Page 71 of Fire Harbor

Linus ignored that last part. “When you left, were you followed?”

“I don’t think so,” Greta replied. “We hung out for about another hour, trying to decide whether to see a movie. But we decided getting to the flea market today was much more important. What should I do? Should I call the cops? I think I should. What do you think?”

Lake traded looks with Linus. “Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. Did you look inside her house?”

Greta shook her head. “No, after everything that’s happened, I was too scared to go inside alone. What if she was in there—?”

Greta didn’t need to finish her thought because Lake knew exactly what she meant. She put a comforting hand on Greta’s shoulder. “Let’s go check together. Maybe she overslept or lost track of time.” But Lake had her doubts Abby would’ve done that without calling.

“I’m putting in a call to Eastlyn,” Linus whispered. “She needs to be the one who gets into Abby’s house to check it out.”

“That’s a good idea. You call Eastlyn and have her meet us there.”

The three of them hurried over to Abby’s place—a cute little bungalow on Sand Dollar Circle—the worry evident in their expressions.

Greta knocked on the door again as she had earlier, but no one answered.

They stood outside, lingering near the front stoop, before Linus’s phone buzzed with a message from Eastlyn confirming she was on her way.

The wait doubled the tension in the air. Lake paced back and forth, her mind trying not to conjure up the worst while Greta fidgeted with her keys, unable to stand still for even a few minutes. Linus stood stoically on the curb, his eyes scanning the quiet neighborhood for any sign of movement.

Finally, Eastlyn’s car pulled up in the driveway.

“I think we should try the back door,” Lake suggested. “I remember Abby mentioning she sometimes leaves it unlocked when she goes out for a quick errand.”

When Eastlyn narrowed her eyes in a disapproving manner, Lake added, “It’s a small town. She could jog to work. Shopping or grabbing a cup of coffee is within walking distance. It goes to show you how safe Abby felt leaving her door unlocked for ten or fifteen minutes.”

“It’s not a good idea no matter where you live,” Eastlyn muttered. “But let’s try the back door. I’d hate to break a window when she’s only running over to get a cappuccino.”

They all followed close behind Eastlyn as she led the way around the back of the house. But as they approached the back door, Lake noticed something out of place—a large planter knocked over on the ground with daisies strewn about and dirt everywhere.

She started to bend down to pick it up, but Eastlyn shook her head. “Don’t touch anything. I’m going in first. You guys stay back until I come out to get you.”

Without another word, Eastlyn drew her weapon and then slowly turned the knob. The door was unlocked, something that caused unease to settle in her gut.

She shook it off and stepped inside the kitchen. The house seemed eerily quiet. She called out for Abby, her voice echoing through the small house. Everything looked normal—the furniture in place, the lights off—but something didn’t feel right.

When Eastlyn reached the living room, she saw it—the picture frame shattered, glass scattered across the floor where it had fallen off a side table. She continued searching room by room, calling out her name, but Abby was nowhere to be found.

As Eastlyn stood in the bedroom, she noticed something odd—Abby’s bed hadn’t been slept in, but her cell phone was lying on the bedside table, a half-empty glass of water beside it. She retraced her steps to the kitchen, where she found Abby’s purse and keys on the countertop. Her cop sense kicked in. Eastlyn radioed dispatch. “Lincoln One to dispatch. I have a ten-sixty-five. Female. Abby Anderson, missing since Saturday night. Description to follow.”

She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and picked up Abby’s purse, digging out her driver’s license with the information she needed. After relaying Abby’s description to dispatch, she requested a BOLO on the five-foot-five-inch blonde before stepping outside again to talk to Abby’s friends.

“I think you had good reason to worry about Abby,” Eastlyn told them. “She left her keys and purse behind, along with her cell phone. Who does that if they’re just running errands? I think she made it home last night from the bar, but then something happened. She never made it to bed.”

Greta gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes. “I knew something was wrong.”

“What’s happening to our town?” Lake wondered. “People going missing. We know the drill from what happened to Alice. We’ll get posters made right away. But is there anything else we should do in the meantime?”

Eastlyn angled toward Greta. “Linus tells me you and Abby were at the pub last night. Did you interact with anyone out of the ordinary, someone who came off as suspicious, maybe overly interested in Abby?”

Greta cleared her throat. “Well, Derrick Kingsley kept giving Abby a hard time about telling Lake he’d buried something in the backyard. He was upset and said she shouldn’t be running her mouth like that. He even told me that I shouldn’t have driven Lake over to his house.”

“Just hold on a minute,” Linus said. “Doesn’t Derrick Kingsley live around the corner on Tidewater?”

“Yes, he does,” Lake noted. “And Abby is the one who confided in me about his odd behavior that night he buried Bella—if that was actually what he was burying.”

“What’s Derrick’s address?” Eastlyn asked.

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