Page 13 of The Summer Guests

“That was a long time ago, sir. And that was his father, not Reuben.”

“But it’s the same family. Look, just file the report. I want this incident documented,” he said, and strode back into the house. He never did invite Jo inside.

Now she stood once again at the Conovers’ door, wondering what sort of reception she’d get this time. She wasn’t expecting coffee and cake, but a little respect would be appreciated. A woman answered the doorbell. She was in her midforties, slim in blue jeans, her shirtsleeves hastily shoved up to her elbows. One look at the woman’s taut face and panicked eyes told Jo:This is the missing kid’s mother.

“I’m Jo Thibodeau, Purity PD. Are you Susan Conover?”

“Come in. Please, come in!” The woman was so anxious she was practically vibrating, her hands shaking as she waved Jo into the house. Even before Jo could step in the door, Susan was talking, words tumbling over words. “My daughter Zoe is fifteen years old and she’s never done anything like this before. Never, ever. She hasn’t answered her phone in hours, she hasn’t answered any of my texts. I know something’s wrong. I canfeelit, even if the rest of the family ...” Susan stopped, as if she’d suddenly run out of air. She inhaled, and her breath came out in a sob. “I just want to know where she is.”

A man approached and wrapped his arm around Susan’s waist. Dark hair, glasses, a worried gaze. “Why don’t you sit down, sweetheart? Why don’t we all sit down? I’m sure she’ll want to talk to all of us.”

“Are you Zoe’s father?” Jo asked.

He nodded. “Ethan Conover.” He gestured to the living room. “Please, come in.”

Jo walked into the living room, where four other members of the family were seated. Having a police officer in one’s home was not an everyday occurrence, and they regarded her with uneasy gazes. The teenage boy didn’t look at her at all; he sat hunched between a handsome blond couple on the sofa, a forelock drooping over his brow as he stared down at his own lap.

“I think this panic might be premature,” said the silver-haired woman seated in an armchair. Her regal posture, her tone of authority, made it clear she was the matriarch of the family. She gazed unflinchingly at Jo.

“May I have all your names?” said Jo, pulling out a notebook.

“Elizabeth Conover,” said the older woman.

Jo nodded. “I met George Conover a few years ago. Your husband, I believe? He called about a damaged canoe.”

“George passed away in March. We’re back in Maine for his memorial service.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”Even if the man was a jerk.Jo began writing in the notebook. “And everyone else?”

“Colin Conover,” the blond man cut in. “I’m Ethan’s brother. I have to agree with my mother—I don’t see the reason for alarm yet. Zoe met a new friend, and they went off together. You know how kids are. The time probably got away from them.”

Jo looked him over. Sleek haircut, Brooks Brothers khakis, polished loafers. Everything screamedyacht club. An impressive watch gleamed on his wrist. Jo wasn’t familiar enough with watches to recognize the brand, but she had little doubt it cost more than her annual salary. Thiswas the type of man who wouldn’t hesitate to interrupt a woman, even one wearing a badge.

Colin said, “This is my wife, Brooke. And our son, Kit.”

A man like Colin needed an equally sleek wife, and Brooke Conover, in her blue cashmere shell and pressed white slacks, certainly fit the bill. But the teenage boy slouched between them, wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt, didn’t look like part of the same matched set. He’d folded himself deeply into the sofa, as if trying to disappear into the cushions.

“You’re all staying here, at the house?” asked Jo.

“We are,” said Colin.

“Who was the last person to see Zoe?”

There was a silence. Then Ethan said, quietly: “It would have been me.” He stood behind Susan’s chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. “It was around ten, ten thirty. She came upstairs, told me she was going to visit the home of a girl she’d just met. This is Zoe’s first time staying on the pond, so she doesn’t know anyone here. I think the girl’s local, not a visitor.”

“Did she tell you this girl’s name?”

He shook his head. “I know, I should have asked, but it all seemed perfectly fine to me. I mean, it was anothergirl, about Zoe’s age, and they’d just spent the morning swimming together. That’s what kids do here, on the pond. They meet other kids. They make friends.”

“What was your daughter wearing when you last saw her?”

“She’d changed into a dress. Something red and pink, I think.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really pay much attention. If I’d only—”

“It has little puff sleeves,” Susan said, her voice barely a whisper. “I bought it for her a few years ago, and I’ve washed it so many times it’s almost falling apart now. She’s grown so much, the hem is up to her thighs, but it’s her favorite dress and she won’t let me ... she won’t let me ...” Susan’s voice faded.

Jo jotted the description of the dress in her notebook. Details that a father might not remember, but a mother would. A mother who’d repeatedly washed and folded that dress. Who’d paid attention to itsrising hemline on her daughter’s lengthening legs. “So Zoe left home around ten, ten thirty. And then?”

Ethan exhaled, and all the air seemed to go out of him. “I lost track of the time,” he admitted quietly. “I was busy, working upstairs—”

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