She finally yanked her arm free and stood glaring at her rescuer—the boy from next door, whose father did odd jobs for her grandmother, the guy with the grin and the Twizzlers.

He’d meant to be kind, to spare her from further humiliation, but his face, thinly lit from the streetlamp overhead, was full of pity, and she had hated him for it. She’d told him so too, before leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk.

She’d been humiliated twice that night. The first time by a crowd of jeering onlookers, the second by someone trying to show her kindness. Strangely, it was the latter that stung most, which was why, from that day on, she had redoubled her efforts to avoid him. Growing up a Moon had prepared her for pointing and whispers. Kindness, not so much. And here he was, being kind again, looking at her the way he had that night under the streetlamp, dredging up emotions she’d just as soon not feel.

“I have to go,” she said, hoisting the pitchfork up onto her shoulder. “I have things to do.”

Let him think what he wanted. If she’d learned anything over the years, it was not to let herself care what anyone else thought. But as she turned and walked away, she couldn’t help wondering what he’d think if he knew she was planning to pay the police chief a visit.

SEVEN

July 19

Lizzy drove slowly through Salem Creek’s downtown district, strategizing how best to approach Chief Summers. Not much had changed since she’d left, not that she was surprised. Progress came slowly to small New England towns. No malls or big-box centers needed. Which was precisely how the locals liked it. Sleepy streets lined with small mom-and-pop shops, window boxes brimming with geraniums, hand-lettered chalkboards advertising daily specials, and water bowls on the sidewalk for thirsty pups. It was New England charm at its best, even if it did tend toward shabby in places.

But progress hadn’t halted completely. There was a new farm-to-table café on the corner of Elm Street, and a bookstore where the dry cleaners used to be. The library had a brand-new addition, and a tattoo parlor named Inky’s had taken over the old Cut & Dry Salon.

She turned onto Third Street, lined with a sprawl of redbrick buildings that housed Salem Creek’s public safety complex. As expected, the lot in front of the police station was nearly empty. Aside from the odd double homicide, Salem Creek enjoyed a fairly low crime rate.

The desk sergeant glanced up as she pushed through the tinted glass doors. “Can I help you?”

“I was hoping to speak with Chief Summers.”

Lizzy glanced at his name badge. Sergeant Oberlin. He was rake thin, all but swimming in his crisp black uniform, his cheeks pocked with recent acne scars. He ran his tongue over his teeth, surveying her with a comical air of self-importance. “Is it regarding a police matter, ma’am?”

“This is the police station, isn’t it?”

The sergeant colored slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. And yes, it is a police matter. It’s regarding a murder. Well, two murders, actually.”

Oberlin’s eyes shot wide. “Murders?”

Lizzy smiled blandly, satisfied that she had his full attention. “It’s about an old case—the Gilman murders.”

“Can you spell that?”

Lizzy fought the urge to roll her eyes. Before she could respond, a beefy captain with hair the color of steel wool appeared behind the counter. “I’ve got this, Todd. I’m sorry, Miss . . .”

“Moon,” Lizzy supplied. “Elzibeth Moon.”

“Yes, of course. Miss Moon. Did I hear you inquiring about the Gilman murders?”

“You did. I’m here to speak with Chief Summers about the investigation.”

“The . . . investigation?”

The blank look on the captain’s face confirmed what Lizzy already suspected. There was no investigation. “Is the police chief in?”

The sergeant cleared his throat, managing a tight smile. “I’m afraid the chief is tied up right now, but if you’ll share the nature of your inquiry with me, I’d be happy to pass it along.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Lizzy told him, strolling to the row of plastic chairs along the wall and dropping into one. “I’ll wait.”

This clearly wasn’t the hoped-for response. “But Miss . . . ?”

“Moon,” she repeated coolly. “I’m Althea Moon’s granddaughter, and I’d appreciate it if you’d tell the chief I’m here to see him at his earliest convenience.”

