to get too close. Happy faces falter momentarily, warily, at his expression. People try to hide their illicit beers. But he’s used to this, to being on the outside. Watching. Getting the feel for who’s here, who needs observing, who’s dangerous. He softens his expression. He reminds himself that he—Deputy Rory Dunbar, Island Patrol—can blend into the background. His radio blares. The ferry is on its way. He’ll need to be on the dock to meet it.

  Bang!

  He jumps. Some brat set off a firecracker behind him, and before he can stop himself, he has the kid by the shoulders, shaking him and telling him that he’ll spend the night in jail if he ever, ever does anything like that again. He can feel his face, flushed and hotter than the sun. Spittle sprays from his mouth. And the kid starts to cry, snot and everything, and what Rory really wants is for the kid to never know how hard life will be or how many disappointments he’ll face. “Don’t do it again,” Rory says.

  The kid dashes off.

  A few faces have turned away, people afraid to meet his gaze. A couple of phones capture video. Who cares?

  The parade will start soon, winding through the narrow paths of the island. Boy Scouts and the local jazz band and the Over the Hill hikers. And tonight, after the boat show, fireworks out over the harbor will light up the water with flashes of red, white, blue, and gold; the crowd lining the piers; and the lucky few, in their boats, drifting on the water. He has a boat. And he’ll be working tonight, even though all he wants is to be with Lydia, lying on the deck, too warm to touch each other on the hot summer night but too in love not to. If they were out there, they’d watch the fireworks cutting through the dark, sizzling to embers. He’d feel her breath, and hear her voice, and stroke her wavy hair. And then he’d slip her clothes off and she’d want him the way he wants her. They’d stay out on the water all night, rocking with the tide long after the fireworks ended.

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  Rory shakes the image away. A man wearing Nantucket red shorts and a gingham shirt stands in front of him holding a little girl. Why do investment bankers insist on pink shorts? The girl tugs at the man’s sleeve. But as the only deputy assigned to the island, it’s Rory’s job to deal with this.

  “Up the path here, on your left.”

  That’s when he sees Oliver, Lydia’s son, standing on the side of the path by the schoolhouse. The boy looks toward the sky at a red balloon drifting out over the Atlantic. People on the island think it’s safe. Somehow, they believe they’ve created a world that’s held off time, one where bad things don’t happen to good people. Rory wishes that were true. Even in Maine, even on a tiny dot in the middle of a vast ocean, seeing a four-year-old boy on his own is odd.

  “Oliver!” Rory says.

  The boy beams in recognition. He holds out a palm, and they high five.

  “What are you looking at, buddy?”

  “Ba-goon,” Oliver says, pointing up, delighted and on the verge of tears all at the same time.

  “Where’s your dad?”

  Oliver shrugs.

  Rory looks around the crowd for Trey, who should be here, with his son, protecting him. Rory’s seen Trey leave Oliver alone before, but not on a day like this one, not with so many strangers around, not with so many opportunities to lose him. Lydia should know about this. She should learn.

  “Why don’t we find you another balloon?” Rory says. “Let’s find your dad too. When did you see him last?”

  “Do-know,” Oliver says, dashing ahead.

  Rory jogs after him. Out in the harbor, the ferry chugs around tiny, uninhabited Bowman Island. Rory needs to be at the pier to meet it. It’s part of his job. He catches Oliver and lifts him up. “We’ll watch the boat come in,” he says. “Together. Maybe Pete will let you up on deck.”

  Rory’s brother, Pete, is the ferry boat captain. The two of them live together in a house just outside of town. Rory holds Oliver’s hand and stands right at the edge of the pier, facing the water. People crowd around them. The ferry from Boothbay Harbor comes twice a day, unleashing a new mob and taking away the old one. Today, even from here, Rory can see a mass of people jammed onto the upper decks for the day trip. They’ll take the return ferry at four o’clock, or else they’ll be stuck here for the evening. And they’ll be Rory’s to deal with.

  “What the hell?”

  Rory turns to see Trey standing behind them. Trey is tall and preppy with thick, dark hair falling in his eyes, and like a hundred other men on the island, he looks as if he came in straight from the regatta, not like a stereotypical state cop. “Are you kidnapping my son now?” Trey says, putting an arm out for Oliver, though the boy presses himself into Rory’s leg.

  “You left him,” Rory says.

  “Yeah, I was in the bathroom. Nice surprise, coming out and having him gone. I’ve been in a panic for the last five minutes.”

  Trey talks to Rory like the help, or worse, like they’ve never met. And somehow he’s made Rory feel as if he did something wrong. Trey’s the one who left a four-year-old alone, Rory reminds himself. He wouldn’t have been doing his job if he hadn’t intervened.

  “And don’t go blabbing to Lydia,” Trey adds. “It won’t get you what you want.”

  “What would I want?” Rory asks.

  A grin starts at the edge of Trey’s mouth. “We both know the answer to that one. Everyone on the island doe
s. Lydia too.”

  Rory can feel his face burning red. It takes all his strength to match Trey’s gaze. But he doesn’t dare speak, knowing his voice will betray him.

  “And I heard you signed up for the state exam,” Trey says. “Again. Third time, right? Here’s a tip: One thing you need as a state cop is good judgment. You can’t be someone who wanders off with someone else’s kid.”

  Oliver points toward the sky.

  “What?” Trey snaps at the boy.

  “Ba-goon,” Oliver says.

  “No baby talk,” Trey says. “And you let the balloon go, didn’t you? I told you to hang on to it.”

  Someone on the pier yells, “Run!”

  Rory turns on alert. Out in the harbor, the ferry is barreling toward them, no sign of slowing down. On the boat, he can see one of the deckhands, a teenager, fighting her way across the crowded deck to get to the bridge. A solid wall of people come at him, and in the chaos, Rory loses Trey but manages to grab Oliver’s hand and lift him onto his shoulders. He carries the boy to a post by The Dock, away from the crowd and away from the pier. “Hold on to this with both hands,” he says. “Don’t move. Not one inch.”

  Then he waves his hands over his head, dashing forward, straight into the crowd. “Get back,” he shouts. “Run!”

  All around him, people scream. He sees panicked faces, strangers from away mixed in with friends he’s known his whole life. And the ferry chugs toward them, sixty yards, then fifty, then forty, till, at the last moment the engines reverse, and the boat slows. It drifts in excruciatingly slow motion toward the pilings on the pier, reversing course seconds before a crash.

  Rory closes his eyes and breathes for what feels like the first time in five minutes. He turns to the crowd. “Everything’s fine,” he shouts. “You can calm down.”