“You think you’re going to find her? Rebecca?”
Jason said, “I think we’re all going to do our best. Were you at the party at the Madigans’?”
“Me?” Candy looked taken aback. “How old do you think I am? No, I wasn’t at that party. Getting drunk with a bunch of high-schoolers isn’t my idea of how to spend a Friday night.”
“Right. Sorry.”
She tossed her hair in a dismissive gesture. “It’s terrible for her family. Terrible for the whole town. I hope whatever happened, it’s not like…”
“The last time?” Jason finished.
She nodded.
“Do you know Rebecca well?” He sipped his Sam Adams.
Candy’s smile was dry. “I know her. Not well. If you want the truth, I think she’s a spoiled brat. Or at least I sure don’t remember feeling that sense of entitlement at that age. Of course, my parents weren’t rich. Anyway. I’m sorry about what’s happened. She doesn’t deserve to be kidnapped. Or whatever.”
Not kidnapped. There would have been a ransom demand by now. Rebecca had either walked away under her own steam or she had been taken. If she had been abducted, it wasn’t for money.
“I mean, you guys did get the right guy last time?” Candy was only half-joking. A lot of people in Kingsfield were probably asking the same question.
Don’t look at me.
“Yes,” Jason said firmly. “We got the right guy. Whatever has happened to Rebecca, the Huntsman is behind bars.”
One of the patrons at the other end of the bar waved to Candy, and she smiled apologetically to Jason and moved off.
Jason studied the room and revised his original impression. The bar was busy, but the mood was not convivial. In fact, it was a little somber.
The front door swung open, and Boyd Boxner walked in.
Jason considered turning his back to the room, but Boxner would spot him eventually, and what did it matter anyway? He wasn’t afraid to face Boyd. Whatever he had felt, it was a long time ago.
Sure enough, Boxner’s tawny gaze scanned the room and lit on Jason. A weird expression crossed his face. He sauntered over to the bar.
“Jason West,” Boxner said. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
“I assumed you did recognize me. I recognized you.”
This momentarily nonplussed Boxner. He recovered quickly. “So you’re in the FBI.”
“I am.”
“That’s a surprise.”
“It’s a surprising kind of world.”
Boxner was a handsome enough guy, but not the young god he’d been at eighteen. His face was fuller, his waist thicker, his shoulders burly. There was a touch of premature gray in his sideburns. His aftershave was nice though. Something light and herbal and overtly masculine.
He was studying Jason with equal curiosity. His lip curled. “I thought you were going to be the next Jackson Pollock?”
Jackson Pollock? Did Boxner actually know who Jackson Pollock was?
“Nope,” Jason said. “It turns out I wasn’t good enough.”
If he thought self-deprecation would divert Boxner, he was wrong.
“No shit. Somehow the girls always fell for it.” Boxner’s expression screwed up into what he maybe imagined was a soulful look. “The sensitive artiste. Girls always go for that. Which is pretty funny in your case.”