2.

The Skylark Diner

5:30 PM

Somehow I’m not surprised when Gavin walks into The Skylark alone. No one said much as we left my place, but I sensed—through body language, maybe—that this was Gavin’s job, telling me the truth or whatever passes for it in this town.

A nice town, dammit, in spite all of this. Picturesque, a postcard-beautiful Adirondack town as charming as Inlet or Eagle Bay but not as touristy as Lake George. And the people here have been nothing but accommodating and pleasant. Word of the new Sheriff in town (also new widower with an only daughter) has paved the way for fruit baskets, pies, homemade bread, frozen venison and casseroles galore, all this past year.

But as time has passed and the town’s strangeness has bloomed, it’s dawned upon me that maybe this town is too accommodating, because someoneshould’ve petitioned the Town Board for my immediate resignation a long time ago, especially considering all the odd cases I haven’t been able to solve.

But there’ve been no petitions.

No complaints.

No outraged demands for my dismissal. Just encouraging pats on the shoulder and the occasional: “It’s all right, Sheriff. Did your best. Sometimes there’s no answer.”

Sometimes?

Hell, in this town, never.

But maybe that’s all about to change.

Maybe.

Gavin slides into the booth across from me, handing over the folder I’d tossed at Fitzy. His other hand lays a thick, black, leather-bound journal on the table between us, and he handles it reverently, as if in awe, or maybe even . . .

Fear.

I open my mouth but Gavin beats me. “Have I ever told you what I did before teaching?”

I think about it for a moment, realizing it’d never occurred to me. A little embarrassed, I admit, “Honestly? I figured you’d always been a teacher.”

He smiles and shakes his head. “No. Only been teaching for about four years, now. I was a writer before that. Science Fiction and Thrillers. And I doubt you’ve read me.”

I shrug, feeling a little embarrassed. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean much. Outside a few Louis L’Amour westerns, I’m not much of a reader. Meg is, though. And so was Liz. So I try . . . ”

Despite all this time, my voice hitches. I push on, however. “I read to Meg as often as I can, even though she can read herself, now. It’s what Liz would’ve wanted, I think . . . for Meg to love books and stories, just like she did.”

Gavin nods. “I wrote a few novels several years ago, one hardcover and several paperbacks, the kind you find in grocery stores and airport gift centers. Won a few small awards, nothing big, really. Problem was, I thought I was big. And things . . . ”

He winces and looks away, visibly struggling to compose himself. Several seconds pass, he swallows and says, “I started drinking. Became very troubled. My exit from publishing was . . . unpleasant. And I doubt I’ll ever write for publication again. Not sure anyone would have me. But, writers never stop writing. Not really.”

Gavin meets my gaze with a deep, probing one of his own. “You want to know the truth about this town. About the things that happen here.”

“Yes. I’m the Sheriff. I need to know these things if I’m going to do my job.”

His voice hovers just above a whisper. “Even if it’s nothing you can change? Nothing you can investigate, arrest, or put into a cell? Nothing you can solve?”

My response is immediate. “Yes. I’m the Sheriff. I need to know.”

Gavin nods briskly, like this is a clean-cut business transaction, and I suppose that’s the way it needs to be because some things are simply too horrible and strange and must be held at a safe, dispassionate distance.

Well, hell.

I’m already thinking like everyone else in this town, aren’t I?

Gavin looks down at that large, black leather-bound book and pats it. “I really don’t know how much I can tell you, but I do know that everything changed about a year ago when we first met. I’d still been drinking pretty heavily, when . . . ”

He sighs and pushes the book toward me. “Go ahead,” he whispers.

“Read it yourself.”