Still Lake - Anne Stuart [43]
“People usually like money and fame involved in their murders, as well, and I haven’t heard about any missing treasure or famous politician mixed up in it. And who says it’s unsolved? Just because the boy was eventually released on a technicality doesn’t mean everyone doesn’t believe he didn’t do it. He was a bad one to begin with—anyone who was here could tell you that. And it makes it so much easier for the good people of Colby to think that an outsider would kill their young women, rather than one of their own.” There was a grim undertone in his voice, one she couldn’t quite define.
“Well, there must be some question, or otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” Sophie said, not about to be swayed.
“And what tipped you off that I was a reporter? Something I said? Something I did?”
“Common sense. I saw the books in your bedroom—normal people don’t have books about serial killers for light reading.”
“Any number of people are interested in true crime. Just look at the bestseller lists.”
“So you’re writing a book,” she said, jumping at it. “I should have guessed as much. You probably have a million-dollar advance and you don’t care who you hurt.”
He turned off onto a back road, driving away from the lake, an unreadable expression on his face. Not that she dared take more than a passing glance at him. She didn’t want to be caught staring at him, trying to figure out what it was that disturbed her so much about him.
“It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” he said, concentrating on the narrow dirt road. “If you’re so good at solving mysteries, then maybe you ought to be writing the book.”
“I don’t like true crime,” she said coolly. “I don’t enjoy other people’s pain. If I’d known about the Colby murders I might have chosen another place to move to.”
“You’d have a hard time finding a town without some kind of bloody skeleton in the closet.” His voice was absolutely without emotion, but Sophie shuddered at the image his words summoned. “There’s always trouble behind a bucolic atmosphere.”
“That’s a pretty cynical attitude. If you’re not a reporter or a true-crime writer, who are you? And for that matter, where are we going?” The first hint of uneasiness tickled her stomach. What the hell was she doing, going off alone with a perfect stranger, one who filled her with illogical misgivings? The Kings would have seen her leave—they could testify if she disappeared and…
“I doubt you’d believe anything I told you,” he said, interrupting her panicked thoughts. “I’m on vacation, and I wanted some peace and quiet. Not old ladies wandering around in my kitchen in the middle of the night, not uber-housewives delivering cookies.”
“Uber-housewives?” she said, her panic replaced by outrage. “I’ve never been married.”
“There’s a surprise,” he muttered under his breath.
She couldn’t very well hit him while he was driving, not and risk the Jaguar. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
“I’m not taking you anywhere. You insisted on coming along with me, so you’re stuck with it. And if you’re so good at jumping to conclusions you should have figured out where we’re going by now.”
Sophie looked out the window. “There’s nothing on this road but the old Mackin farmstead and the…” she stopped.
“The graveyard.”
Sophie’s throat felt suddenly tight. “You haven’t done your homework,” she said after a moment. “The girls aren’t buried in the old McLaren graveyard. They’re down in the village cemetery.”
“I’m not looking for those graves.” He’d pulled to a stop along the side of the road and turned off the engine. The deserted McLaren graveyard was on their right, the white fence peeling and rotten, the grass growing high around the old, sagging headstones.
“Then why are we here? No one’s been buried here in over thirty years—they don’t even bother to keep the grass properly mowed. Most people don’t even remember there’s a graveyard out here. Certainly no one ever comes here anymore.”
“You knew about it.” He climbed out of the car, and for a moment Sophie