“Did you search as a group?” I asked.
“We split up.”
“Ah.” I didn’t like that. Assuming they weren’t all in it together, which seemed unlikely, splitting up meant someone had the chance to cover their tracks or finish what they’d started during the night without being seen.
Tim asked him to describe the search parties, and I recorded them in my notebook. Camilla Sinclair, Jade Byrd, and Abella Beaudry—the girlfriend—stayed together inside. Flynn and Barbara Sinclair, along with a man named Ned Yeboah, searched the house, while Philip Norton and Miles Byrd combed the island. I didn’t yet know who those names belonged to. They were strangers to me, strange. I made a point of memorizing the composition of those groups, though. There was a reason they broke out the way they did, and I’d have to find out what it was.
By Norton’s account, the search lasted forty-five minutes. I thought about my drive into work that morning and how grateful I’d been for my nice, warm car as I listened to the caretaker describe circumnavigating the island in fifty-mile-per-hour winds. I wasn’t surprised they didn’t find anything. Much of Tern appeared to be forest, and it was late autumn. The leaves were down. This was no immaculate lawn we were talking about, but a contained wilderness with plenty of places to hide. I’d heard some of these islands had natural caves down by the water’s edge.
If Jasper left the house during the night, whether under his own power or by force, I thought, he might still be out here. To do this right we’d need a proper search party, maybe even a dog. Norton’s efforts, while valiant, weren’t nearly enough.
The storm battered the near-empty boathouse like a drum. “I have to tell you,” I said. “We find it strange you called this in as a murder.”
Norton blinked. “How do you mean?”
“It sounds like a missing person situation. No body, and all. So why phone it in as murder?”
His mouth made a downward turn once again. “Well,” he said, “that wasn’t my idea.”
“Whose idea was it, Mr. Norton?” Tim said.
“You know, I’m not actually sure. Everybody was upset. There was a real panic going on, chaos, like, and when I went to the kitchen to make the call they were shouting it.” He swallowed, looking green. “Jasper’s been murdered, they said.”
“I see. And you don’t agree?”
“I guess there’s a chance he could have left Tern on his own.” As soon as he said it, Norton reached out and knocked on the boathouse’s wooden wall. “For luck,” he explained when I gave him a look. “God knows we could use some.”
“But the boat’s still here,” I said. “How could Jasper leave? Unless . . .” I glanced up at the mounted nameplate. “Loophole?”
Norton said, “No, no, Mrs. Sinclair sold her a while back. There are no other boats on the island.”
“Someone could have picked him up,” said Tim. “Last night, when everyone was asleep. The dock’s a long way from the house, I doubt anyone would’ve heard it. There are boats out on the water at all hours around here, people coming back from a late dinner, night fishing. Even if someone did hear, you get used to the sound of a motor. Learn to ignore it.”
“I guess that’s true,” Norton said.
“So maybe the question we need to be asking,” I said, “is whether Jasper had a good reason to leave without telling his family and friends.”
“Like did he go to a hotel, or drive home,” Tim said. “He lives in New York, right?”
“Yeah, but leave without telling anyone?” Norton repeated, testing the idea. “He came with Miss Beaudry, and she’s still here. I don’t know why he’d leave. Everyone’s here for the weekend, the whole family. That doesn’t happen often. You know how families are.”
Another look passed between me and Tim. “It seems to me,” I said, “a person wouldn’t call a disappearance a murder unless they thought there was a chance the missing person was in danger of being hurt.”
“Oh,” Norton said, flustered. “I guess you’d have to ask the family about that.”
“We will. In the meantime, what can you tell us about Jasper?” I wasn’t interested in the man’s gender, age, or race. That was information we already had. What I wanted was to look under Jasper Sinclair’s bed and comb through the boxes at the back of his closet, where the secrets are kept. “You say you’ve known him his whole life. If you had to describe him—character, temperament, relationships—what would you say?”
“Well,” said Norton, “I’d say he’s a good man. Everyone likes Jasper.”
It always bothers me when a victim’s family and friends describe them as perfect in every way. What’s the implication there, that their beauty was too much for the killer to handle? They brought violent death on themselves? I hate that, hate everything about it. Perfection enrages some people, can raise their hackles something fierce, but isn’t motive for murder.
“Where are they now?” I asked. “His family?”
“Inside. Waiting for you.”
“If you remember any more details, you’ll let us know?”
Norton said he would. I expected him to make a move toward the house, but while his hooded head pivoted in that direction, he didn’t budge. To my horror, I realized he was tearing up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just . . . he’s a kid, really. Still so young.”
“Don’t apologize. Shock affects people in different ways,” I said, thinking, I should know. “You and the family must be close.”
“I’ve worked here a long time. The others don’t come out to Tern often, but Mrs. Sinclair stays all summer, every year. She’s a wonderful lady. She doesn’t deserve this. You’ll find him, won’t you?”
“We’ll do our best.”
“When you see her, please tell her that. She needs to hear it. Okay,” Norton said, breathing deep. “All right, then. Follow me.”
We stepped out of the boathouse into the rain. Tim’s eyes swept the landscape, lingering on every brush pile and fallen tree, and we started up the long set of stairs. The climb to the house was brutal, and I was winded inside of three minutes. Those beautiful stone steps were even steeper than they’d looked from the water, and impossibly slick. All three of us wore rain boots with minimal tread. Tim’s a gym rat, and I stay in pretty good shape. But when we got to the top and crossed a wraparound porch to the house’s double entry doors, only Philip Norton wasn’t panting.