The captain seemed to sense defeat. Lizzy watched him disappear through the same door he’d used to enter, wondering how long he’d be gone before returning with a new excuse. Instead, Randall Summers appeared.

Lizzy stiffened instinctively. He was tall and square, but no longer the well-cut figure he’d been when she left. He was thicker through the middle now, his navy blazer snug across the chest, his khaki slacks worn low, to compensate for a budding paunch. And his hair was a peculiar shade of blond, no doubt straight out of a box purchased at the drugstore. He reminded her of an aging game show host.

“Miss Moon,” he said, offering a nicotine-stained smile as he pumped her hand. “No one told me you were back.”

She looked up at him, unsmiling. “Should someone have told you?”

“No, I just meant . . . with your grandmother dying, we sort of expected you to turn up. Then when you didn’t, we assumed . . .”

He let his words trail, leaving Lizzy to wonder exactly who we might be, and what they had assumed. “I only arrived two days ago. I’m here because I have some questions about where the Gilman case stands.”

Summers shot her an oily grin. He reeked of breath mints and last night’s merlot. “Let’s step outside, shall we? I need a smoke, and you can’t do that indoors these days.”

Lizzy followed him out onto the front walkway. He fished a pack of Marlboro menthols from his jacket pocket, along with a heavy silver lighter, then held the pack out to her.

“No. Thank you. I don’t smoke. The Gilman investigation,” she prompted when he had taken his first long drag. “Where do things stand?”

Summers looked faintly annoyed as he pushed out a column of smoke. “They don’t stand at all, Miss Moon. There is no investigation, as such.”

“But you never found the killer.”

He threw her a sidelong glance as he took another pull from his cigarette. “No one was ever charged, that’s true.”

Summers’s inference was clear. As far as he was concerned, he had found the killer; he just hadn’t been able to make the case. Now, with Althea dead, he considered the matter put to bed.

“So that’s it? You’re done looking?”

He narrowed his eyes on her, his ruddy cheeks more florid than they’d been a moment ago. “It’s been eight years since those girls came up out of your grandmother’s pond, Miss Moon. Eight years, an anonymous tip, a pair of voodoo dolls, and an empty vial from your grandmother’s shop in one of the girl’s pockets. That’s where we are. No prints, no murder weapon. Just two dead girls and your grandmother’s pond. Where else do you suggest we look? Or maybe you have a crystal ball we could borrow.”

Lizzy held his gaze, unflinching. If he was trying to push her buttons, he was wasting his time. There wasn’t a cliché she hadn’t heard over the years—and learned to ignore. Nor was she surprised by his attitude. He’d never hidden his belief in Althea’s guilt, or his feelings about the Moons in general. Prejudices that were likely greased by his priggish wife, Miriam, who served as organist at the First Congregational Church and had been in the front row of the so-called prayer vigil for Heather and Darcy Gilman, throwing around words like heathenry and godlessness for the TV cameras.

“Can you tell me the last time you made any kind of inquiries? Spoke to anyone about what they might remember around the time the girls went missing?”

“It’s been . . . some time.”

“Does that mean months? Years?”

Summers flicked his cigarette into the parking lot and squared his shoulders. “This is Salem Creek, Miss Moon, not New York City. We’re a small town, with a small police force, and even smaller coffers. That means we have to pick and choose how we allocate our resources. And if you’ll pardon me for being blunt, I have better things to do with those resources than squander them on an eight-year-old case that’s every bit as cold as those girls.”

Lizzy gaped at him, stunned by his callousness. As far as he was concerned, the Gilman girls were nothing but a case number, something to be checked off a list, a matter of resources spent. She pulled in a breath, counted to ten. She’d come to ask for his assistance. Losing her temper wouldn’t help.

“I’m sure it’s terrible for you, Chief Summers. But I have no budget. And, as you might guess, I have my own reasons for wanting to know what happened to those girls. I’d like to think that as the chief of police, getting to the truth is just as important to you as it is to me.”

“Of course it is. I take my duties to this community very seriously.”